James and Marjy sat looking over some stereoptic views to cover their desire to watch the two, and both were trying to find a suitable opportunity to bring up the subject of the lost money, so as to be able to explain how they came by their knowledge of the hiding place. The attitude of both Henry and auntie was such as to discourage a commencement. At last James wrote on a card: “You will have to tell them; I will corroborate your account.”
Marjy replied: “Oh, I cannot. It makes me shiver to think of it; they both look so forbidding.”
Henry sat on the corner of a sofa, with his eyes fixed intently on Aunt Hattie; they did not observe this until she arose and stood beside her chair as though waiting; her lips were moving rapidly but inaudibly. Henry, still looking fixedly at her, said slowly: “Speak aloud!” She began repeating the combination, and step by step went through the performance of the previous night, until she had taken the money from its hiding place. Henry at that moment, pale and resolute—though trembling with excitement—commanded her to awaken.
It was most pitiable to see her when she realized her situation; the overturned chair; the casters lying on the floor; the bills grasped in her shaking hands; Marjy and James silently regarding her; Henry, with a look of exhaustion on his face, lay back among the dark cushions. At first she was utterly bewildered; then, as she looked at the bills grasped in her hands, a ray of joy, quickly succeeded by anger, gave her voice: “You think you are awful smart, don’t you? Playing tricks on an old woman! I should like to know what you have been doing to me!” she stormed; then looking at the open safe, and the bills in her hand she began to sob weakly.
“Don’t cry, auntie, it is all right!” said Marjy soothingly.
“No, no! It isn’t right! I remember now—of hiding that money; and to think that I have accused Henry and you of taking it—Oh, dear! Oh, dear!” sobbed she; “I did not remember it until now!” she wailed disconsolately.
Henry came and laid his hand upon her shoulder: “Do not fret, auntie; I think there is no one to blame, if so, it must be my fault. I have always been a somnambulist, and always been ashamed of it—as though I could help it; but I had no idea that I possessed any hypnotic power; in fact I did not believe in the existence of such a force—at least I did not wish to believe it—which in all probability is just what led to this occurrence. You remember that we were speaking of hypnotism the night of the disappearance of the money; Marjy defended the theory, and I opposed it in order to draw her out; some assertions which she made struck me as being very forcible, and I could not rid myself of the thoughts engendered, any more than I could get rid of the repetition of that combination. It has been like a nightmare to me, and each day there had been a shadow of some occurrence of the past night which has persistently evaded me. I have been haunted all this day by something which occurred last night, which seemed like a vivid dream, and I thought I would put it to the test. You cannot be more surprised at the result than I am.”
James and Marjy now came forward: “I think that Marjy and I will also have to make confession; I think that your being able to recall a portion of last night’s events was due to the slight influence which I gained over you; I tried to impress it upon your mind that you must remember what occurred, but I thought that I had failed completely.” He then made a complete explanation, which Marjy fully corroborated. Auntie laughed and sobbed in the same breath: “I’ve been an old crank; but the uncertainty worried me so that I could not help it—and my part of the general confession is that a sense of knowledge—which I could not grasp—tormented me continually, but I would not have confessed it for twice that amount of money. However, “All’s well that ends well.” Marjy, you may have the money to buy a wedding trousseau, and when Henry is my nephew I trust that he will not hypnotize his old aunt, either when he is sleeping or waking.”
HIS FRIEND.
The two log cabins stood on the grassy slopes of opposite mountains, the dark piñons forming a picturesque background; a babbling brook ran between the two, a boundary line of molten silver.