Scribner's Monthly/Volume 3/Number 1/The Mullenville Mystery

by Julian Hawthorne

 

THE MULLENVILLE MYSTERY.

By Julian Hawthorne

Between four and five every afternoon, except Sundays, it was the time-honored custom of the Mullenville population to assemble at the post-office, and there, under cover of waiting for the mail to be made up, relax themselves with friendly, business, or amorous conversation, as the case might be. The sight of the letters and newspapers popping into the various boxes seemed to assist ideas in popping into heads, and words in popping out. Certainly, at no time were the inhabitants of Mullenville more gay, social, talkative, and good-humored than at evening mail-time; and as for the lovers,—it is awful to think of what their predicament would have been in case the Mullenville post-office had not existed. In fact, if the persons who constructed the plans whereby Mullenville was built had been as wise in regard to human nature as to engineering, they would most undoubtedly have placed the post-office and the church side by side, and perhaps connected them with a covered passage.

On the 6th of August, 1867,—in matters like this it is well to be precise about the dates,—the usual genial assemblage was buzzing within the post-office walls. It is nearly five o'clock; the mail is well-nigh sorted. Hark!—the delivery-door is thrown open with a click-clack, and up surge the people like a wave, breaking against the door, and thence flowing off in a lengthened stream to the post-office entrance, and so out upon the steps, on which those who emerge first stand to watch the exit of those who come after. Among the former we notice at once the elegant figure of an aristocratic young fellow, with a handsome, enterprising countenance, and easy, confident bearing. Who is he? Why, young Ned Holland, from Cambridge, who has been sent up here to rusticate, having been detected in the execution of some tremendous practical joke upon the faculty. He is a talented, audacious sort of chap, popular among both men and women,—for there is a large amount of pure romance mingled with his composition, and an impetuosity and fertility of thought and action such as girls always like, and men too, unless they happen to be jealous. By the way, Sam Gumple, the town beau, hates Ned Holland with a deadly hatred, which logically proves him jealous; and, even as we speak, behold the cause!

Sweet, pretty, delicious little Nellie Swansdown is coming rosily out of the post-office door, and Sam Gumple, in an immature frock-coat and red-and-white check neck-tie, is stalking beside her, paying her compliments fragrant with the perfume of corned-beef, cabbage, and pomade. As they step out into the open air, Sam crooks his elbow and remarks, with a touch of that humor which he has made his own:—

"Now, then! hook on to my handle, Nell!"

It would be hard to say just how it was done. Nothing could have been neater, quicker, more complete. There was a graceful, rapid movement, a stern, decided "Stand aside, sir!" a gentle, caressing "Allow me, Miss Swansdown!"—and there stood Sam, alone, his face contorted with fury, mortification, conscious defeat; and moving away, arm-in-arm, a perfect picture of confiding affection on one side and loving protection on the other, the well-matched figures of Ned Holland and Nellie Swansdown. Nobody could help chuckling and feeling jolly about it: and Sam Gumple got no sympathy at all, either from the girls (for had he not neglected them for Nellie?), or from the boys (for was he not always bragging about the "gals that were sweet on" him?—and all the time it wasn't that they were sweet on him, but that their thrifty fathers and mothers were sweet on his bank account). So everybody looked with complacency on Sam's discomfiture, while the bold and successful young collegian was the favorite of the hour.

It is not necessary to go back and give a reason for all this; it is easy enough to imagine how, during the month of Ned Holland's presence in Mullenville, beauty and valor and prettiness and sweetness had mutually and irresistibly attracted each other, to the abandonment and oblivion of all beside; how, the day before the incident we have witnessed, the loving explanation had taken place, and Sam Gumple's final overthrow been agreed upon. No use going into the particulars of all that; what is to come is matter of even greater moment.

A walk of full three-quarters of a mile lay between the lovers and the vine-covered farm-house in which Nellie lived. It was an ideal road, always winding, with a lush meadow and a brook on one side and an undulating hill on the other; and the path shaded by enormous elm and butternut trees. Even had it been less picturesque, one would suppose that the sunshine in the young people's hearts would have supplied any deficiencies. Alas! for the folly of human beings, their own worst enemies! It was on this lovely, solitary road, gilded by the afternoon sun and shadowed by the trees, that these two fortune-favored, prosperous, romantic young idiots got themselves involved in one of those unpardonable sins called lovers' quarrels, brought on by absolutely nothing whatever, and yet maintained and carried through to a fatal termination. Shade of Sam Gumple, rejoice! This is precisely how it happened:—

Ned Holland (as they turn the corner grocery and strike their homeward road)—What was poor Sam saying to you when I interfered, Nellie?

Nellie Swansdown (gathering up her skirts deftly with one hand, and holding unnecessarily fast on to Ned's arm with the other)—Oh! I don't know; some of his bosh, I suppose. I'm sure I didn't listen to him.

N. H. (smiling self complacently)—You used to a good deal, though, before I came.

N. S. (turning up her nose the least mite)—What? hear bosh? Oh, well, as for that, I've heard a good deal since, too.

N. H. (tragically—the hypocrite!)—Oh! Nellie: you don't believe all I've said to you this last month is bosh, do you?

N. S. (giving his arm a tiny hug—the dear little thing!)—Oh! no, Ned; not quite so bad as that! I was only funning.

N. H. (following up his advantage, the tyrant! and bending over towards her confidentially)—You do care a little for me; don't you, dear?

N. S. (looking down, and excessively lovely, and then up, blushing)—Well! I should think you might know by this—Oh!! Ned—oh! right in the street, and everybody looking! aren't you ashamed?

N. H. (insolently triumphant at having done it)—Yes, awfully! there wasn't anybody looking, though, you dear little goose!

(A pretty long silence, during which they walk along with their eyes on the ground, not only arm-in-arm, bid hand-in-hand, and their hearts feeling so tender as almost to hurt.)

N. H. (slaying the slain again)—How did you ever happen to like Sam Gumple, Nellie? What was the fascination?

N. S. (plaintively)—Why, Ned! you know there wasn't any. I always detested the creature; but, you know, he's rich, and father's under obligations to old Mr. Gumple, and so he—well, you know how it was.

N. H. (confidently)—But he'll be glad to have you marry me, won't he?

N. S. (hesitatingly)—Well—father will, of course; but I'm afraid old Mr. Gumple would be angry, and that would make him hard on father, you know. That's all I'm afraid of.

N. H. (smiling, with superior assurance)—Oh, my dear, we'll fix it so that old Gumple won't know whom you married, or anything about you. You can rely on me to manage all that.

N. S. (impulsively)—You know I always rely on you, dear.

(It wasn't quite so scandalous this time: they were in the shadow of a big tree, and no one was in sight. But she blushed as rosily as she did the first time, and gave him a box on the ear into the bargain.)

N. H. (who has digested what he has had, and wants more)—What is it about me you like most, Nellie?

N. S. (who thinks she may have given him too much, and desires to set it right)—Your big nose, I guess! that's what your conceit comes from, isn't it?

N. H. (whose nose is rather large, and who of course feels sensitive about it)—I wouldn't make personal remarks, if I were you, dear; it sounds vulgar.

N. S. (who, being country-bred, is particularly sensitive about vulgarity)—Much obliged to you for letting me know, I'm sure. I'll try not to shock your taste in future.

N. H. (with an air of misunderstood virtue)—It's my feelings, rather than my taste, that you shock, my dear.

N. S. (with an unreal and satirical laugh)—Your feelings! Indeed! Come, come, Mr. Holland, pray don't waste any of your elegant language on me. You must remember that, whatever else I don't know, I know you!

N. H. (as if hearing for the first time an interesting and gratifying piece of news)—Do you, really! I'm very glad you do know something.

N. S. (coldly, dropping his arm)—I'm not proud of the knowledge; it doesn't amount to much, and is a bore learning.

N. H. (politely—very unhappy)—It's a pity you should waste so much time away from Mr. Sam Gumple.

N. S. (smiling—perfectly miserable)—Poor Sam! he's a human creature, at any rate,—not a machine.

N. H. (furious at this concession to his rival—his voice trembling)—Do I understand you to say I'm a machine, Miss Swansdown?

N. S. (bursting into a fit of laughter,—its a wonder it wasn't crying, poor little thing!)—Why, it isn't possible you don't know that, Mr. Holland? You always reminded me so much of a clock!—stuck up to be looked at; wound up to go, and always doing over the same things,—thinking yourself so clever, so accomplished, so knowing, and everybody else so vulgar, so stupid, so commonplace,—oh! you needn't say anything: one can always tell what a clock is going to say, if one can see its face! But really, now, Mr. Holland, if you only wouldn't pretend to be a man, you might be very interesting—as a machine.

N. H. (overwhelmed at this unprecedented outburst from his gentle little Nellie Swansdown—the blockhead hasn't sense enough to know that in wounding her pride and self-love he has committed a well-nigh irreparable insult)—Why! Nellie—what does all this mean? Are you crazy? Nellie, have you forgotten that I'm going away to-morrow?—is this going to be the way we part? You're in a passion, now (a sensible thing to say, that!)—wait a minute, and think! Oh! Nellie, you know I love you!

N. S. (who, though yet very angry, is still more oppressed by dread lest she should give in and cry)—You love me! I'd as lief be loved by a—cider-mill.

N. H. (losing his temper and, of course, his last chance)—Very well! for the last time, then, Miss Swansdown,—you won't marry me?

N. S. (venomously,—catch her marrying any one who calls her Miss Swansdown!)—I'd rather marry an aw—(not quite sure of the word)—awtomotom!

N. H. (staggering under this last awful thrust, but still game)—Thank you! Good-bye! I trust your wish may be gratified!!

And so they parted. And there was certainly one thing remarkable about this quarrel,—that the woman did not have the last word. Perhaps she expected to have a chance, later; but in that she was mistaken. Ned went tragically home, packed his valise, settled his bills, and took the evening express-train to New York, probably hoping there would be a collision before he arrived. Nellie rushed up to her chamber, fully resolved to die before morning. If it had not been that a lingering doubt as to whether her lover might not return the next morning harassed her mind, perhaps she might. But her unwillingness, in case he were not to return, to have her corpse go to the grave unseen and unwept by him, and a reluctance, in case he should happen to come back, to be dead and not know it,—these conflicting emotions kept her in a state of indecision till morning, and then, of course, there would have been no use or poetry in it. Ned did not come back, and Nellie survived. It may have been pride, it may have been hope, it may have been indifference that buoyed her up,—but who can read a woman's heart? We must first make a new vocabulary.

Something else remains to be recorded ere we arrive at that portion of our tale which may be designated the historical. We would rather say nothing about it; fain modify it—fain account for it. But, no! it will be told,—it will not be modified,—it is unaccountable! It is no use talking about money, and obligations, and immitigable elderly people: all the world knows that the day for those things has gone by,—lovers never pay any attention to them now (when they are really in love). The dark fact remains, that Sam Gumple, having satisfied himself of the actual and permanent disappearance of Mr. Ned Holland, took to ogling the deserted young lady again: he called on her evenings, walked home with her afternoons; and Nellie—oh Frailty, thy name still continues to be woman!—Nellie did not repel his advances with disdain. And now for the history.

No one who has resided within a thousand miles of Mullenville, or is among the numberless subscribers to the Mullenville Harp, needs to be reminded of the extraordinary event which took place there on the twenty-first day of September, 1867; an event utterly without parallel or precedent in the annals of the town, or, for that matter, of the whole world. But since there are possibly some few who were in Europe, or unborn, on the day in question, a brief synopsis of events will be given for their especial behoof.

About a week before the above date, the Mullenville population awakened one morning to a sense of placards. Placards were posted everywhere—on barns, on board fences, on the white-washed exterior of the hotel stables, and one fiery red fellow on the very door of the church! Every placard bore the announcement, in letters a foot high and under, that a most remarkable curiosity would be exhibited in the Town Hall on the evening of the 21st of September. This was nothing less than an automaton, made to represent a man, life-size, and constructed with such surpassing ingenuity and cunning that it was next to impossible to detect the deception. Indeed, it was asserted—on the authority of a number of testimonials from distinguished people living out West—that many individuals who professed to be well acquainted with mankind, and deeply versed in the arcana of human nature, had, nevertheless, been completely bamboozled by the marvelous accuracy wherewith the automaton counterfeited humanity. Some had gone so far as to declare that it was not an automaton at all, but the devil! And surely, if half the wonders claimed for it were true, one might well suspect something uncanny in it. Not only could it walk, move its arms, turn and nod its head, roll its eyes, and twiddle its thumbs; but it could talk, sing, whistle, laugh, and, if report were to be trusted, read and write also! There was something awful in the idea of such a thing.

Needless to say the anticipations aroused in the Mullenvillian breast were anxious and great: nothing was talked of day or night, by young or old, but the Automaton. As the appointed day drew near, people gathered together from miles around; the hotel was filled over and over, and half the private residences in town were transformed into boarding-houses. The Selectmen hired a gang of carpenters to increase the accommodations of the Town Hall, and swore in a number of special policemen to keep the crowd in order.

On the 20th of September, the day before the exhibition, Sam Gumple went up to make an evening call on Nellie Swansdown. He was rigged out in a very chaste visiting costume: a wide-awake felt hat shaded his ruddy and oleaginous countenance from the warm starlight; a dress coat, built by the town tailor, covered his broad back, and a pair of trousers of blue army-cloth brought his legs into becoming relief. He wore pumps over his knit yarn socks, and carried in his lemon-colored kid hand a delicate ivory-headed cane.

Of course the first subject introduced was the Automaton. Nellie, to be sure, was very quiet, and hardly opened her mouth once to say anything about it. But Sam was so eloquent in his descriptions and eulogiums that one would have supposed it to have been his brother at least. Unmindful of Nellie's pale face and occasional shudderings, he dilated on its life-like attributes and mysterious deeds with all the richness of fancy and sweetness of voice for which he was noted; and ended by producing two tickets, entitling the holders to the best seats in the house, so close to the stage that, to use Sam's figure, they could see the machine's eyelashes, if it had any. One of these he besought Nellie to accept, with the understanding that he was to call for and escort her to the hall the next night.

For some time Nellie hesitated. She seemed strangely unwilling to put herself within the range, so to speak, of this mysterious Automaton. Her reluctance, indeed, almost amounted to a superstitious dread. There was a sad and distant expression in her eyes, as though the sound of some loved and lost voice were echoing in her ears. Finally, however, her resistance was overcome, or perhaps she looked at the matter in a new light. At any rate, she consented to go with Sam to the exhibition, and he departed with an exulting heart,—as well he might, with the prospect of having sweet Nellie Swansdown all to himself for a whole evening. As for Nellie, she went to bed and had an awful nightmare, in which it seemed to her that she was married to the Automaton, and that after the ceremony was over it turned into the tall old-fashioned clock which stood in the dining-room; and while she was standing looking up at it in dismay at the thought of being united to such a thing, and bound to honor, love, and obey it all her life, it fell over on to her and crushed her to pieces; upon which, of course, she screamed and woke,—but the terror of the dream lasted her all day.

Evening had come. An expectant crowd at the depot had witnessed the arrival of the train containing the wonderful Automaton. It had come in with a long-drawn shriek, as of a soul in despair, and had slipped away again with an infernal cachinnation, as though some devilish joke were in the wind. Meanwhile, under the direction of the manager (a gentleman with black hair falling over his shoulders, and a heavy black beard), a huge box, resembling in form a cross between a coffin and a safe, was carefully lifted down from the baggage car and transported slowly and cautiously to the express cart. In this box, it was whispered, was concealed the marvelous mechanism of the Automaton. The sensation created was profound, and apparently not unmixed with fear. Men gathered in little knots and groups, whispering apprehensively to one another, and casting strange glances ever and anon over their shoulders into dark corners of the depot, unilluminated by the red light of lanterns and gas lamps. But when the rattle of the express cart began to die away in the distance, a fresher air seemed to blow around, the whispers rose and loudened into voices; some of the bolder spirits went so far as to laugh and crack appalling jokes, almost scaring themselves, as well as the more timid ones, by the exuberance of their own audacity.

It was eight o'clock. Every seat was filled, and all the standing-room was taken up; the very staircase and the outside flight of steps were packed, and vast multitudes surrounded the building on every side. Countless small boys had climbed the trees which happened to grow within a hundred yards of the windows, and strove manfully to imagine they could see what was going on between the chinks of the closed blinds. Within, a black curtain was stretched across the stage, which was raised some five feet above the floor of the hall. Close in front, by way of orchestra, sat David Clank, the town jailer, who played the violin at all the sociables in Mullenville; on this evening he was likewise engaged to touch the spring which was to raise the curtain. Directly behind him, the next nearest to the scene of operations, were Sam Gumple and Nellie Swansdown,—the former talkative, smiling, and redolent; the latter pale, silent, and nervous.

A bell sounded. The gentlemanly manager stepped before the curtain and made his bow to the assembly. He stroked his beard, passed his fingers through his long hair, and said he was proud to meet them; that this was the first audience before which the Automaton had been exhibited in this part of the country; that Mullenville, in that respect if not in others, was preferred before either Boston or New York; that in regard to the exhibition he would only say that the expectations aroused by the bills would, he was sure, be more than satisfied. He said the Automaton was certain to outdo itself in the presence of so much youth and beauty as were assembled in that hall that night; and as he spoke his eye fell on the upturned and bewildered face of Nellie Swansdown. He smiled, bowed again, stroked his beard, and vanished. An interval elapsed—a few said a minute; others, five minutes; some fifteen. However, the bell sounded again at last, David Clank touched the spring, the curtain rolled out of sight as if by magic, and there was revealed, standing in the center of the stage, a large box in shape something between a coffin and a safe. Amidst a death-like stillness the door of this box flew open, and out stepped, with an air of jaunty assurance, with flaxen hair and whiskers, a nobby suit of clothes, an eye-glass, a cane, and patent leather boots—out stepped, with a bow and a smirk, just as any human being might have done, only with infinitely more grace and ease—out stepped the miraculous, the mysterious, the supernatural, the incomparable Automaton! The entire audience, having held their breath for a half-hour without stopping, now let it out again in a prolonged and mighty "Ah-h-h-h!" The suspense of many long days and sleepless nights was brought to an end, and the greatest wonder of the world was at length before their eyes.

It was all true—nay, the half had not been said! That Automaton did beat all nature, as Sam Gumple remarked sotto voce to Nellie Swansdown. It seemed absolutely to be endowed with human intelligence; indeed, the opinion was expressed that no human intelligence could equal it. Why, it ogled the girls! it cracked jokes with the men!! it danced a hornpipe, and whistled "Hail Columbia" and "Yankee Doodle"!!! It put its hands into its pockets, and sang and acted "Walking down Broadway"—the first time the song had ever been produced upon that stage! The audience became excited—then wild—then frantic! Their enthusiasm amounted to madness, yet seemed wholly inadequate to the magnitude of the occasion. The Automaton was not an Automaton at all—it was a demi-god!

And how did the demi-god impress Nellie Swansdown? When it first stepped out of the box and came forward to the foot-lights, she almost started from her seat and could scarcely repress a scream. Then she partly recovered herself with a little laugh, and looking around to see if any one had observed her. Then she turned her eyes once more to the Automaton, and as she looked her gaze grew every moment more and more intense and absorbed, until it seemed as though she were living only in her eyes. An expression of incredulity deepened into wonder, that into amazement, that into mystification, that into apprehension. Her sweet lips were parted, and her breath came only by fits and starts. During the whole time the Automaton was on the stage she did not speak one word. Certainly no one was more impressed with that evening's entertainment than was Nellie Swansdown.

At last the end came. The Automaton, in a few well-chosen words, took leave of the audience, and expressed the hope of meeting them all again—if not all, at least some. They said afterwards that there was a peculiar twinkle in its eye as it made that remark. It retired up the stage, bowing to the right and left. When it reached the door of the box, and just before disappearing through it, it took a nosegay from its button-hole and tossed it towards the audience. A hundred hands were outstretched to grasp it, but it fell right into Nellie Swansdown's bosom, and stayed there. The Automaton nodded and smiled at her, vanished into his box, the curtain fell, and the exhibition was at an end. A sudden stillness and awe came over the audience, now that their crazy excitement was past. Silently they left their seats and hurried to get out of the hall before the gas should be turned off. The multitude outside, who had crowded to the entrance, curious to see the faces of those who had seen the Automaton, shrank back alarmed at their ghastly appearance. Every one hastened homeward as fast as his legs would take him, and in an incredibly short space of time there was not a soul left in the streets.

Among the last to leave the hall were Sam Gumple and Nellie Swansdown. A melancholy interest attaches to this last appearance of theirs together in the world. They were seen to walk off in the direction of home, until, having got beyond the range of the gas-lamp which burned dimly over the iron gate of the City Hall, they were swallowed up in the darkness. It was a warm, cloudy night, and drops of rain fell intermittently, like blood-drops from a fatal wound. Nellie Swansdown, the pretty, the sweet, the lovable, was never seen again. As for Sam Gumple, he was picked up the next day, but in a state of hopeless idiocy. He maundered about a phantom carriage with jet-black horses, which came thundering along the road after he and Nellie had got a hundred yards or so from the Town Hall; said that out of this carriage had sprung a goblin which, from its figure and height, he recognized at once as the Automaton, though the flaxen hair and whiskers were gone; that this goblin had prostrated him by a left-handed blow in the eye, had seized Nellie round the waist,—she, from terror or some other cause, being unable even to scream,—had leaped with her into the phantom coach, and had disappeared into the night with a rumble like an earthquake. This was Sam's story, gathered from time to time out of his mutterings and ravings. The good people of Mullenville knew not whether to believe it or not, but they at once decided that Sam ought to be confined in the town asylum, and the decision was forthwith carried into execution, and Sam occupies rooms there to this day.

There was one peculiar thing about it—nobody ever again saw or heard anything of the Automaton, or of its black-bearded and gentlemanly manager. No trace was left behind save the mysterious box, which remained standing on the stage behind the black curtain. A committee was appointed and organized to sit upon this box; this, not without many misgivings, they did, and decided that it ought to be opened. The bravest man in Mullenville was appointed to perform this office; he armed himself with a couple of revolvers and a prayer-book, and actually accomplished the feat; when there appeared, to reward the labors of the committee, a long black wig with a beard to match, and a flaxen ditto, with accompanying whiskers. These were locked up in the Court House, and then the committee, having published the result of their researches, adjourned sine die.

In process of time, as people's minds began to cool, the fame of the Automaton would seem gradually to have fallen into disrepute. It was declared that the thing wasn't so wonderful after all; that it had not, as a matter of fact, done half the things accredited to it; that its motions had not only been limited in scope, but stiff and mechanical in manner; that a whirring sound, as of a clock running down, accompanied every movement. Its voice, it was maintained, had been nothing but a croak and a squeak; that it hadn't sung or whistled at all, and as for the reading and writing, that was all humbug.

Nevertheless, there have been, and still are, certain pig-headed people who persist in asserting that there was something more in that Automaton than ever was made known to the public at large. They hint that Nellie Swansdown was actually forced to elope with this mechanical goblin, as a judgment upon her for having, in a fit of anger with an admirer of hers, declared she would rather marry an automaton than him. They even pretended to have heard the rattle of carriage wheels on that eventful September night; and in regard to the nosegay, they declare it had a note tied to it, which Nellie read, and which told her more than she would have been inclined to admit; and there is much more nonsense of the kind which might be quoted, were it worth while.

It is pleasant to be able to record the amicable relations existing between the houses of Gumple and Swansdown, even though the marriage between the younger branches was never consummated. Their sorrows, probably, have united them.