THIS narrative begins with the death
of its hero. Silas Deemer died on the I6th day of July, 1863; and two days
later his remains were buried. As he had
been personally known to every
man, woman and well-grown child in the village, the funeral, as the local
newspaper phrased it, “was largely attended.” In
accordance with a custom of the
time and place, the coffin was opened at the graveside and the entire assembly
of friends and neighbours filed past, taking a last
look at the face of the dead. And
then, before the eyes of all, Silas Deemer was put into the ground. Some
of the eyes were a trifle dim, but in a general way it
may be said that at that interment
where was lack of neither observance nor observation; Silas was indubitably
dead, and none could have pointed out any ritual
delinquency that would have justified
him in coming back from the grave. Yet if human testimony is good for anything
(and certainly it once put an end to
witchcraft in and about Salem)
he came back.
I forgot to state that the death and burial of Silas Deemer occurred in
the little village of Hillbrook, where he had lived for thirty-one years.
He had been
what is known in some parts of
the Union (which is admittedly a free country) as a “merchant” that is
to say, he kept a retail shop for the sale of such things as
are commonly sold in shops of that
character. His honesty had never been questioned, so far as is known, and
he was held in high esteem by all. The only thing
that could be urged against him
by the most censorious was a too close attention to business. It was not
urged against him, though many another, who manifested
it in no greater degree, was less
leniently judged. The business to which Silas was devoted was mostly his
own-that, possibly, may have made a difference.
At the time of Deemer's death nobody could recollect a single day, Sundays
excepted, that he had not passed in his “store,” since he had opened it
more
than a quarter-century before.
His health having been perfect during all that time, he had been unable
to discern any validity in whatever may or might have been
urged to lure him astray from his
counter; and it is related that once when he was summoned to the county
seat as a witness in an important law case and did not
attend, the lawyer who had the
hardihood to move that he be “admonished” was solemnly informed that the
Court regarded the proposal with “surprise.” Judicial
surprise being an emotion that
attorneys are not commonly ambitious to arouse, the motion was hastily
withdrawn and an agreement with the other side effected
as to what Mr. Deemer would have
said if he had been there-the other side pushing its advantage to the extreme
and making the supposititious testimony
distinctly damaging to the interests
of its proponents. In brief, it was the general feeling in all that region
that Silas Deemer was the one immobile verity of
Hillbrook, and that his translation
in space would precipitate some dismal public ill or strenuous calamity.
Mrs. Deemer and two grown daughters occupied the upper rooms of the building,
but Silas had never been known to sleep elsewhere than on a cot behind
the counter of the store. And there,
quite by accident, he was found one night, dying, and passed away just
before the time for taking down the shutters. Though
speechless, he appeared conscious,
and it was thought by those who knew him best that if the end had unfortunately
been delayed beyond the usual hour for
opening the store the effect upon
him would have been deplorable.
Such had been Silas Deemer-such the fixity and invariety of his life and
habit, that the village humorist (who had once attended college) was moved
to
bestow upon him the sobriquet of
“Old Ibidem,” and, in the first issue of the local newspaper after the
death, to explain without offence that Silas had taken “a
day off.” It was more than a day,
but from the record it appears that well within a month Mr. Deemer made
it plain that he had not the leisure to be dead.
One of Hillbrook's most respected citizens was Alvan Creede, a banker.
He lived in the finest house in town, kept a carriage and was a most estimable
man
variously. He knew something of
the advantages of travel, too, having been frequently in Boston, and once,
it was thought, in New York, though he modestly
disclaimed that glittering distinction.
The matter is mentioned here merely as a contribution to an understanding
of Mr. Creede's worth, for either way it is
creditable to him-to his intelligence
if he had put himself, even temporarily, into contact with metropolitan
culture; to his candour if he had not.
One pleasant summer evening at about the hour of ten Mr. Creede, entering
at his garden gate, passed up the gravel walk, which looked very white
in the
moonlight, mounted the stone steps
of his fine house and pausing a moment inserted his latchkey in the door.
As he pushed this open he met his wife, who was
crossing the passage from the parlour
to the library. She greeted him pleasantly and pulling the door farther
back held it for him to enter. Instead, he turned and,
looking about his feet in front
of the threshold, uttered an exclamation of surprise.
“Why!-what the devil,” he said, “has become of that jug?”
“What jug, Alvan?” his wife inquired, not very sympathetically.
“A jug of maple syrup-I brought it along from the store and set it down
here to open the door. What the-“
“There, there, Alvan, please don't swear again,” said the lady, interrupting.
Hillbrook, by the way, is not the only place in Christendom where a vestigal
polytheism forbids the taking in
vain of the Evil One's name.
The jug of maple syrup which the easy ways of village life had permitted
Hillbrook's foremost citizen to carry home from the store was not there.
“Are you quite sure, Alvan?”
“My dear, do you suppose a man does not know when he is carrying a jug?
I bought that syrup at Deemer's as I was passing. Deemer himself drew it
and
lent me the jug, and I-“
The sentence remains to this day unfinished. Mr. Creede staggered into
the house, entered the parlour and dropped into an arm-chair, trembling
in every
limb. He had suddenly remembered
that Silas Deemer was three weeks dead.
Mrs. Creede stood by her husband, regarding him with surprise and anxiety.
“For Heaven's sake,” she said, “what ails you?” Mr. Creede's ailment having
no obvious relation to the interests of the better land he did not apparently
deem it necessary to expound it
on that demand; he said nothing-merely stared. There were long moments
of silence broken by nothing but the measured ticking
of the clock, which seemed somewhat
slower than usual, as if it were civilly granting them an extension of
time in which to recover their wits.
“Jane, I have gone mad-that is it.” He spoke thickly and hurriedly. “You
should have told me; you must have observed my symptoms before they became
so pronounced that I have observed
them myself. I thought I was passing Deemer's store; it was open and lit
up-that is what I thought; of course it is never open
now. Silas Deemer stood at his
desk behind the counter. My God, Jane, I saw him as distinctly as I see
you. Remembering that you had said you wanted some
maple syrup, I went in and bought
some-that is all-I bought two quarts of maple syrup from Silas Deemer,
who is dead and underground, but nevertheless drew
that syrup from a cask and handed
it to me in a jug. He talked with me, too, rather gravely, I remember,
even more so than was his way, but not a word of what
he said can I now recall. But I
saw him- good Lord, I saw and talked with him-and he is dead So I thought,
but I'm mad, Jane, I'm as crazy as a beetle; and you
have kept it from me.”
This monologue gave the woman time to collect what faculties she had.
“Alvan,” she said, “you have given no evidence of insanity, believe me.
This was undoubtedly an illusion-how should it be anything else? That would
be
too terrible! But there is no insanity;
you are working too hard at the bank. You should not have attended the
meeting of directors this evening; anyone could see
that you were ill; I knew something
would occur.”
It may have seemed to him that the prophecy had lagged a bit, awaiting
the event, but he said nothing of that, being concerned with his own condition.
He
was calm now, and could think coherently.
“Doubtless the phenomenon was subjective,” he said, with a somewhat ludicrous
transition to the slang of science. “Granting the possibility of spiritual
apparition and even materialization,
yet the apparition and materialization of a half-gallon brown clay jug-a
piece of coarse, heavy pottery evolved from nothing-
that is hardly thinkable.”
As he finished speaking, a child ran into the room -his little daughter.
She was clad in a bedgown. Hastening to her father she threw her arms about
his
neck, saying: “You naughty papa,
you forgot to come in and kiss me. We heard you open the gate and got up
and looked out. And, papa dear, Eddy says mayn't
he have the little jug when it
is empty?”
As the full import of that revelation imparted itself to Alvan Creede's
understanding he visibly shuddered. For the child could not have heard
a word of the
conversation.
The estate of Silas Deemer being in the hands of an administrator who had
thought it best to dispose of the “business,” the store had been closed
ever since
the owner's death, the goods having
been removed by another “merchant” who had purchased them en bloc. The
rooms above were vacant as well, for the
widow and daughters had gone to
another town.
On the evening immediately after Alvan Creede's adventure (which had somehow
“got out”) a crowd of men, women and children thronged the sidewalk
opposite the store. That the place
was haunted by the spirit of the late Silas Deemer was now well known to
every resident of Hillbrook, though many affected
disbelief. Of these the hardiest,
and in a general way the youngest, threw stones against the front of the
building, the only part accessible, but carefully missed the
unshuttered windows. Incredulity
had not grown to malice. A few venturesome souls crossed the street and
rattled the door in its frame; struck matches and held
them near the window; attempted
to view the black interior. Some of the spectators invited attention to
their wit by shouting and groaning and challenging the
ghost to a foot-race.
After a considerable time had elapsed without any manifestation, and many
of the crowd had gone away, all those remaining began to observe that the
interior of the store was suffused
with a dim, yellow light. At this all demonstrations ceased; the intrepid
souls about the door and windows fell back to the
opposite side of the street and
were merged in the crowd; the small boys ceased throwing stones. Nobody
spoke above his breath; all whispered excitedly and
pointed to the now steadily growing
light. How long a time had passed since the first faint glow had been observed
none could have guessed, but eventually the
illumination was bright enough
to reveal the whole interior of the store; and there, standing at his desk
behind the counter Silas Deemer was distinctly visible!
The effect upon the crowd was marvellous. It began rapidly to melt away
at both flanks, as the timid left the place. Many ran as fast as their
legs would let
them; others moved off with greater
dignity, turning occasionally to look backward over the shoulder. At last
a score or more, mostly men, remained where they
were, speechless, staring, excited.
The apparition inside gave them no attention; it was apparently occupied
with a book of accounts.
Presently three men left the crowd on the sidewalk as if by a common impulse
and crossed the street. One of them, a heavy man, was about to set his
shoulder against the door when
it opened, apparently without human agency, and the courageous investigators
passed in. No sooner had they crossed the
threshold than they were seen by
the awed observers outside to be acting in the most unaccountable way.
They thrust out their hands before them, pursued
devious courses, came into violent
collision with the counter, with boxes and barrels on the floor, and with
one another. They turned awkwardly hither and
thither and seemed trying to escape,
but unable to retrace their steps. Their voices were heard in exclamations
and curses. But in no way did the apparition of
Silas Deemer manifest an interest
in what was going on.
By what impulse the crowd was moved none ever recollected, but the entire
mass-men, women, children, dogs-made a simultaneous and tumultuous rush
for the entrance. They congested
the doorway, pushing for precedence-resolving themselves at length into
a line and moving up step by step. By some subtle
spiritual or physical alchemy observation
had been transmuted into action-the sightseers had become participants
in the spectacle-the audience had usurped the
stage.
To the only spectator remaining on the other side of the street-Alvan Creede,
the banker- the interior of the store with its inpouring crowd continued
in full
illumination; all the strange things
going on there were clearly visible. To those inside all was black darkness.
It was as if each person as he was thrust in at the
door had been stricken blind, and
was maddened by the mischance. They groped with aimless imprecision, tried
to force their way out against the current, pushed
and elbowed, struck at random,
fell and were trampled, rose and trampled in their turn. They seized one
another by the garments, the hair, the beard-fought like
animals, cursed, shouted, called
one another opprobrious and obscene names. When, finally, Alvan Creede
had seen the last person of the line pass into that awful
tumult the light that had illuminated
it was suddenly quenched and all was as black to him as to those within.
He turned away and left the place.
In the early morning a curious crowd had gathered about “Deemer's.” It
was composed partly of those who had run away the night before, but now
had
the courage of sunshine, partly
of honest folk going to their daily toil. The door of the store stood open;
the place was vacant, but on the walls, the floor, the
furniture, were shreds of clothing
and tangles of hair. Hillbrook militant had managed somehow to pull itself
out and had gone home to medicine its hurts and
swear that it had been all night
in bed. On the dusty desk, behind the counter, was the sales book. The
entries in it, in Deemer's handwriting, had ceased on the
16th day of July, the last of his
life. There was no record of a later sale to Alvan Creede.
That is the entire story-except that men's passions having subsided and
reason having resumed its immemorial sway, it was confessed in Hillbrook
that,
considering the harmless and honourable
character of his first commercial transaction under the new conditions,
Silas Deemer, deceased, might properly have
been suffered to resume business
at the old stand without mobbing. In that judgment the local historian
from whose unpublished work these facts are compiled
had the thoughtfulness to signify
his concurrence.
The End
