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<h3 align="center">Chapter VII A Vision</h3> “I have never been so mystified in all my life!” Dr. Harper spoke in a perplexed, worried way, and a puzzled frown drew his shaggy eyebrows together. Though the family physician of most of the tenants of the large, up-to-date apartment house, he was of the old school type and had the kindly, sociable ways of a smalltown practitioner. “I know Sanford Embury, bone, blood and muscle,” he said; “I’ve not only been his physician for two years, but I’ve examined him, watched him and kept him in pink of condition for his athletic work. If I hadn’t looked after him, he might have overdone his athletics—but he didn’t—he used judgment, and was more than willing to follow my advice. Result—he was in the most perfect possible physical shape in every particular! He could no more have had a stroke of apoplexy or paralysis than a young oak tree could! And there’s no indication of such a thing, either. A man can’t die of a stroke of any sort without showing certain symptoms. None of these are present—there’s nothing present to hint the cause of his death. There’s no cut, scratch or mark of any description; there’s no suggestion of strangulation or heart failure—well, it’s the strangest thing I ever ran up against in all my years of practice!” The doctor sat at the Embury breakfast table, heartily partaking of the dishes Ferdinand offered. He had prescribed aromatic ammonia for Eunice, and a cup of coffee for Miss Ames, and then he had made a careful examination of Sanford Embury’s mortal body. Upon its conclusion he had insisted that the ladies join him at breakfast and he saw to it that they made more than a pretense of eating. “You’ve a hard day ahead of you,” he said, in his gentle, paternal way, “and you must be fortified as far as possible. I may seem harsh, Mrs. Embury, but I’m going to ask you to be as brave as you can, right now—at first—as I may say—and then, indulge in the luxury of tears later on. This sounds brutal, I daresay, but I’ve a reason, dear madam. There’s a mystery here. I don’t go so far as to say there’s anything wrong—but there’s a very mysterious death to be looked into, and as your physician and your friend, I want to advise—to urge you to keep up your strength for what may be a trying ordeal. In the first place, I apprehend an autopsy will be advisable, and I trust you will give your consent to that.” “Oh, no!” cried Eunice, her face drawn with dismay, “not that!” “Now, now, be reasonable, Mrs. Embury. I know you dislike the idea—most people do—but I think I shall have to insist upon it.” “But you can’t do it, unless I agree, can you?” and Eunice looked at him sharply. “No—but I’m sure you will agree.” “I won’t! I never will! You shan’t touch Sanford! I won’t allow it.” “She’s right!” declared Aunt Abby. “I can’t see, doctor, why it is necessary to have a postmortem. I don’t approve of such things. Surely you can, somehow discover what Mr. Embury died of—and if not, what matter? He’s dead, and nothing can change that! It doesn’t seem to me that we have to know—” “Pardon me, Miss Ames, it is necessary that I should know the cause of the death. I cannot make a report until—” “Well you can find out, I should think.” “I never heard of a doctor who couldn’t determine the cause of a simple, natural death of one of his own patients!” Eunice’s glance was scathing and her tones full of scorn. But the doctor realized the nervous tension she was under, and forbore to take offense, or to answer her sharply. “Well, well, we’ll see about it,” he temporized. “I shall first call in Marsden, a colleague of mine, in consultation. I admit I’m at the end of my own knowledge. Tell me the details of last evening. Was Mr. Embury just as usual, so far as you noticed?” “Of course he was,” said Eunice, biting the words off crisply. “He went to the Athletic Club he’s a candidate for the presidency—” “I know—I know—” “And I—I was at a party. On his way from the club he called for me and brought me home in our car. Then he went to bed almost at once—and so did I. That’s all.” “You heard no sound from him whatever during the night?” “None.” “As nearly as I can judge, he died about daybreak. But it is impossible to say positively as to that. Especially as I cannot find the immediate cause of death. You heard nothing during the night, Miss Ames?” “I did and I didn’t,” was the strange reply. “Just what does that mean?” and Doctor Harper looked at her curiously. “Well,” and Aunt Abby spoke very solemnly, “Sanford appeared to me in a vision, just as he died—” “Oh, Aunt Abby,” Eunice groaned, “don’t begin that sort of talk! Miss Ames is a sort of a spiritualist, doctor, and she has hallucinations.” “Not hallucinations—visions,” corrected the old, lady. “And it is not an unheard of phenomenon to have a dying person appear to a friend at the moment of death. It was the passing of Sanford, and I did see him!” Eunice rose and left the table. Her shattered nerves couldn’t stand this, to her mind, foolishness at the moment. She went from the dining-room into the livingroom, and stood, gazing out of the window, but seeing nothing. Dr. Harper pushed back his chair from the table. “Just a word more about that, Miss Ames,” he said. “I’m rather interested in those matters myself. You thought you saw Mr. Embury?” “I did see him. It was a vague, shadowy form, but I recognized him. He came into my room from Eunice’s room. He paused at my bedside and leaned over me, as if for a farewell. He said nothing—and in a moment he disappeared. But I know it was Sanford’s spirit taking flight.” “This is interesting, but I can’t discuss it further now. I have heard of such cases, but never so directly. But my duty now is to Mrs. Embury. I fear she will have a nervous breakdown. May I ask you, Miss Ames, not to talk about you—your vision to her? I think it disturbs her.” “Don’t you tell me, doctor, what to talk to Eunice about, and what not to! I brought up that girl from a baby, and I know her clear through! If it upsets her nerves to hear about my experience last night, of course, I shall not talk about it to her, but trust me, please, to know what is best to do about that!” “Peppery women—both of them!” was Dr. Harper’s mental comment; but he only nodded his head pleasantly and went to Eunice. “If you’ve no objections, I’ll call Marsden here at once,” he said, already taking up the telephone. Eunice listlessly acquiesced, and then the doctor returned to Embury’s bedroom. He looked carefully about. All the details of the room, the position of clothing, the opened book, face down, on the night table, the half-emptied water-glass, the penciled memorandum on the chiffonier—all seemed to bear witness to the well, strong man, who expected to rise and go about his day as usual. “Not a chance of suicide,” mused the doctor, hunting about the room and scrutinizing its handsome appointments. He stepped into Embury’s bathroom, and could find nothing that gave him the least hint of anything unusual in the man’s life. A chart near the white, enameled scale showed that Embury had recorded his weight the night before in his regular, methodical way. The written figures were clear and firm, as always. Positively the man had no premonition of his swiftly approaching end. What could have caused it? What could have snapped short the life thread of this strong, sound specimen of human vitality? Dr. Harper could find no possible answer, and he was glad to hear Ferdinand’s voice as he announced the arrival of Dr. Marsden. The two men held earnest consultation. The newcomer was quite as much mystified as his colleague, and they marveled together. “Autopsy, of course,” said Marsden, finally; “the widow must be brought to consent. Why does she object so strongly?” “I don’t know of any reason except the usual dislike the members of the family feel toward it. I’ve no doubt she will agree, when you advise it.” Eunice Embury did agree, but it was only after the strenuous insistence of Dr. Marsden. She flew into a rage at first, and the doctor, who was unacquainted with her, wondered at her fiery exhibition of temper. And, but for the arrival of Mason Elliott on the scene, she might have resisted longer. Elliott had telephoned, wishing to consult Embury on some matter, and Ferdinand’s incoherent and emotional words had brought out the facts, so of course Elliott had come right over to the house. “What is it, Eunice?” he asked, as he entered, seeing her fiercely quarreling with the doctors. “Let me help you—advise you. Poor child, you ought to be in bed.” His kindly, assertive voice calmed her, and turning her sad eyes to him, she moaned, plaintively, “Don’t let them do it—they mustn’t do it.” “Do what?” Elliott turned to the doctors, and soon was listening to the whole strange story. “Certainly an autopsy!” he declared; “why, it’s the only thing to do. Hush, Eunice, make no further objection. It’s absolutely necessary. Give your consent at once.” Almost as if hypnotized, Eunice Embury gave her consent, and the two doctors went away together. “Tell me all about it,” said Elliott; “all you know—” And then he saw how weak and unnerved Eunice was, and he quickly added, “No, not now. Go and lie down for a time—where’s Miss Ames?” “Here,” and Aunt Abby reappeared from her room. “Yes, go and lie down, Eunice; Maggie has made up our rooms, and your bed is in order. Go, dear child.” “I don’t want to,” and Eunice’s eyes looked unusually large and bright. “I’m not the sort of woman who can cure everything by ‘lying down’! I’d rather talk. Mason, what happened to Sanford?” “I don’t know, Eunice. It’s the strangest thing I ever heard of. If you want to talk, really, tell me what occurred last night. Did you two have a quarrel?” “Yes, we did—” Eunice looked defiant rather than penitent. “But that couldn’t have done it! I mean, we didn’t quarrel so violently that San burst a blood-vessel—or that sort of thing!” “Of course not; in that case the doctors would know. That’s the queerest thing to me. A man dies, and two first-class physicians can’t say what killed him!” “But what difference does it make, Mason? I’m sure I don’t care what he died of—I mean I don’t want him all cut up to satisfy the curiosity of those inquisitive doctors!” “It isn’t that, Eunice; they have to know the cause, to make out a death certificate.” “Why do they have to make it out? We all know he’s dead.” “The law requires it. The Bureau of Vital Statistics must be notified and must be told the cause of death. Try to realize that these matters are important—you cannot put your own personal preferences above them. Leave it to me, Eunice; I’ll take charge and look after all the details. Poor old San—I can’t realize it! He was so big and strong and healthy. And so full of life and vitality. And, by Jove, Eunice, think of the election!” Though a warm friend of Embury, it was characteristic of Elliott that his thoughts should fly to the consequences of the tragic death outside the family circle. He was silent as he realized that the removal of the other candidate left Alvord Hendricks the winner in the race for president of the club. That is, if the election should be held. It was highly probable that it would be postponed—the club people ought to be notified at once—Hendricks ought to be told. “I say, Eunice, there’s lots of things to do. I think I ought to telephone the club, and several people. Do you mind?” “No; of course not. Do whatever is right, Mason. I’m so glad to have you here, it takes a load of responsibility off of me. You’re a tower of strength.” “Then do what you can to help me, Eunice. Try, won’t you, to be quiet and calm. Don’t get so wrought up over these things that are unpleasant but unavoidable. I don’t underrate your grief or your peculiarly hard position. The nervous shock is enough to make you ill—but try to control yourself—that’s a goody girl.” “I will, Mason. Honest I will.” Soon after noon Hendricks arrived. He had returned from Boston on an early morning train, and hearing of the tragedy, came at once to the Embury home. At sight of his grave, sympathetic face, Eunice burst into tears, the first she had been able to shed, and they were a real relief to her overburdened heart. “Oh, Alvord,” she cried, hysterically, “now you can be president!” “Hush, hush, Eunice, dear,” he soothed her; “don’t let’s speak of that now. I’m just in from Boston—I hurried over as soon as I heard. Tell me, somebody—not you, Eunice—you tell me, Aunt Abby, how it happened.” “That’s the strange part,” said Elliott, who was sitting at the telephone, and was, at the moment, waiting for a response to a call, “the doctors can’t tell what ailed Sanford!” “What! Can’t tell what made him die!” “No;” Aunt Abby took up the tale, as Elliott turned back to the telephone; “and I think it’s very queer. Did you ever know a man to die, Alvord, and nobody be able to tell what killed him?” “I certainly never did! What had he eaten?” “Oh, it’s nothing like that,” Eunice spoke up; “it must be that something gave way—his heart, or lungs—” “Never! Sanford was a sound as a dollar!” “That’s what Dr. Harper says. They’re—they’re going to have an autopsy.” “Of course. We’d never be satisfied without that. They’ll find the cause that way, of course. Dear Eunice, I’m so sorry for you.” “It’s awful for Eunice,” said Aunt Abby “the excitement and the mystery—oh, Alvord, do let me tell you what I saw!” “What?” he asked, with interest. “Why, it was almost dawn—just beginning to be daylight, and, you know—Dr. Harper says Sanford died about daybreak—he thinks—and I was sort of between asleep and awake—don’t you know how you are like that sometimes—” “Yes.” “And I saw—” “Aunt Abby, if you’re going to tell that yarn over again, I’ll go away! I can’t stand it!” “Go on, Eunice,” and Aunt Abby spoke gently. “I wish you would go to your room and lie down for awhile. Even if you don’t want to, it will rest your nerves.” To her surprise, Eunice rose and without a word went to her own room. Aunt Abby sent Maggie to look after her, and resumed her story. “I’m going to tell you, Alvord, for I must tell somebody, and Eunice won’t listen, and Mason is busy telephoning—he’s been at it all day—off and on—” “Fire away, Aunt Abby, dear,” Hendricks said. He had small desire to hear her meandering tales, but he felt sorry for the pathetic face she showed and listened out of sheer charity. “Yes, it was near dawn, and I was sort of dozing but yet, awake, too—and I heard a step—no, not a step, just a sort of gliding footfall, like a person shufing in slippers. “And then, I saw a vague shadowy shape—like Sanford’s—and it passed slowly through the room—not stepping, more like floating—and it stopped right at my bedside, and leaned over me—” “You saw this!” “Well, it was so dark, I can’t say I saw it—but I was—I don’t know how to describe it—I was conscious of its presence, that’s all!” “And you think it was Sanford’s ghost?” “Don’t put it that way, Al. It was Sanford’s spirit, leaving the earth, and bidding me good-by as it wafted past.” “Why didn’t he bid his wife good-by?” Hendricks was blunt, but he deemed it best to speak thus, rather than to encourage the ghost talk. “He probably tried to, but Eunice must have been asleep. I don’t know as to that—but, you know, Alvord, it is not an uncommon thing for such experiences to happen—why, there are thousands of authenticated cases—” “Authenticated fiddlesticks!” “Your scorn doesn’t alter the truth. I saw him, I tell you, and it was not a dream, or my imagination. I really saw him, though dimly.” “What did he have on?” “That’s the queer part. Not his usual clothes, but that sort of a jersey he wears when he’s doing his exercise.” “Oh, his gym suit? You saw it plainly?” “Not so very plainly—but—I felt it!” “Felt it! What are you talking about?” “I did, I tell you. He leaned over me, and I put out my hand and touched his arm, and I—I think I felt a tight woolen jersey sleeve.” “Oh, you think you did! Well, that’s all right, then, but you mustn’t say you felt a ghost. They’re not material, you know.” “You’re making fun of me, Alvord, but you mustn’t. I know more about these things than you do. Why shouldn’t I? I’ve made a study of them—I’ve read lots of books, and been to lots of séances, and lectures—oh, I know it was a manifestation of San himself!” “Well, Aunt Abby, if it gives you any comfort to think it was, why, just keep right on thinking. I don’t say there aren’t such happenings. I only say I don’t believe there are. I don’t doubt your word, you understand, but I can’t make my hard common sense take it in. My mind isn’t built that way. Did you hear anything?” “I heard—” Aunt Abby paused, and blushed a little—”you’ll laugh, I know, but I heard—his watch ticking!” “Oh, come now, Aunt Abby, that’s a little too much! I can’t help smiling at that! For I’m sure ghosts don’t carry watches, and anyway not in a gymnasium suit!” “I knew you’d jeer at it, but I did hear the ticking, all the same.” “Wasn’t your own watch under your pillow?” “Yes.” “Oh, all right. I haven’t a word to say.” “But it wasn’t any watch I heard—it was a different sort of tick.” “Yes, of course it was. Ghosts’ watches have a peculiar tick of their own—” “Alvord, stop! It’s mean of you to poke fun at me!” “Forgive me, do; I apologize. It was mean, and I’ll stop. What else happened?” “Nothing,” Aunt Abby was clearly piqued. “Yes, tell me. What became of the—the figure?” “Why, it disappeared. Gradually you know—just seemed to float away into nothingness.” “He gave you no message?” “Not in words, no. They rarely do. But the appearance, the visibility is the usual way of manifestation. I’m glad it occurred. Oh, I’m awfully sorry Sanford is dead—I didn’t mean that but, since he had to go, I’m glad he bade me good-by, as he passed on.” “Well, I’m glad, too, if it is any comfort to you. Are you sure Eunice had no such experience?” “Oh, no—if she had she’d have told me. She hates all such ideas. I suppose if she had seen Sanford—as I did—she would have become a believer—but I’m sure she didn’t.” “Poor Eunice. She is terribly broken up.” “Yes, of course. They were so devoted. They had a tiff now and then, but that was because of Eunice’s quick temper. She flares up so easily,” Aunt Abby sighed. “San couldn’t manage her at times.” “I know. Poor girl, I don’t blame her for those spasms of rage. She can’t help it, you know. And she’s improving every day.” “That’s what Sanford said. He thought he helped her, and I dare say he did. But sometimes he had to speak pretty sharply to her. Just as one would to a naughty child.” “That’s what she is, bless her heart! Just a naughty child. We must be very considerate of her now, Aunt Abby, mustn’t we?” “Yes, indeed. She is sorely to be pitied. She adored Sanford. I don’t know what she will do.” <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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