Читать книгу A. D. 2000 - Fuller Alvarado Mortimer - Страница 5

It is necessary to go back a few months in our story, and introduce a new character, the inhabitant of the little old, dilapidated house in the lane.

On the evening of December 10, 1886, as Cobb was coming out of the Cosmos, a favorite club of the young gentlemen of San Francisco, he had run into an old and crippled man who was passing down the street. Cobb was in a hurry as he emerged from the place, and did not notice the poor pedestrian in time to avoid a collision. The consequences were that the old man was knocked to the ground, and appeared to be badly hurt. Cobb at once stopped and lifted the man up to ascertain the extent of his injuries, and finding him still insensible, had called a hack to convey him to the nearest druggist.

The man was about sixty years of age, his right leg partially paralyzed, the sight of his right eye gone, and deep scars upon his face and neck. His clothes were shabby and much worn, yet there were indications that the man had seen better days.

That portion of his face which was not scarred and seamed, gave evidence of quickness and perception, and a general appearance of knowledge and former refinement was plainly noticeable. His hands, too, were not those of a man accustomed to hard work.

This man was Jean Colchis, a native of France, but a refugee from that country. He had, in his time, been a great chemist; he had been noted, far and near, as a man greatly gifted in the sciences, and one who had given much to his native country in the way of scientific invention; but, at a later day in his life, he had been led away by the persuasion of others to engage in a plot against the ruling power of his land. This plot being discovered, he was sentenced to death, but, escaping, had taken refuge in the United States.

He was the recipient of a small pension from the members of his family who had not joined in the conspiracy, and upon this small pension Jean Colchis lived in the humble and rickety house in Duke’s Lane.

The pension was sufficient for all the needs of the old man and his only daughter, a lovely girl of seventeen years; it gave them their daily sustenance and life, and a slight margin from which to purchase the few things he needed to continue the one hobby of his life, chemical analysis.

When Cobb had taken the old man to the druggist’s, an examination had shown that nothing but a slight contusion of the side of the head had resulted from the unexpected knock-down he had received. He soon regained his senses, but was in a weak and helpless condition.

Learning from him the place of his abode, Cobb at once took him there in a hack, and carefully attended him during the remainder of that evening.

Such was the introduction of Junius Cobb to Jean Colchis.

Cobb’s kindness to the old Frenchman was rewarded by an invitation to call again, and as he descended the stairs of the old, rain-beaten house, he resolved to come the next evening.

He did come, and many evenings after, and it was from this old man that Cobb first learned the art of making ozone in quantities. It was not a difficult matter for them to ascertain the various hobbies each possessed. Their conversation soon gave each an insight into the desires of the other for a knowledge of the many things yet unknown, but yet imagined. Their desires being so assimilated, their tendencies so coincident, it was only natural that each should take more than a common liking to the other.

But, though he had worked with Colchis in the manufacture and uses of ozone, the latter never had any idea of the grand scheme his friend had in view, for Cobb would not communicate the secret to him for fear that he might divulge it to others.

The door of the old house had opened to admit Cobb, and had closed again, leaving him in the hall. There was no light to guide him, but his knowledge of the place and surroundings was such that he found no difficulty in ascending to the little back parlor where Colchis usually sat when not at work.

Opening the door, he entered, and was quickly clasped about the neck by a pair of plump white arms, while a face, radiantly beautiful, looked into his, and a red pouting mouth invited the kiss which he quickly bestowed upon it.

“Oh, Mr. Cobb, I am so glad you have come! I heard you at the door, and have surprised you! Now, have I not? Say yes; for you know I have!” and the sweet little maiden released him, and shook her delicate finger in a menacing gesture, as if her command could not be disobeyed.

Marie Colchis was the only child of Jean Colchis – a beautiful, fair-skinned girl of seventeen, with long, heavy blonde hair; plump in form, with small, fine hands; loving in disposition, with most winsome ways; innocent as a new-born babe.

Jean Colchis had kept this sweet girl close to him with a jealous care. She knew no one, scarcely, save her father and Junius Cobb. Witty and bright beyond her years, yet gentle and innocent as a lamb, she had from the very first conceived a girlish love for her father’s visitor. And Junius Cobb loved the girl dearly; loved to hear her girlish talk and watch her innocent ways; loved to stroke her hair, and loved to kiss her lips and feel her arms about him. Was there any harm? He was thirty-three, and she was but seventeen.

Jean Colchis noted their peculiar love, and smiled. No man was closer to the heart of Jean Colchis than Junius Cobb. Nothing could the latter ask that the old man in Duke’s Lane would not have given him – even his daughter, should he seek her. But this, of course, the old man knew was beyond expectation. It would have pleased his old heart, but the disparity of years caused him to believe it to be impossible.

And Marie – what were her thoughts and feelings?

She loved Junius Cobb – loved him, young as she was, as a mature woman loves the man she would call husband. She loved him with her whole heart, with her very soul.

Cobb knew this, and reproached himself many times for causing her affectionate heart to entertain the hope that she would sometime be his wife.

It had come by degrees, unseen by either, until each had felt that the brightness of the world was centered in the other. He could not marry her; this he knew, for she was too young. He could not wait until she had bloomed into the magnificent woman that he knew nature had destined her to become, for he would then be dead to the world. He could not tell her the truth! He did what thousands of others have done – he temporized.

“Marie,” and he took both of her hands in his, and looked long and lovingly into her eyes; “Marie, you are not a child, you are a woman. You are far beyond your years. What I tell you to-night will cause you pain, but it must be said.”

“O, Mr. Cobb!” she cried, and the tears flooded her eyes; “are you going to tell me that I am no longer your little Marie! that an – an – another is going to take you away from your little girl?” and she buried her head in his hands and cried piteously.

“No, Marie, not that!” he quickly returned. “But I am going to leave you; am going far away; I may never return!”

“And you will meet other and beautiful women, and will forget your Marie!” she said, still sobbing.

“No! darling little Marie! Will it give you pleasure if I tell you that I swear to be true to you – to wait until you have grown to womanhood? that I will marry no other woman living but you?” and he stroked her beautiful hair and raised her face to his.

“If you swear this, you do love me!” she cried through her tears; then, brightening up, she threw her arms about him, and murmured: “Though it will grieve me to the heart to see you leave me, yet your promise will ever tend to dull the sorrow of your absence, and will be a beacon light for me to look forward to. A few years, and you will come and claim me, will you not, Junius?” and as the words left her lips, she blushed and dropped her eyes from before his gaze.

Somehow, she had never before used his first name. It seemed to her that he was too far above her, too much older, for such a liberty on her part.

And how had their love ripened, these two of years so wide apart? Simply and easily enough. In one of his loving moods, Junius Cobb, in kissing her good-night, had said:

“Marie, I will wait until you grow up, and marry you!”

“Will you?” she had replied, laughing, yet earnestly. “Then, I accept you, Mr. Cobb, and will grow just as fast as I can.”

Very simple, and very easy.

“Marie, little darling,” and Cobb’s voice was sad and low, “to-night I go far away. To-night we must part; but my sacred promise I give you, my girl darling, that when I return, you shall be my wife, if living.”

He knew his deception, but it was better, he thought, to let her live without the knowledge of the utter impossibility of the fulfillment of her hopes, than to tell her the truth, and break her heart. She would outgrow her girlish love, he argued, and time would soften, if not deaden, the sorrow of his continued absence.

For a half-hour they talked, they loved, this man of thirty-three and the girl of seventeen.

Who can fathom the mysteries of love!

Leaving her in sorrow at his coming departure, but hopeful for the future, he moved toward the workshop of Colchis, while a choking sensation surrounded his heart, and tears filled his eyes.

Turning the knob of the last door at the end of the hall, Cobb entered, and found his friend moving toward him.

The room was lighted by four Edison incandescent lamps, one in each corner, besides an arc light directly over a large and peculiar machine from which sparks were incessantly being emitted.

Like all true workers in electricity, Colchis’ apartments were a net-work of wires, while the various parts of the house were connected, in one way or another, for quick communication. The answer to the summons which Cobb had made at the door was given by a speaking-tube, while the door itself opened and closed by magnets; thus Colchis was enabled to remain in his room while answering the calls at his door made by the few who had occasion to visit him.

“Ah, Junius, my boy, welcome to the shop!” and the old man grasped the latter’s hand. “I was expecting you this morning, sure; for it is now over forty-eight hours since you were here. What has kept you away?”

“Duty, master; duty.” Cobb had early used the term master, in token of the ability of his old but generous friend.

“I was engaged the past two nights, and it was impossible for me to get here; but how progresses the work? Are you making a good showing, for you know the time is drawing near when I shall want the full amount.”

“Yes; there are nearly eight pounds ready for you when you desire to take them.”

“Good! It is close to the amount, I must say; and the batteries are still at it, I see.”

“Will you take a look at the work of the day?”

“Yes; but yet, master, you know that I do not pretend to pass upon your work. I am too well satisfied that it is being well done.”

They moved toward the sparkling and crackling instrument near the further corner of the room.

In reality, it was not what would be called an instrument, but a veritable manufacturing machine, turning out its products, small though they were, in the most perfect manner, and ceasing in its work but for a brief time during the whole twenty-four hours. This was the decomposing machine which Colchis and Cobb had devised and made for the concentrating of the ozone in the air. It was a rude affair, in one sense of the word, for neither of them had had any experience in making such machinery before; yet it was marvelous in other respects, for it accurately performed the duty for which it had been constructed. Standing upon four legs, was a glass case, about sixteen inches square by twenty deep, in the upper portion of which was a separate compartment with a glass bottom, having a hole some eight inches square through its center; on each side of this hole, with the points about one-sixteenth of an inch apart, were ten platinum wires, while the opening in the top terminated in a common stove-pipe, which was run into the chimney. Entering at the bottom of the case was a two-inch pipe, connected with a large double-cylinder air-pump, which in turn was coupled to a pony motor worked by storage batteries.

Along the other side of the room were twenty-four cases, each containing four accumulators of under .005-ohm internal resistance. These batteries were, individually, capable of developing 350 ampere hours of work, and each cell had an electromotive force of eight volts. A part of this battery was attached to the platinum points in the inside of the case, while the remainder was used to work the pump, feed the lamps in the house, etc.

The pump was an ordinary compressor of two cylinders, each cylinder having a capacity of 1,000 cubic inches. The total power exerted was 3,000 pounds every six-tenths of a second, or about thirteen actual horse power.

The air being received into the cylinder, was forced into the glass case through the pipe in the bottom, and under a pressure of two atmospheres; thus delivering, every three minutes, 200,000 cubic inches of air. The air, in rising, passed through the aperture above and out through the pipe, which was provided with a valve opening at a pressure of thirty-five pounds per square inch. Between the platinum points, by means of an automatic break, were continually being sent a series of electric sparks, causing the air to be deprived of its ozone, which fell in vapor to the bottom of the glass case, and there formed into crystals of various sizes.

The machinery which Colchis and Cobb had erected was not perfect by any means, and the consequence was that they could not save all of the ozone in any given quantity of air. They did the best they could, saving about fifty per cent.

The air-pumps were capable of driving through the reduction chamber over 80,000,000 cubic inches, or 4,000 pounds of air in every twenty hours; but this vast amount yielded only 400 grains of ozone. The expenditure of force for the result obtained was enormous; but there was no other method for them to get the amount of ozone required, except with greater power and cost.

Early in July, Cobb had gained the assistance of Colchis to manufacture these crystals, and had put in the reducer, pumps, and motor immediately after.

Every evening at six o’clock, and every morning at five, a team drove up to Colchis’ back gate, delivering new storage batteries and taking away the old ones.

Day after day, from seven in the morning until five in the afternoon, and from seven in the afternoon until five in the morning, since the 5th of August, the manufacture had been going on; making one hundred and twelve days’ work up to the morning in question – November 25, 1887.

“Master, this is the 25th of August, is it not?”

“Yes, Junius.”

“And you say the quantity that I asked for is nearly ready?”

“Nearly. At five o’clock to-morrow morning I will have 45,000 grains.”

“Good! That is the amount, exactly.”

“But at first you desired only seven pounds; I would have had that some time ago.”

“Yes, master; but I did not care to have you stop at the exact amount; circumstances might cause me to wish for more, at the last moment.”

“It has been incessant work for the machines, I can assure you; but they have done splendidly;” and Colchis laid his hand lovingly upon the reducer, near which he was standing.

“Colchis, how can I ever repay you for the time you have given to the manufacture of these crystals?” and Cobb took up a glass bottle with a sealed top containing a pound of ozone, the result of over two weeks’ constant work.

“Say nothing about pay, my dear boy; it has cost you enough already, I fear; for the continual recharging of all these accumulators must take no small sum.”

“True; it has taken quite a little fortune, to me at least, to obtain these eight pounds of ozone; but I hope the money has been well expended.”

“Junius,” and Colchis laid his hand upon the other’s shoulder, “you have never told me what you are going to do with all this ozone. Is there a secret about it? If there is, my boy, you need not say a word; perhaps I ought not to ask you, but leave you to tell me, or not, as you wish.”

“Colchis, my dear old friend, I ought to be more confiding, and tell you why I sought your assistance, why I have used your time, why I have taken your knowledge and used it to my own advantage; but it is impossible to make you acquainted with this one great object. Ask no more, I pray you!” and he turned away as if he had refused that which the other was justly entitled to request.

Putting his arm about Cobb’s neck, Colchis looked him in the eyes with a kind and loving expression:

“Say no more; make no excuses; I surely would not pry into your secrets. We all have undertakings, we all have periods of our lives concerning which we do not care to communicate to the world. Your secrets are yours, Junius; I do not feel hurt in the least that you enlighten me not upon them.”

“But I know your curiosity has been aroused, and you naturally have wondered why I have wanted all this ozone, especially when it has taken such an expenditure of money and time to procure it.”

“Yes, it has; but it is gone now. I no longer have any curiosity on the subject. To-morrow morning I will have the full amount that you have requested, 45,000 grains.”

“How much have I had already?”

“In August, a year ago, you had about ninety grains, and in the following October, a little over 1,500 more.”

“Yes; that was for the experiment with the cat.” He had spoken without thinking.

Colchis looked up, surprised; a curious expression came over his face, but he said nothing.

“Yes,” he continued, “I remember now. There were about 1,600 grains made by the old process. Had we been compelled to follow that method, we would never have completed our task.”

“True, my boy! It was a lucky day for you, I have no doubt, when we hit upon the idea we have since employed.”

“Come,” said Cobb, “let us sit down. I have a little more to speak of ere we part for the night.”

They passed through the door into a smaller but neater room.

The furniture was plain and scarce, but the fire in the grate gave the room an agreeable appearance. Colchis touched a button, and instantly a bright light shone out from a pair of Edison lamps; then, handing Cobb a glass and bottle, taken from a pile of books and papers on the table, he said:

“Brighten up, Junius, with some of this old cognac; it is good, I can assure you, for we Frenchmen know what is good brandy. Had I a cigar, I would offer you one; but I do not smoke, so you will have to provide yourself with that article, if you smoke at all. Now, sit down,” as Cobb finished his glass of brandy, “and tell me what it is that appears to worry you. Why are you so sad to-night?”

“There is not much to tell, master, except that this will be my last night to pass with you, my dear old friend; I am going on a long and dangerous journey, one from which I will never return – that is, to my friends now living. I go not to escape the consequences of any crime or wrong-doing, but to gratify my ambition alone. It would give me much pleasure, much happiness, could I but take with me such a dear friend as you have been; but it cannot be. Do not look startled, dear Colchis; I am not going to commit suicide; and yet, again, I am – suicide as regards all present, but not as regards the future. I will say no more, nor must you ask me any questions. For your kindness, I have only thanks to offer, unless you will confer a favor upon me by taking this check for $2,000 as a partial recompense for your labors in my behalf,” and he laid the check upon the table.

Colchis arose from his chair, seized the check, and tore it into a hundred pieces; his eyes looked deep into those of his young friend, and then the tears came, and the old man sunk back into his chair. The friendship which had been so romantically begun between these two men was then, by Cobb, to be ended, and the sore healed by a money consideration!

“Junius, I did not believe that you would insult me in this manner! Our friendship has been one of the brightest spots in my life. Let it end if it must, but let it end with the feeling that each has aided the other to the best of his ability, and without hope of other recompense than the knowledge that the assistance was spontaneously and willingly given. You are about to embark in some new and great enterprise; of that I feel assured, yet I do not ask its import. If you must leave the old man, never again to see him – if you must sever the friendship that has been a Godsend to the refugee from his native land – so be it; I can say no word against it, believing you would not do it were it possible to do otherwise. Let us say no more upon the subject. At six o’clock to-morrow morning send to me, and I will have the ozone ready to be delivered to your man. There will be eight pounds of it, in as many bottles.”

“Then, there is nothing more for me to do but to take your hand, dear, kind old master, and bid you a lasting but sorrowful farewell. May a good God watch over you, Colchis, is the last wish of your friend and pupil. Good-bye!” and, saying this, Cobb pressed the old cripple to his heart.

“Good-bye! my darling boy,” sobbed the old man. “But, Junius, does Marie know this? The child loves you. She talks of you continually. Does she know you are going away forever?” and he put both hands on the shoulders of the young man and looked him in the eyes.

“Ah! master, master! Like a coward, like a cur, am I running away! I have seen her! I have lied to her! lied, I tell you; lied to her! and because I had not strength to tell the truth!” He buried his face in his hands, and sobbed like a child.

“My son, cry not at what I am convinced you did for the best interests of that dear girl. My faith in you is not shaken. Let God alone judge our motives; mankind can do it not!”

“O master! I cannot leave you in this manner! To leave you now with the simple knowledge that I will never return, would be to provoke all manner of thoughts detrimental to my honesty and sincerity of character. You shall know all! I will confide in you my secret!”

Then by the side of this grand old man, Cobb sat and told him of his great undertaking, and of his love for his daughter.

Half an hour after, the door opened, and Colchis, with a face grave and sad, called to his daughter Marie.

Entering the room, she looked from one to the other, as if seeking some explanation of the quiet, sad expression of each.

Junius Cobb bowed his head, and the hot tears fell upon his hands. Colchis turned his face away.

Quickly going to her lover, Marie knelt at his feet, and gently raised his head until their eyes met.

“Do not cry, Junius; do not cry. I know you cannot help yourself. Duty calls you away, and you must go. Such, you have told me, is a soldier’s fortune.”

He clasped her to his heart.

“Marie,” gravely and sadly spoke her father, “he leaves us to-night. When he returns, no man can tell. But let this comfort you: he has asked for your hand; your heart, I know, is his already. I have given my consent, and gladly. Let him go to his duty cheerfully, and await his return. If you are constant in the love you profess as a girl, you shall marry Junius Cobb, or no other. I swear it, as I hope for salvation hereafter,” and he raised his hand toward Heaven in token of his oath.

Cobb raised his eyes inquiringly to those of his friend.

What did he mean by those words? Was he, too, imposing upon the girl’s innocence? A strange light, a gleam of hope, of inspiration, shone in the eyes of Jean Colchis as he once more bade Cobb good-bye, and left the room.

Marie and Cobb were alone – alone for the last time: she, hopeful for the future; he, broken-hearted from a knowledge of what that future was to be.

“Junius, my own,” she murmured, “go, and do your duty. God be with you, as will always my prayers. But go with this knowledge: that I swear by the God my mother taught me to adore, that I will wait till you come to me, will be true to you forever; will marry none on earth but you.”

How beautiful, heavenly beautiful, was this girl, standing there under the electric light.

None can tell the passions that moved that man’s heart.

Would he give up his great undertaking, and live and marry this Hebe, this angel? Too late! too late! The die was cast; he must meet his destiny!

With an aching heart, he kissed her good-bye – kissed her good-bye, and forever.

Into the chilly morning air he went, but there was no chill like the chill at his heart. Turning once toward the old house, he cried in his anguish:

“God watch over you and take you, for you are lost to me forever!”