PAGE 7
The Only Girl At Overlook
by
“Here, now, Eph,” the watchman said, with as much of cajolery as command, “you mustn’t bother the young lady. Ain’t you ashamed to scare her this way? Get right out of this.”
The watchman took the other by the arm, and, as they started off–one insisting and one objecting–the official looked back to say: “He won’t hurt nobody, Miss Warriner–he’s just a little cranky, that’s all.”
Mary watched them out of sight, and while she was doing so, Gerald Heath approached from the contrary direction. He had heard the girl’s scream. Why he was within earshot he might not have been able to explain satisfactorily, for it was not his habit to take midnight walks, even when the air was so brightly moonlit and so temporarily fine; but if cross-questioned, he would doubtless have maintained that he had sought only to escape from the darkness and closeness of his shanty quarters. Besides, where would he so likely wander, in quest of good sight and breath, as to the spot whence he could view the scenery which he in vain asked the railway company to exhibit to their passengers. As he turned the corner of the cabin he saw Eph and the watchman departing, and comprehended the disturbance.
“Eph has been frightening you, Miss Warriner,” he said.
Mary screamed again, but this time it was a low, musical little outcry of modesty. She had not observed Gerald’s approach. She clutched the blanket closely around her white throat, which had been almost as much exposed as by an ordinary cut of frock, and drew under cover the gleaming wrists which had all day been bared to a greater extent by sleeves of handy working length. Then she reached out one taper arm, and swung the sash around on its hinges, so its inner covering of muslin made a screen between her and the visitor. He did not apologize for his intrusion, and she pouted a little on her safe side of the sash, at his failure to do so.
“I see it was Eph that alarmed you,” he said. “What did he do?”
She told him, and then asked: “Who is he, and what ails him?”
“He is a common laborer with an uncommon affliction,” was the reply. “One day an excavation caved in, and for an hour he was buried. Some timbers made a little space around his head, but the rest of him was packed in earth. He had breathed the inclosed air two or three times over, and was almost suffocated when we got him out. He was insensible. He never came back to his senses. He believes he is living at the rate of more than a year every hour. This is why he was in such a hurry with his imaginary message.”
“Poor fellow,” came from the obverse side of the sash.
“Yes, poor fellow,” the narrator assented. “I understood his hallucination at once. When a man is suddenly placed in mortal peril, his past life dashes before him. Half drowned men afterward tell of reviewing in a minute the events of years. It is a curious mental phenomenon. Well, this poor chap had that familiar experience, but with a singular sequence. The impression that all his lifetime before the accident happened in a brief time has remained in his disordered mind. He believes that his whole earthly existence is condensed–that future years, as well as his past ones, are compressed into days, and his days into minutes. Nothing can disabuse him of this idea. Everything is to him ephemeral. That’s why I nicknamed him Eph–short for Ephemeral, you see. He doesn’t remember his real name, and on the roll he had only a number. He has done his work well enough until within a few days, but now his malady seems to have turned to the worst. He has talked wildly of getting some physicians to check the speed of time with him, and it may have been that he wished to telegraph to this fancied expert.”