Rejuvenated

Chapter I

Hicks Jarou sat on one of the long benches in Central Park, reading. It was unusually warm, for the first of January, and even at this early hour there were many, beside himself, who had come out to enjoy the springlike atmosphere. He was reading a small, curiously bound book, that fitted comfortably into his overcoat pocket. It was in Sanscrit, in bold print that might have attracted the attention of the curious passerby, had not the man, himself, been so well worth looking at. He was not much above medium height, but there was something in the way he held himself that always attracted attention and singled him out from a crowd. His head was held proudly, his shoulders were broad, and well-shaped, and his back was flat and straight. He never allowed himself to sag. He would have told one who happened to be interested that the human frame would never look old if one never allowed the muscles of the abdominal region to become soft and stringy. Although his whole attention seemed to be centered on his book, he was not unaware of the slow approach of two girls. It was almost as if he had been expecting them, for a slow smile curved the corners of his sensitive mouth. He raised his eyes, casually, and glanced at them. His eyes were beautiful—dark, melancholy, with the steadfast gaze of the scientific observer. They rested, for a moment, on the smaller of the two girls, and she thrilled at their gaze—but was too much interested in telling what she was thinking about something to study the peculiar sensation his glance had given her. And it evidently meant nothing, any¬ how, for again he became so interested in his book that he paid no seeming attention to his surroundings.

“Let’s sit here a minute,” said the smaller of the two girls, taking a seat on the end of the bench farthest from the stranger. Then, as her companion objected with an expressive glance at the reader, “he’ll never know we’re here; he’s a book hound.” Again the little furtive smile twitched the lips of the stranger, but he turned a leaf of his book, displaying the queer charac¬ ters, and the girl raised her eyebrows significantly and whis¬ pered “foreigner.” That settled it with her companion. They would stay where they were. It was not very impolite to intrude upon a foreigner. If he didn’t like it, he could move.

“What I was thinking, Doris Marie,” said the taller of the two girls, “is this: Here are you and I—acting and thinking just about as usual, and yet we’ve both heard absolutely astonishing news within the hour. I don’t really feel any different, in a way, since we saw that fortune teller, and yet I’ve been told that I’ll be married within the year, and I’m not even engaged— nor have I a sweetie whom I’d think of marrying.”

“I don’t believe a darned word that woman said,” replied her companion, lighting a cigarette.

“That is because what she said didn’t happen to please you,” giggled the first speaker. “You didn’t like to hear the sad news that all the bunch would be married before you were.”

“If I really believed she knew anything about it, I’d go right out, pick me a man, marry him, and show the bunch who’d be the first, instead of the last, to get married.”

The other girl giggled delightedly. “I believe you would, Doris Marie,” she said appreciatively; “I do believe you’d do that very thing. And heaven help the man you picked on if he didn’t happen to want to marry you.”

“Well,” Doris Marie defended herself, “that’s the way the world is going to be—matrimonially speaking—and we young people are the ones destined to start the ball rolling. The time is right at hand when the female of the species will do all the proposing. She has made selections to suit herself for lo these many years—but she has been hampered in appropriating the man of her choice by the silly custom of waiting for the man to propose. Now, I shall never do that. When I decide to marry, I’m going to marry.” She shot a furtive glance at the man on the other end of the bench as she said this. She was wondering if he was listening, and if she shocked him by her progressive views—but he read on. Evidently, there was something in the curiously printed book that amused him, however. When Doris Marie resumed her conversation, with the intention of airing many more of her opinions, he raised his eyes and studied the two girls more carefully. Flappers, both of them. They were both smoking, both wore their coats unbuttoned over very flimsy gowns, both wore overshoes over thin stockings—over¬ shoes that were not buckled but flapped grotesquely with every motion of their slender legs, that were practically exposed to the elements for a distance of at least four inches above their knees. Why the overshoes?

Doris Marie Palmer—the stranger could have spoken her name without an introduction—was a very beautiful girl with bright brown eyes, and glossy brown hair—both hair and eyes so dark that they usually passed for black. She was the most popular girl of the season. She had quick, nervous motions, like an inquisitive bird that was also wary—and a decisive manner that emphasized the good opinion she held of her own views on any topic that might be uppermost. She was a natural leader, accustomed to having her own way, and so deftly did she man¬ age it that no one seemed to object very strenuously.

Joe-Anne Burnham—the stranger could also have called her by name—was not beautiful, like Doris Marie, nor was she usually singled out from a crowd as worthy of special study. She and Doris Marie were always together, and while she was well aware that her companion received all the attention, that fact never gave her a moment's anxiety. In fact, nothing gave her much anxiety. She was of a very placid nature, easy to live with, always happy, and, which is more important, always interested. Always interesting too, if one took the trouble to find out about that. Joe-Anne had auburn hair and dark grey eyes, with a nose a little too retrousse, and her rather wide mouth turned up at the corners when she laughed—which was most of the time—in an absolutely fascinating manner.

Those who knew her were apt to jeer at Joe-Anne’s notions. They didn’t accept all she said as implicitly as they did the pro¬ nouncements of Doris Marie—and yet, when bored, they always looked to Joe-Anne to relieve the situation. For instance—her name: she had been christened Joan—but an interview with a numerologist had convinced her that the name was not lucky for her, because in some mysterious way it did not agree with the date of her birth—but by changing it to Joe-Anne all the ill luck was circumvented. And she had changed it—not only when signing it to her letters, but so effectively that she, as well as her friends, now thought of her as Joe-Anne Burnham—and even her parents were sometimes surprised to find themselves spelling her name in that outlandish way when writing about her to interested relatives. So, as will be seen, while Joe-Anne did not seem to be a very important member of “the bunch”, she did have influence. As a matter of fact, she had more influence than Doris Marie—but no one guessed that. Doris Marie was unanimously voted the leader of “the bunch.”

The girls had said nearly all they wanted to say about for¬ tunes that had been accorded them by the celebrated palmist they had visited that morning, and were about to go on their way when the stranger accosted them.

“I beg your pardon,” he said courteously, “but that palmist could not have known her business very well. I shouldn’t take her prophecies too literally, if I were you.”

“I don’t,” replied Doris Marie, shortly, and rose as if to leave at once. She wore her haughtiest air. She did not like being accosted by strangers, no matter how much she might have invited it, by furtive glances into melancholy and very fascinating dark eyes. Besides the man was too old, in her opinion, to be interesting. He had white hair—but his face did not look as old as his hair. He might have been shell-shocked in the late war—but he didn’t particularly interest her, except when she looked into his eyes—and then she was thrilled— thrilled uncomfortably, and she didn’t much like being aroused emotionally. It was time for her to assume her haughtiest air.

But Joe-Anne didn’t feel that way about it at all. Her atten¬ tion had been aroused, and she scented an opportunity to get hold of something interesting—out of the ordinary, of course— that was what made anything interesting to her.

“But you can’t know all the palmist said,” she reminded the stranger, “because we’ve only mentioned a few things—for you to overhear—”

“She told you that you would be married within the year,” he said, “but I tell you that it will not be for at least two years; and the man you will marry will have paid attention to this other young lady before he proposes to you.”

“Oh, without doubt,” replied Joe-Anne with a cheerful grin that curled her mouth delightfully. “They all do that. But tell me, shall I have to do the proposing?”

“No; you would never do that. He will propose, the marriage will take place quite suddenly and surprise all your friends, even yourself, and like the heroine in the story books, you will both be very happy. You will not be immensely rich, but you will have a comfortable home, and three charming children, and you will have a very good influence in the neighborhood where you live.”

“Perfectly lovely,” crowed Joe-Anne. “I’m glad I am going to be married and have children—and very glad I don’t have to propose. Shall I have to do anything special to catch the man ?”

“Not a thing. Just go your own way. He’ll be in love with you months before he realizes it himself—and you’ll never guess it until a few days before you are married.”

Doris Marie listened scornfully. “You actually believe that stuff,” she said, almost contemptuously.

“You don’t believe it, Miss Palmer,” replied the stranger, “but you are much more interested than you like to admit.”

“You called me by name—how did you know—have I ever met you before ?”

“No. I have seen you, however, and I asked your name. You have an arresting personality.” He could not have said any¬ thing that would have so quickly intrigued Doris Marie—and doubtless he knew that. “The palmist did not know how to read your hand,” he continued, “because the lines she saw were so unusual.”

“Is she going to marry?” asked Joe-Anne, “and will she do the proposing, and will she be the last of the bunch to get settled ?”

“I can see her betrothed to a man old enough to be her father,” replied the stranger, deliberately and distinctly, as he studied the effect of his statement on Doris Marie. The girl prided herself on her ability to—as she would have expressed it—take a jolt without the quiver of an eyelash. She did so now. “Ooo—eee” squaled Joe-Anne in an ecstacy of delight—“a man old enough to be your father, Doris Marie—old enough to be your father—”

“Don’t you believe it,” interrupted Doris Marie with decision ; then to the stranger, “why do you pick on me? Why not make up something pleasant—like a sugar coated pill.”

“I am not romancing,” replied the stranger, gravely, “I can see you betrothed to a man old enough to be your father—and you do it deliberately. There seems to be more than a little romance connected with the transaction—”

“Oh, romance!” interrupted Doris Marie; “that makes it more palatable. Is he a prince—or something?”

“I—hardly think so—yet he seems to supply the romance.”

“Frightfully rich, then?”

“I shouldn’t say fabulously rich—but he seems to have enough—”

“I might marry an old man for his money—if he had enough —but he’d have to be frightfully rich. Oh, perhaps he is noted—has he done anything very wonderful—is all the world talking about him?”

“He merits that sort of notoriety, I think,” replied the stranger earnestly, “but I can’t see that he gets it. And I’m not sure that you marry him—although I can see you making preparations for the wedding.”

“When will all this happen—”

“I don’t know, exactly; some time within five years I should say.”

“Have I seen the gentleman?”

“Ye-es, I think you have—but you’ve never been particularly interested in him.”

“I imagine you’re right about that,” was Doris Marie’s caus¬ tic reply. “A man old enough to be my father! He couldn’t be interesting.”

“You think you do not believe a word I say,” replied the stranger, and the smile that accompanied these words was won¬ derfully beautiful. It made both girls study him more carefully than they had during the few minutes in which he had been interesting them in themselves and their future. “But I’ll tell you what you are going to do about it. You are going to make life interesting—and hectic—for more than one young man of your acquaintance during the next few months—”

“She always does that,” interrupted Joe-Anne, with her infectious giggle; “probably you guessed it.”

“No, I didn’t guess it; I know what she will do. She is going to engage herself to a young man—and soon—in order to prove that I’m quite wrong about the man old enough to be her father. In fact, she’ll engage herself to more than one young man.”

“Why don’t I marry him?” inquired Doris Marie lazily; “does he back out?”

“Sometimes; sometimes there is parental interference—but mostly the engagements are broken because you get tired of the young man. You are very critical of the young man of the period.”

“Who wouldn’t be?” retorted Doris Marie—and Joe-Anne nodded her assent. “Oodles of young men think of marriage simply as a road to wealth—”

“Haven’t you ?” asked the stranger politely.

“It’s different with a girl. We are not supposed to support the family—provide the home—all that sort of thing—but the young man of today seems to think he can’t marry unless he can find a wife to support him; and he’s not a bit ashamed to admit it. I’ve heard young men say that they wouldn’t care how old a woman was—or how she looked—if she had money enough to keep the home fires burning, and to give them all they wanted to spend.”

“Girls have talked like that for years,” the stranger responded, “and boys have overheard them. And girls have demanded so much more than boys could afford—I think when you consider the question honestly that you’ll admit that girls have quite as much against them in this matter of marriage as boys.”

“The majority of girls, perhaps,” said Joe-Anne; “not all girls.”

“No,” replied the stranger; “you are not like that, and you’ll find a real man—one who can take care of you, and who will wish to be the head of his house, and who will enjoy his posi¬ tion as such. You will look up to him—and you’ll be happy.”

“And Doris Marie will have the first chance at him—I remember you intimated that—and she won’t realize what a prize she is passing up—oh, boy! I can’t quite believe that.”

“All the same, I’m right about it.”

“Who are you?” asked Doris Marie, as if she had just thought to inquire.

“Meaning you’d like my address?” asked the stranger, with his wonderful smile.

“Why not? I may decide to write. I might suggest a ride. If I’ve got to get interested in a man old enough to be my father, why not you? You have beautiful hands and feet,” she added, coolly. “Why not you ?”

“Why not, indeed!” and the stranger laughed aloud. “It never occurred to me that you’d suggest a date with me—or that you’d think me old enough to be your father—”

“Your hair is white. Dad’s isn’t.”

“My white hair is my only sign of age—and I could have it colored. Think of me with dyed hair—or a wig—walking—no, I’d go with you to a dance—think of me as dancing—I’m sure the man to whom you are to engage yourself will dance with you; and about that time he will be hating me beyond telling.”

“Why? Will you be there? Will he be jealous? Why don’t you tell me your name?”

“I will, but you’ll be none the wiser. My name is Hicks Jarou.”

“Hicks Jarou. It is an odd name. I shall not forget it. Where do you live?”

“Nowhere—and everywhere,”

“Oh, travelling man!”

“No; you’ll have to guess again,” and again the man’s laugh rang out—a hearty laugh, good to hear. “I’ll tell you; I’m a scientist—”

“Astrologer—something like that?” asked Joe-Anne, eagerly.

“No, little dabbler in the occult—although I already know more about such things than you could ever guess at. I’m a biologist—and I have an appointment—and I should say, with¬ out looking at my watch—that it is nearly twelve o’clock—”

Doris Marie glanced at her wrist watch. “It is,” she exclaimed; “we must hurry, Joe-Anne. Much obliged for the spooky stuff,” she added, as the two girls hurried away. “It is all rot, you know, but one does seem to eat it up, just the same.”

The girls smiled and nodded, waved their hands in a com¬ radely farewell, and went back along the path that had brought them to one of the strangest of meetings—had they only been able to guess it. Hicks Jarou watched them out of sight—the little smile still playing about his mouth. He saw them stop for a moment, as if to speak to an old man who had shuffled along the path toward them—then hastily turned aside as if he didn’t care to be observed, and found a seat behind a clump of shrubbery.

“Wasn’t that Mr. Boyd Hunter?” asked Joe-Anne, in a hushed tone of voice—as if she had been a little shocked at his appearance.

“Yes,” replied Doris Marie. “He is supposed to be fright¬ fully rich, and a miser. Dad is his attorney, and I shiver when I go into dad’s office and find him there. There’s something so repulsive about him—”

“Not exactly repulsive,” interrupted Joe-Anne; “but lonely, I think. My dad says he is the loneliest man he knows. You know his wife ran away and left him in that big house—”

“Who could blame her?” asked Doris Marie. “Just look at him. Could you live with a man who looked like that? I see him every Sunday in church; he is one of the deacons—and everyone says what a good man he is—but he makes me want to swear.”

The girls passed on, and Hicks Jarou closed the book and put it into his pocket. Then he arose, very deliberately and followed them—walking softly, and with a peculiar gait—like a man who wished to get over the ground quickly without making a sound. He turned off the beaten path, after going a few steps, and turned up the hill reaching a point above the bench which Boyd Hunter seemed to have chosen. From this point, Hicks Jarou could watch Boyd Hunter without attract¬ ing attention from anyone.

“January first, 1923,” said Joe-Anne to Doris Marie, as they turned into the street that ran along one side of the park. “I’m going to write that down—the day we had our fortunes told, and heard many and various things.”

“Do you really believe any of it?” asked Doris Marie, curiously.

“I’m quite sure some of it is true,” replied Joe-Anne, “but the trouble is, one never knows which part is true and which is make-believe. So I settle matters by believing just what I want to believe.”

“Hicks Jarou! What an odd name. Do you know, Joe-Anne, I believe I could fall in love with that man.”

“So could I—almost,” replied Joe-Anne; “he is absolutely the handsomest man I’ve ever seen. Say! Let’s go back, and follow him and find out where he’s staying—”

“Joe-Anne Burnham! Of all the crazy ideas—and espe¬ cially from you—why, I do actually believe he hypnotized you.”

“Perhaps he did,” replied Joe-Anne cheerfully. “When he looked into my eyes—which he didn’t do very often, thank goodness—but when he did I sure felt as if something were happening to me.”

“Did you feel that? So did I. Joe-Anne, listen! Do you suppose we’ve been hypnotized ? Did some man with very dark eyes tell us we were going to be married, or didn’t he?”

“I certainly think I heard him say you were soon to be engaged to a man old enough to be your father,” replied Joe-Anne, and went off into a peal of laughter against which she had been struggling for quite some time. “Oh, Doris Marie, let’s find a seat—quick—or I’ll fall down. I’m weak with laughter.”

Doris Marie did not hear her. She was looking back into the park. “Look,” she said, “on the hill, just beyond and above that clump of shrubs—do you see anyone?”

“Seems to be a man; why ?”

“Looks to me like our friend—”

“Meaning Hicks Jarou?”

“Yes.”

“Couldn’t be. He couldn’t get away over there as soon as that. Besides, why should he be standing there—so still—”

“He is spying on us,” interrupted Joe-Anne, shivering delightfully.

“With his back toward us ?” scoffed Doris Marie.

“He turned when he saw you looking. If we walk on, very slowly, we’ll find him following us—you’ll see. It was what you said about marrying him. That excited him. That was dangerous, Doris Marie, for he already knew your name.”

“That whole thing was dangerous, if you ask me. One would think we had never been warned against talking with strange gentlemen—especially those who hang about the park.”

“It came about so naturally. Wonder how he spells his name? I don’t want to forget it. Next time I meet some occult party I’m going to ask if he knows a very pretty man named Hicks Jarou—and if what he told two girls in the park is likely to come true.”

The girls walked on slowly, looking back frequently. The strange gentleman was not following them, although they almost hoped he would. Had they gone back, as Joe-Anne sug¬ gested, they would have seen him creeping cautiously nearer and nearer to the bent form on the bench below him. And had they seen that, they might have put two and two together, a year or more later, and then this story would not have been written.

Chapter II

January first, 1923—a date to be remembered by the reader of this story—and not entirely because it happens to be the date of our introduction to Doris Marie Palmer and Joe-Anne Burnham—two of the most up-to-date flappers of the period and both well worth knowing for that reason. January first, 1923, in Central Park, New York City, where a meeting has just taken place between these two girls and one of the most learned scientists the world has ever produced, yet who is known to comparatively few. It is characteristic of the time that these two girls left the scientist without a thought beyond themselves and what he had told them of their prospects, and whether he was likely to follow them because they had tried to flirt with him. They talked of Hicks Jarou very much as they would have talked of any other man whom they had just met—could they, or could they not, fall in love with him?

“I believe I could,” Doris Marie had admitted, “although I really do not believe in love,” and then had added “did you notice his hands and feet—as small and well-shaped as a woman’s—absolutely beautiful? I simply adored his hands and feet.”

“I’m thinking about his eyes,” said Joe-Anne—“wonderful, soulful, absolutely thrilling.”

“You said, yourself, that they made you uncomfortable— just as they did me—as if we’d been hypnotized.”

“That’s why I found them so very interesting. I’d like to know more about that man. I might worship him, but I’d never dare fall in love with him.”

“Why not? He’s just a man. He was spoofing us, trying to get acquainted—prolonging the conversation by getting us interested in having our fortune told—trying out a new way to flirt.”

“No, Doris Marie, you’re wrong about that. He really didn’t care anything about us—he was just filling in time.” Which was much nearer the truth than Joe-Anne realized.

“You’re determined to weave him into a story,” replied Doris Marie with an indulgent smile, and I shall hardly realize that I’ve helped live your story, when you tell of our adven¬ ture to the bunch. How you will embroider the facts! You’ll make them believe that we really have been hypnotized—that we only dreamed we talked with a very beautiful man having hands and feet much too small for his body, and wonderful eyes that sent thrills down the spine whenever he looked at us. Trouble with you, Joe-Anne, is that you read too many stories about Indian fakirs; you take such stuff too literally.”

“No, really Doris Marie,” Joe-Anne’s mouth curled into its most infectious grin; “you don’t understand. There’s method in my madness. I suppose I don’t really believe much more than you do—but I like to read and think about something so absolutely different from anything we know. It keeps me in¬ terested—out of the rut—and in a way it broadens my mind. Oh, you may laugh—but I know it does. I prove it every day, but the rest of you never guess it.”

“How do you prove it?”

“You wouldn’t understand if I told you.”

“You might try me out; no one else has called me so very dense.”

Joe-Anne laughed. “Now you’re huffy,” she said, “and in no mood to listen to my vaporings; but I’ll try to make you understand. For instance, there you stand—by all odds the most beautiful girl in our set—”

“Nonsense,” interrupted Doris Marie, but she really did not consider it nonsense; she knew she was the prettiest girl in her set.

“No, let’s be absolutely honest,” protested Joe-Anne; “that’s the only way—if we are to try to understand what I don’t more than half understand myself. You are beautiful and popular— a leader—especially a leader in all we modern young people are trying to establish as an antidote to mid-Victorianism—and we are all glad when you deign to notice us.”

“For Pete’s sake, Joe-Anne, can your applesauce.”

“All right—all right, Sweetness; now, for once in your life listen quietly while some one else does the talking. We’ll just admit all I’ve said about you, and go on with the analysis. We’ve dissected you; now there’s me—your humble servant, to be a little more grammatical. We’ve been pals for a long time. Why? You usually tire of a pal in a few months; why haven’t you tired of me?”

“I don’t know,” replied Doris Marie, thoughtfully, “unless it is because you are the most interesting girl I have ever met.”

“Remember when you first became interested in me?”

“N:o; do you?”

“I most certainly do because I deliberately advertised myself for that purpose. You see, you had held the limelight for so long that I couldn’t seem to get a look-in—and I wanted some attention. I know I was far from beautiful—far from wealthy —not graceful enough to attract attention, not witty enough to get a hearing—at least not without a proper introduction, so I said to myself I’ll become Doris Marie’s chum. Then I changed the spelling of my name—told everyone it was changed and why—and presto! the deed was done. I had advertised myself "as being different.”

“But didn’t you believe any of the stuff you told us about the change in spelling being necessary to change your luck?”

“Sure I did. And didn’t I prove my point? It did change my luck. But if I’d never cared to study along occult lines I shouldn’t have thought out a way to do it. I am interesting because I know something about a study that the rest of you are too indolent to take up. And because I am interesting I hold my own in our set although I really have nothing else to boast about. Today, if you were to decide that you were tired of me, I could still hold my own—have a following quite as strong as yours.”

“I don’t doubt that for a minute,” replied Doris Marie, wholeheartedly—“and I shall never be ready to give you up. You are too stimulating.”

January first, 1923—a date to be remembered by the reader of this story because of the remarkable experiences of Bbyd Hunter, which will furnish data for scientific facts, in the near future—facts and experiments destined to banish old age or rather to raise it from the dread period of decrepitude which is at present its domain. This story of Boyd Hunter will have accomplished much if it starts the reader on a study of the work of the scientists of today, and helps by its approval to prove, rather than to kill their demonstrable facts simply be¬ cause some other scientist does not care to help advertise a rival. To banish old age is the goal of more than one scientist today. There must be a piling up of birthdays, and that is desirable; and when the many birthdays stand for wisdom and understanding as well as physical activity instead of approach¬ ing senility, the scientist will have justified his long years of labor and the halo of adoration will be bestowed upon him by grateful humanity. Let’s help on the good work by carefully studying the part Boyd Hunter played in it.