There comes to every one at times the inquiring thought, of what use is life? What will be the result of all this seemingly useless toil, these states of unrest, these earnest efforts of the soul unappreciated, these best endeavors misunderstood? Such questions flood the reason at times, and we are ready to lay down our life weapons, scarce caring how the busy scene goes on.
Then, through the parted clouds, the rays of truth illumine the mind again, and we take up the life-song once more, not as we laid it down, but with a richer melody, a fuller and sweeter strain. The soul feels new pinioned, and spreads its wings for loftier flights, rising, height after height, up and on to the fields of the infinite.
This questioning state is sure to come to the most earnest, truthful, and thoughtful worker. All along the pathway of life these weary, yet hopeful pilgrims, sit waiting for “light, more light.”
In such a mood sat Miss Evans, at the close of one summer day, as the sun was going slowly to his fold of gold and crimson clouds. A sort of mental twilight had gathered over her, dimming the sharp lines of thought which gave her words at all times such force. All her best and most earnest endeavors seemed as nought. Words which she had spoken, warm with life, vital with her own enthusiasm, had become metamorphosed, till their real meaning was lost to her.
“Alas! we must remain a riddle to ourselves forever,” she said, and her deep brown eyes, always warm with affection, now seemed cold, as she turned her thoughts inward to sound herself more thoroughly, and if possible detect any other than a desire for advancement.
How long she might have searched we cannot say, for just as her thoughts were most abstracted, Hugh came and sat down by her side, before she knew that any one had entered.
“Why, Hugh!” was her exclamation of surprise.
“You are not at home, I see.”
He brought her back with those words.
“Really, I was away; but how glad I am to see you,” and her glowing features endorsed the truth of her assertion.
“How far had you wandered?” he asked, his face full of glowing sympathy; “far enough to gather a new impetus for the soul?”
“I fear not. I was questioning my motives, and looking for my shortcomings.”
“I fear I should have been absent much longer on such an errand,” he said, and then dropping their badinage they resumed their true earnest relation to each other.
“Tell me, Hugh, you who have so often illumined my dark states, if all this contest is of any avail; if it is any use to put forth our words and have their meaning misinterpreted?”
“I question,” she continued, “if we should project our thought until mankind is impelled by the actual need of something new, to seek it.”
“Our thoughts and soul exchanges are not like the merchant's wares, to be held up for a bid. The soul is too grand and spontaneous a creation to be measured. Yes, we must often speak our deepest thoughts, even though they are cast away as nought, and trampled upon. There would be little richness or worth without this free offering, this giving of self for truth's sake, even though we know that we and our words may be spurned. You are cloudy to-day, my friend; you have been too long alone, and are consumed by your own thoughts.”
“I am mentally exhausted, Hugh. I needed you to-day, for my soul has lost all vision. I know by my own experience, that we must speak when we are full, no matter who misapprehends or turns upon us. It is this fear that keeps too many from great and noble utterances. We forget that truth can clear itself, and that principles are not dependent upon persons. You have given me myself, as you ever do, when the mist of doubt hangs over me.”
“Yes, we must give when there is no approving smile, no look of recognition; give when our giving makes us beggars, alone and friendless in the chill air of neglect.”
“This is but your own life. I have but put it into words for you to-night.”
“O, Hugh, you are ever on the mount, looking with calm, steady gaze over the dark mists. Your head rests in eternal sunshine, like the towering hill whose top is mantled with the golden light, even though its base is covered with fog. Shall we ever see the day when these inner, pivotal truths will be accepted?”
“We shall behold it in the lives of thousands. It matters not when, or where. Our part is to labor, to plant the seed, though it may not be our hands that garner the harvest.”
“True. I was selfish and looking for grain.”
“Not 'selfish.' The human soul seeks recognition, and finds it often a difficult task to wait for the presence of that human face which says in every line and feature, 'I know you; I feel your salient thoughts and motives.' A long time it takes us to learn to do without the approving smile of man, and go on our way with none but God and angels to sanction our efforts. I, too, have hours of darkness. All souls are at times tossed on heaving waters, that they may rise higher than their weary feet can climb.”
“You have done me good to-day; but do not go,” she said, seeing him rise to leave.
“I must; but first tell me if I can have your aid in a material matter, which I had nearly forgotten?”
“I am at your service.”
“Well, then, I am going to have a party, which I suppose is the last thing you would have imagined of me.”
“I should have thought of any thing else; but what has put such an idea into your head?”
“Some fairy, perhaps. I expect to get some life out of it, and the satisfaction of seeing my guests enjoying themselves. I shall bring together a strange medley,—counterparts, affinities, opposites, and every form of temperament which our little village affords, besides drawing on places largely remote from here. I must go now. Will you come and help us to-morrow?”
“I will. My love to Dawn and Miss Vernon.”
“Thank you,” and he passed out, leaving her bright and full of hope. She felt the transfusion of his strong life into her own, and neither herself nor her friend was the same as yesterday.
The day for the party was fair and balmy. Dawn and Miss Vernon rode to the green-house and purchased flowers for the occasion, and the home seemed like a fairy bower, so artistically and elegantly had they arranged the fresh and fragrant blossoms.
Miss Evans glided from room to room, placing a vase here, and a statuette there, as her feeling suggested, and what was her fancy was Hugh's, for their tastes were one, and their lives ran parallel in natural, innocent ways, never able to translate their feelings to another, but giving and enjoying each other more and more at every meeting.
Poor Mrs. Norton thought how pleasant it would be to her, to see a room full of beautiful things, pleasant faces, and elegant clothes: it would be such a contrast to her own dull life, which would be still more lonely but for the frequent visits of Mr. Wyman's family, and the substantial evidence often given by them that they did not forget the poor and needy. She arrayed herself neatly in her black alpacca, the gift of a friend; and when she looked in her little glass which hung above the table, just were it did thirty years ago, when her good husband was alive, a rush of better thoughts and feelings came over her. She lived over again the happy days of her married life, and almost thought she was making ready to walk by her husband's side to the little church on the hill. Then the scene changed, years rolled away, and it seemed but yesterday when she leaned over the coffin, and looked on the still, pale face that would never light her home again. Thoughts grew into words, and she said,—
“How little to keep me here. I have far more to recover by death than to lose; and somehow it seems as though it would not be long ere I go.”
She was not sad; far from it. The thought was pleasant to her, and folding her white handkerchief over her breast, she surveyed herself once more, and then putting on her shawl and bonnet, was soon on her way to Mr. Wyman's, thinking again and again how much good it would do her to see so many people together.
Mrs. Clarke wondered if Mrs. Simonds would be dressed in great style, for she had a wish not to be outdone in that direction, and yet possessed a sufficient degree of good sense to feel that overdress would be out of place at such a gathering; so she arrayed herself in a blue silk, not over-trimmed, and put pearls in her dark hair to match her jewels.
And thus, from different sections, arose a kind of magnetic life, as each individual's thoughts went out and centered there.
Dawn was dressed in white, with scarlet sash, and coral ornaments. She seemed like a ray of light flashing through darkness. Her soft, brown hair hung in wavy curls over her shoulders, and the involuntary exclamation was, “How beautiful,” as the pure light and brightness of her inner being shone through and over the external.
At dusk, the carriages began to appear, winding up the long avenue, which led to the house. Then came a few persons on foot, and in an hour all the bustle and stir attendant upon a crowd was heard in the hall, on the stairs, and in every room. The house was all aglow with life, and lines of care and sorrow were swept away by radiant smiles.
Masks were drawn over aching hearts; jealousies, envyings, and all strifes were put at bay, and the better natures of all were called forth, and responded, each to each. Palm grasped palm, that had not in the ordinary relations of life thrilled with contact for many years. Hearts that had grown cold and callous under slights, and chilling indifferences, were warmed anew in the social atmosphere which filled the whole house; and then the sound of music swept through the rooms, lifting all out of their narrowness into higher and better states.
Mr. Wyman had a word of cheer and love for all, and delicately brought such temperaments together as could best enjoy companionship, and for the time kept himself aloof from those he loved best, that others might partake of their genial natures.
“Can you tell me who that tall, graceful lady is?” asked Miss Vernon, before Mr. Wyman was aware that she was at his side.
“A Mrs. Hammond,” he replied, without looking at her.
“She is very elegant,” continued Miss Vernon.
“She is, externally.”
“What, not lovely in mind? Can it be that such an exterior covers unloveliness?”
“I fear it does. I have known her many years, and although she is a woman of decorous manners, and some polish, she has none of the elements of a true lady, to me.”
“Why, Mr. Wyman, see how thoughtful she seems of those around her,” said Florence, her eyes still fixed upon the engaging stranger.
“Yes, I see all that, and all the externalism of her life. It is all acting. Within, that woman is cold and heartless. She is sharp enough, and quick in her instincts, but give me hearts in conjunction with heads.”
“Why, then, did you invite her?” she accompanied this inquiry with a most searching glance.
“For the same reason I invited all. I want them to mingle, for the time to lose their sense of individual importance, their feelings of selfishness, or in a few words, to throw off the old and take on the new.”
“Are you enjoying yourself, Florence?”
“Yes, very much. I like to see so many people together, and absorb the spirit of the occasion.”
“I am glad you do. Come this way.” He led her to a remote part of the room, where stood a tall, dark-eyed stranger.
“Miss Vernon, Mr. Temple” and he watched their eyes as they met, and knew he had linked two souls for at least one evening's enjoyment.
A bustling woman, who could not conceive of any christianity outside of church-going, came and stood beside Miss Evans, and commenced a conversation by saying,—
“There seems to be plenty of people in our village, though we don't see many of them at church.”
This was put forth as a preface, designed to exhibit the character of a forthcoming volume, but Miss Evans adroitly changed the subject to one of general interest.
Just at this point, a stir was made, a rustling of silks was heard, and the way opened for a young prodigy in music, considered by his parents to be the wonder of the nineteenth century; one of those abstracted individuals who seem to live apart from the multitude, speaking to no one, save in monosyllables, and walking about, with an air of superiority, constantly nurtured by his doating parents' admiration,—at home a tyrant, abroad a monkey on exhibition.
After a flourish of sounds, and several manipulations, each accompanied with a painful distortion of countenance, he commenced a long and tedious sonata,—tedious, because ill-timed. On a suitable occasion it would have been grand and acceptable. Of course the music was wasted on the air, because it had only a mental rendering.
The anxious parents looked around for the expected applause. It did not come. Only a few murmured, “How very difficult,” while a sense of relief was so manifest, that none could have failed to realize that such elaborate performances should be reserved for a far different occasion. But we are slow in learning the fitness of things, and that everything has its proper time and place.
The next performer was a sprightly girl of seventeen, who played several airs, and sung some sweet and simple songs, charming all with their light and graceful beauty.
Mr. Wyman then led his friend and guest, Mr. Temple, to the instrument. He touched it with a master hand. One forgot everything save melodious tones; forgot even that there was a medium, through which those tones were conveyed to the senses. The performer lost self, lost all save the author's idea, until, at length, the ecstatic sounds came soft and clear as light from a star. There was no intervention of self; his whole being was subordinate to the great creation—the soul of the theme. Eyes grew moist as the music floated on the air in one full, continuous strain. Hearts beat with new pulsations; hopes soared anew; sorrows grew less; life seemed electric, full of love; sharp lines, and irregularities of mind were touched, softened, and toned to harmony under the swelling notes, now soft, sweet, and dulcet; now broad, high, and upsoaring. No words broke the heavenly spell when the performer left the instrument, but each thrilled heart became a temple, in which only love and beauty dwelt.
There, in that holy atmosphere, a soul burst its fetters and went home. Old Mrs. Norton, who came with such glorious anticipations, sank back upon the pillow upon which she was resting, while listening to the soul-ravishing sounds, and died.
No feeling of awe came over the people assembled; but all felt as though they, too, had entered within the confines of the silent land.
Gently they raised her form as one would a child who had fallen asleep.
There, in the presence of the still, pale face, they parted, with better, truer natures than when they met.
The months wore away, and Margaret applied herself closely to her labor, and became a favorite with her companions. Gladly would she have changed places with most of them, but they knew not the secret sorrow which was wearing her bloom away. Her sighs grew more frequent, as the time rapidly approached when she must leave them.
Again and again she resolved to go to Mrs. Armstrong, and tell her all her grief, but the remembrance of her kindness made her cheek turn scarlet when the thought suggested itself. No, she could not reveal it to one whom she loved so well. She must go far away, and hide her shame from the eyes of all who had befriended her, and she had made many friends, yet would have lingered a few weeks longer, had she not one evening just at dark espied an old gentleman from her village, an acquaintance of her father's. She could not bear the thought that she must be carried back, to scenes so closely allied to her sufferings, and bear the scorn of those who knew her. She could not endure that, and fearing that the person whom she had seen might some time meet and recognize her, she hastened the preparations for a change. Again she collected her clothing, now more valuable, packed it and awaited some indication of the direction in which she should move.
She must once more see the face of that good woman, who had been so faithful and kind to her; and after many efforts to call upon her, finally gained courage and did so.
A strange thrill came over Mrs. Armstrong, as she heard the gate close, and a well-known step on the gravel walk. Margaret patted her old friend Trot as she approached the house, and somewhat surprised Mrs. Armstrong with her presence when she entered.
“I am glad to see you,” said Mrs. Armstrong, with her usual kind look of welcome, but with a deep tremor in her voice. “Come and sit by me, Margaret, and let me see if your hard labor is wearing you out. I have thought for some weeks that you looked pale.”
Margaret trembled in every limb, as she took the seat her friend offered her, for a searching glance accompanied her friend's words. Just then a strange thought flashed through Mrs. Armstrong's mind-a thought she could not put aside, and she tried in every way to win the poor girl's confidence, and perhaps might have succeeded had there not been heard the sound of footsteps outside. Trot's loud bark made them both start and turn their faces to the window. Margaret gave one glance,—and she needed not a second to assure her that the caller was none other than the old gentleman she had seen on the street. In a moment there was a knock at the door. While Mrs. Armstrong answered the call, Margaret made one bound from the sitting room to the kitchen, and from thence into the open air, and flew as fast as her feet could carry her, towards her boarding house.
As she turned from the principal street, a woman accosted her, and inquired the way to the Belmont House. Glad of anything that would even for a moment take her thoughts from herself, she offered to show her the way.
The darkness was so great, she had no fear of being recognized, as she walked in silence with the stranger. One thought filled her whole being, and the problem with her was, how she could escape from N—, and where should she find shelter?
“Perhaps you can tell me,” said the lady, in a clear, silvery voice, “of some young girl, or two, or three even, whom I can get to return with me to B—.”
“I am here,” she continued, “in search of help; good American help. I am so worn with foreign servants that I can endure them no longer.”
Margaret's heart gave one bound. Here was her opportunity, and she only needed the courage to offer her services.
“Perhaps you would go?” said the stranger, who looked for the first time on Margaret's face, as they stopped in the light that shone brilliantly in front of the Belmont House. “Or, maybe you do not work for a living. Excuse me, if I have made a blunder.”
“I do,” answered Margaret, “and would like to go with you if I can earn good wages.”
“I will see that you are well remunerated, provided you suit me. I shall go to-morrow, in the noon train. If I do not succeed in getting any others beside yourself, will you meet me at the station?”
Margaret replied in the affirmative, and retraced her steps, pondering upon how she should secrete herself during the intervening period.
She walked rapidly back to her home, and thought how fortunate it was that her room-mates were absent that night, and good Mrs. Crawford would never suspect that the quiet girl up stairs was planning how she could escape with her clothing. The darkness of the evening favored her, and the noise within prevented any that might be without, from being noticed.
She enclosed the balance due for her board, in an envelope, sealed, and directed it to Mrs. Crawford, and laid it on the little table at which she had stood so many mornings, weary in body and sick in soul.
She hoped she would not encounter any one on the stairs, and to her relief she did not. For an instant she paused, as she heard the footsteps of the good housewife walking from the pantry to the dining-room, intent on her useful life, uncouth, illiterate, but kind and well-meaning. A tear stole over her cheek as she listened for the last time to that firm step, which never seemed to flag in its daily rounds, and one which often, when the day's work was over, went lightly to the bedside of the sick. But no time must be lost; the door was opened and closed, and she was once again out in the world, a wanderer. She knew not what her next step was to be. Standing there in the silence and darkness of the night, she clasped her hands, and with earnest prayer, implored Divine guidance.
Down through the earthly shadows, through clouds of oppression, swept a mother's pure, undying love. Love for her wronged child, and pity for her state; for angel's missions are not in halls of light, amid scenes of mirth, but far away in desolate homes, with the oppressed and the forsaken, bringing hope to the despairing, comfort to the lonely, joy to the sad, and rest to weary hearts.
A thought darted through her mind, and she rose firm and collected, as though a human hand had been outstretched for her aid. Who shall question that it was a mother that spoke to her at that moment?
She arose, and as noiselessly as possible wended her way to a small and obscure dwelling, inhabited by a strange old woman, known to all the villagers, as possessing a wondrous power of vision, by which she professed to foretell the future, and decide questions of love and business.
Margaret had often heard the girls in the factory speak of her, and knew that they frequently consulted her; but she had always shrank from the thought of going to her dwelling, though often importuned by them to do so. Now, how gladly her feet turned that way, as to her only refuge, for she well knew if she was searched for, no one would think of going there to find her.
She reached the place at last, and with beating heart and dizzy brain, raised her hand and rapped very softly at the door. Then the thought flashed over her, that some one might be there who knew her, and hope fled for an instant.
The rap, low as it was, soon brought the old woman, who opened the door and said in a voice tremulous but sweet, “Come in, my dear. I saw last night that a stranger was to visit me at this hour; yes, it's the same face,” then motioned for her to pass in.
Margaret's first thought was that some evil was intended, and she trembled and grew pale.
“No fears, my child,” said the woman, as though she had read her very thought, “angels are around you, guarding your life. I do only my part of the work, which is to keep you to-night.”
And this was the strange woman of whom she had heard so munch. Her fears vanished, she took the proffered seat, and without a shadow of distrust, drank the glass of cordial which was passed to her.
A feeling of rest came over her,—a rest deeper than sleep imparts. She leaned back in the chair, pillowed her head against the cushion, and felt more peaceful than she had for many months.
A strange curiosity pervaded her being, as she watched the woman moving about the room, to know of her former life-the life of her maidenhood,—and learn if others beside herself had loved and been betrayed.
“I shall have no visitors to-night,” said the woman, seating herself opposite to Margaret.
“Do you often afford a shelter to strangers, as you have to me to-night?”
“Yes, child; many a sorrow-laden traveller, worn with life, seeks my lowly cot.”
“Sorrow-laden and worn with life,” said Margaret, repeating the words to herself; “she must have known my past experience;” and she wished she would go on, for somehow her words comforted her.
“Yes, there are more sinned against than sinning,” she continued. “I knew that you was coming, or rather some one, for last night in my dreams I saw a form, and now I know it was your own, floating on a dark stream. There was no boat in sight, no human being on shore, to save you. The cold waters chilled you, till you grew helpless, and the waves bore you swiftly to the ocean. I cried for help, and was awakened by my effort. That stream represents your past, and here you are now in my dwelling. Some one has wronged you, girl?”
She did not see the tinge on the pale cheek of Margaret, but continued, “Yes, wronged; but I see clouds and darkness before you, and then happiness, but not the joys of earth. Something higher, holier, my child.”
A light seemed to have gathered over the face of the speaker, and her words, although strange and new to Margaret, seemed full of truth and meaning.
“Shall I find rest on earth?” she inquired.
“No, not here; above,” the old woman lifted her eyes toward heaven, then said:
“You are stepping into sorrow now; going with one who will degrade you. Do not follow her. Though her outer garments are of purple and fine linen, her spiritual robe is black and unseemly.”
“Where? O, tell me, then, where to go,” exclaimed Margaret, her whole face pale with terror.
“Go nowhere at present. I see nothing now; all is dark before me. Stay beneath my roof, till light breaks. I see that you will need a mother's care ere long.”
Here the poor girl's long pent up tears flowed in torrents; tears such as angels pity. It was a long time ere she grew calm; and when peace came, it was like that of a statue, she was cold and silent. No future stretched before her, nothing but a present, sad and hopeless, in which circumstances had placed her.
“Shall I tell you the story of my girl-life,” said the strange, weird woman, putting a fresh supply of wood upon the fire, which had fallen into embers.
Margaret's interest manifested itself in her face, as she answered, “I would like to know if others have suffered like myself?”
“It will help you bear your own burden better, and perhaps show you that none escape the fire. I will proceed with my narrative.”
“Many years ago, so many that it seems as though ages must have intervened, I loved a young and elegant man, who returned my affection with all the devotion which an earnest, exacting nature like mine could desire. I was the only child of wealthy parents, who spared no pains or expense on my education. With them I visited Europe, and while there, met this person, who seemed to be all that mortal could aspire to; refined, educated, and the possessor of a fortune. The alliance was the consummation of my fond parents' wishes. I will pass over the weeks of bliss which followed our engagement, and speak of scenes fraught with the most intense excitement to myself and others. We were at Berlin when my engagement was sanctioned by my parents. A few weeks subsequent, there arrived at the hotel at which we were stopping, a family of most engaging manners. We were at once attracted to them, and in a few days words of kindly greeting were exchanged, and finding them very genial, a warm friendship soon existed between us. The family consisted of parents, three sons, and two daughters. Laura, the eldest, was the one to whom I was particularly drawn. She was tall, graceful, and had about her an air of elegance, which showed unmistakably, her early associations. But to the point: I had been walking with my lover one evening, in the summer moonlight, and had retired to my room, strangely fatigued. I had never before parted from Milan, my betrothed, with such a lassitude as then pervaded my entire being. I had always felt buoyant and strong.-That night, as I laid on my bed, seeking in vain the rest which sleep might give me, I seemed suddenly to float out in the air, to rise above my body, and yet I distinctly felt its pulsations. The next moment, the sound of voices attracted me, and though I was in my room, and the persons in conversation in a distant apartment, yet I could hear every word which was uttered. What was my horror to see, for my sight was open as strangely clear as my hearing, the beautiful Laura sitting beside Milan, his arm encircling her waist. I tried to speak, but no sound came from my lips. I shook with fear and wonder. I had surely died, I thought, just then, and this is the vision and hearing of the soul released from flesh. 'O, Milan, hear me, hear me,' I cried in anguish. But no sound of my own lips floated on the air. Nothing was heard but their words, which I was obliged to hear. And O, how my heart was turned to stone, and my brain to fire, as these words came to my ears:
“'Love her! Why, dearest Laura, whom I have adored so long, and whom chance has again brought into my path,—how can you question my affection for you,' and then I saw that he knelt at her feet!
“'I think I heard but yesterday, that you were engaged,' continued the fair and brilliant girl, at whose feet he still remained.
“'O, angel of my heart, will no words convince you that I love you beyond, above all women? I have in times past exhausted the language of love in speaking to your heart, Laura, are you heartless? I can plead no more.'
“'I saw the tears glitter on her face as purely white as marble, then her lips parted and these words fell on my ear,—
“'O, Milan, I would that I could divine my feeling towards you. My heart is full of love for you, but my reason falters, and something within me tells, I must not accept you. I feel thrills of horror at times, even when my affection turns toward you. I cannot fathom the strange mystery.' She bowed her face in her hands and wept. I saw him rise from his kneeling posture, and walk away to hide his emotions. I felt the fearful contest going on within himself, and then all grew dark. I heard no sound again, though I listened intently. I seemed back again in my form-sleep at last came to my weary senses. In dreams, then, I was walking again with him, by a beautiful lake, over which a storm had just passed, leaving a lovely rainbow arching its bosom. I felt the pressure of his hand, as he held mine, and saw his eyes beam tenderly into mine own.
“'The storm is over,' he said, 'see how the waves are tipped with golden rays.'
“Cheered by these words, I looked on the scene-the calmed lake, the bow of promise,—with a feeling of rapturous delight thrilling my whole being. Gazing thus earnestly, my attention was drawn to a curious ripple on the lake's surface. Then I beheld a female form rising from the waters, upon whose broad, white brow were these words:-Loved and Deserted. Startled by this, I turned to look upon Milan, but I saw him not. He had fled, and I was alone. All was lonely and still as death.
“Tremblingly I pursued my way back. The sun was sinking behind the hills, and darkness would overtake me before I could reach home. I quickened my speed, when suddenly I stumbled over something in my path. A light from the heavens, a flash of summer lightning revealed a grave, from which the form of a fair, sweet girl arose, and said, 'Beware! He, too, loved me, and for his love I pined and died.' The form vanished and the air seemed full of sounds of admonition, while around me appeared hosts of beings of another world. My senses reeled. I called for help, and must have cried aloud, for just then I heard my mother's voice from the adjoining room,—'What is it, Sibyl?' and when I awoke she was at my side.
“'Bring a light,' I cried, as I placed my hand on my forehead, which was cold and damp with perspiration. Mother went to her room, and returned with a candle and came to my bed side.
“I can remember her look of horror, as though it was but yesterday-and her voice when she sobbed, rather than spoke these words:-'My child, O, my poor child, what has happened?' Then she fainted.
“I learned on the morrow, that my beautiful hair had turned white; not one thread of my deep brown tresses was left, and my features too, were shrunken. That night's vision had done the work of years of suffering, and Sibyl Warner, the belle, the heiress, was no longer an object of love.
“A physician was summoned the next morning, who pronounced me suffering under mental hallucination, for I had told my mother all my strange dream or vision. I had no way to prove that my lover was treacherous, and I alone must suffer. But Laura. What was my duty towards her? was my dominant thought, even while I sat writing, a day or two after, a note to Milan, releasing him from his engagement. Vainly my mother entreated me to see him just once more. I was inexorable, and there being nothing now to bind us to Europe, we made all possible haste to return to our native land.
“Laura came to bid me good-bye. I tried to speak my fears to her, but my tongue seemed paralyzed. I kissed her warmly, and the tears flowed over her pale, lovely face. We parted. I knew she would be his bride ere long. I hoped she would be happy; but the revelation of that night led me to fear that such might not be the case.
“The first week of our voyage home was very pleasant, but soon after, a gale arose, and then a fearful storm set in. After being tossed by wind and wave five days, our ship went down. O, that morning so vividly present to my memory now. My parents were both lost. I was saved with a few of the passengers, and most of the ship's crew,—a vessel bound to my own native port, took us on board. But what was life to me then, alone, and unloved as I must ever after be.'
“It was not the Sibyl Warner who stepped on shore the day of our arrival who had left it years before; not the young girl of seventeen, but a woman, with love, trust, hope, all departed-a wreck of her former self, and yet within, a strange light glittering. As one sees, hung over dangerous, impassable ways at night, or half sunken rocks, a light telling of danger, so I had thrown over my entire being a blaze of fire, which, while it guided others, seemed to be consuming myself. I possessed what is now called 'second sight,' and could see the motives of persons, and their most secret thoughts and designs. Life became burdensome because I could not balance the power with any joy, until I learned that I must live for others and not for myself, alone.
“My father's estate was settled at last, and I had means enough to live in luxury and ease the rest of my days; but a strange inward prompting continually urged me to give up my former mode of living. I disposed of my property, exchanging it for ready money, and one day found myself penniless, through the treachery of one who professed to be my friend. I had not been allowed to learn his motives, and fraudulent designs, because, as I subsequently saw, my experience must be gained through toil and want, but when others were in danger of losing their material goods, I could readily discern their perils, and warn them.
“Since then, I have travelled years and years, following this light; when I did not, I have failed in my mission. I am not understood. This little village, to which seven years ago I found my way, has not a soul in it that knows me as anything but a 'Witch'-a diviner of events. I have sat in halls of splendor, and revealed strange things to men and women. I have visited the sick and down-trodden-and everywhere this power has gone with me, carrying comfort and light. I think my earthly mission is almost over. I seem to see a light, like the glimmer of a lamp which shines for a traveller to guide him home.”
She paused. The story was told. Margaret sat silent, too much occupied with her own deep thoughts, to look on the woman's face.
It was past midnight. The fire was out, on the hearth. A strange stillness pervaded the room. It grew oppressive. Margaret rose and went towards the old woman, who seemed to have dropped asleep. She took the withered hand in her own. It dropped lifeless. She was dead; the two whose lives had become as one by suffering, were parted. Sibyl had gone to that world where the erring are forgiven. Margaret was left to struggle on with an adverse fate, and thereby ripen for the kingdom.
The morning flooded through the narrow windows of the humble cot, and lit up the pale, dead features with a strange light. Margaret must leave. Though heeding the woman's words of warning, and resolving to avoid the stranger she had met, she saw but one course before her, and that was, to go to the city and seek refuge in some hospital, during her approaching need. She struggled with her feelings a long time at leaving the dead alone, and so irreverently, but circumstances were pressing her on; she could not do otherwise, and stepping out from the shelter, where her soul had been so deeply thrilled, she walked rapidly to the station, and sat with her veil closely drawn, awaiting the hour for the departure of the train. It came at last, though the time seemed very long to her, the more so, as she was in constant fear of being recognized, but fortunately no one saw her whom she knew.
She trembled all over, as she took her seat in the car, and saw an elegantly dressed woman enter and look about as though in search of some one; for under the “purple and fine linen” was the stranger, the willing destroyer of hundreds of young, innocent lives. To her relief, however, the woman passed on to another car, and Margaret felt as though all danger was over. It gave her a respite from her fears, that was all, for she did not know that the woman's keen eye recognized, and was quietly laying her plans to ensnare her.
One weary form was through with its earthly toil; one bark was moored to celestial shores, beyond this rough clime, this imperfect world, in which all are judged by externals. She was no longer old and wrinkled,—“But a fair maiden in her father's mansion.”
The town buried her and sold the few articles of furniture to defray expenses. Thus ended the life of one who was once the belle of a great city, the child of luxury and tender care, and her body was laid in the town lot among the graves of the poor. All supposed she died alone, at night, and a few words of real pity fell from some lips as all that remained of her on earth was borne through the streets.
Before the winter snows fell, Mrs. Armstrong planted a white rose beside her grave, remarking to her husband, that it was hard for one to die alone unloved, and a stranger to all about her. “She may have been once lovely and beloved,” she said, as she pressed the sod close about the tree. “I should not like to die away from my kindred, with none to care for my last resting place.” This done, the kind woman walked home happier for the deed of goodness she had performed, while unseen hands dropped their heavenly benedictions on her head.
In a small parlor in the city of Berlin, where, fifty years ago, young Sibyl's heart had thrilled to words of love, sat a party of young men, over their wine, while mirth and song flowed freely.
Light-hearted, and free from care, they had met to pass the evening hours, with songs and wondrous tales.
“Come my good fellows,” said the eldest, who appeared to be the leader of the group, “we must relate our stories, as the hours are waning. Krepsel, we will hear from you first, to-night.”
“Shall the tale be sad or gay?” said Krepsel, looking around the group.
“Either,” exclaimed the voices in chorus. He took a glass of wine and then commenced.
“Many years ago a young man was studying in a Military Academy in this city, who, a few weeks after his entrance, had a strange dream, or vision, which changed all the future which he had mapped out for himself. He had a great love of art, and was often found with his pencil and paper, apart from others, instead of mingling in their recreations. For several nights, he dreamed that a lovely female approached his bed-side, and bent over him with a look of affectional interest.
“The vision so vividly impressed him that he employed his first leisure moment in sketching the lovely face. At every touch and line, his admiration grew more intense, until at length he could scarcely keep the fair image from being ever prominent in his mind. It haunted his day dreams, till he could scarcely conceal his impatience to relate the strange vision to his mother and sister. The fair one stood each night at his side, until the first day of his vacation season arrived, and he left to pass its days at home. When within a few miles of his destination, he saw the same face before his waking vision. This time her features were sad, but not less lovely. Indeed the air of melancholy gave the features a deeper charm, and more strongly than ever he desired to reach his home, and find, if possible, a solution of the strange apparition.
“At last the hills of his native town rose to his view; then the old pines which sheltered his home. Soon he felt the warm tears on his cheek, and the soft arms of his mother and sister around his neck.
“'Where is Reinhold?' he asked, after he had released himself from their embrace.
“He is away to-day; gone to a fair, but will be back by supper time, and bring his fair affianced.
“'Reinhold engaged!' exclaimed Conrad, in tones so strange that Marie, his sister, turned pale. But his quick return to himself assured her that he was not angry, as she supposed, only surprised; and taking his proffered arm they walked together in the garden-talking of old scenes and pleasures, till even the fair face of his vision was forgotten, and he rested his eyes in tender, brotherly love, on the fair girl at his side.
“They were in close conversation, so earnest, they did not hear the approaching footsteps, when the well-known voice of his brother called:
“'Welcome, Conrad; welcome home,' and the next instant a pair of stout arms were around him.
“'I believe he is stronger than you, Con., with all your military drills,' said Marie, laughing to see her brother trying to extricate himself.
“'I am so glad you have come,' said Reinhold, 'I want you to see your new sister,' then he called her from where she stood apart from them, behind a clump of trees. Conrad's back was towards her when she approached, and he turned, at his brother's words.
“'Miss Rosa,—Conrad, my brother,' and for the first time he looked on the face that had so long haunted his dreams.
“'My God!' he said, 'It is the same,' and fell prostrate on the ground.
“The poor girl flew to the house, laid her head on the shoulder of Reinhold's mother, and wept bitterly. She, too, had seen his face in her dreams, and supposed it an ideal which she should never meet. She had seen it before she met Reinhold, and thought as she looked on him, that he approximated somewhat to it, nearer then she even hoped to see, and had grown day by day to love him, not as one ought a lover, but tenderly like a brother.
“The deepest anxiety seized the good parents, and Marie, to fathom the cause of Conrad's strange state. They carried him to the house, where he lay insensible for hours, but once only his lips parted, and then he breathed the name of 'Rosa,' in accents so tender, that his brother, who stood bending over him, in agony of grief at his state, flew from the room.
“In half an hour Conrad started as though shot, and rose from the bed with blood-filled eyes, and wildest terror on his features. He placed his hand upon his heart, and then sinking on his knees, cried, imploringly, 'God forgive me; I have killed my brother!'
“'Go and call Reinhold, Marie,' said the affrighted father, 'and prove to the poor boy that his brother is alive and well. O, what has come over our happy home.'
“Marie flew from room to room; no Reinhold was to be found. Then to the garden, calling his name at each step. A wild fear seized her young heart; her brain grew giddy; yet on she went, calling again and again his name. As though impelled by an unseen force, she flew till she reached the edge of a wood, where herself and brothers had played together. She went on. Something lay on the ground; an object, she could not at first discover what. A cold chill run through her frame. The blood seemed to stagnate in every vein, for there, under an old oak, lay the lifeless body of Reinhold.
“She fainted, and fell. The cool air blew on her temples and restored her to consciousness. She passed her hand over her forehead, as though trying to recall some terrible dream,—and then it all burst upon her mind, more fearful and appalling in its rebound.
“'My mother, my father,' were the only words that broke from her lips, and she went back, slowly, for the fright and agony had almost paralyzed her brain and limbs.
“'You were gone a long time,' said her anxious parents, who did not see her face when she entered; 'where is Reinhold?'
“She had no words. The deathly face, the beating heart, and the trembling limbs, told all. She led them to the spot, and the mystery appeared still deeper.
“Seven days Conrad lay in a raging fever. At their close, reason returned, and they learned from him the vision which had so haunted him, and wondered over the strange phase of life, in which action had been involuntary, but dual.
“They buried Reinhold under the tree where he had shot himself, and kept it covered with flowers, watered by tears.
“Poor Rosa returned to her home with her good parents, and pined slowly away. Conrad held his brother's memory sacred, and never breathed words of love to his affianced. 'She will be his in Heaven,' he said, as he walked with his sister one day to his grave; and when the Summer flowers faded they made another beside it, for Rosa went to join Reinhold, and to guard, with tender love, Conrad and Marie.”
Krepsel rose from the chair. The hours were waning.
“We can have but one more,” said the leader, “and from whom shall it be?”
“From Berthhold,” cried several voices.
“I have seen his eyes full of strange, weird tales to-night,” said one.
“I know by his far-off look he has something interesting to say,” said another.
“Berthhold, take the chair,” said the leader.
He rose, walked like one in a dream, took the seat, gazed a few moments around, and then commenced:
“My story will be told in a few words. It is not of tradition, but experience.”
All eyes turned to the youth, whose face glowed with a strange light, as he commenced.
“While sitting here to-night, listening to the story just narrated, my eyes have seen something I never saw before, and I pray I may not again see, at least until my nerves are stronger.”
“What was it? What was it like?” they all cried together, while Berthhold looked around the room, as though expecting the vision to be repeated.
They were called to order by their leader, and he went on,—
“A soft, misty light filled the room, and rested at last just before me. I strained my eyes to assure myself that I was not dreaming, and looked upon all your faces to assure myself that I was of the earth, and not a spirit. Then my eyes seemed to be fastened upon the light. In vain I tried to remove them; I could not; and only hoped none of you would notice me.
“Soon a face, radiant and fair, burst from the mist; one almost too lovely to gaze upon. I was spellbound as I gazed, then the vision of the face faded. I seemed to float away, far over the sea, and there came before my sight a low, humble cot, whose walls offered no resistance to my vision. They seemed like glass as I looked through them, and saw sitting in a chair an old woman, wrinkled and faded, her hair white as snow, but on her face a peace which gathers on those who sleep the last sleep.
“I also felt conscious of another presence, but could not see any one. Then all was dark again. I saw neither mist nor cot, but something spoke to me. A voice whispered in my ear, 'Tell Milan I forgive him.' That is the name of my mother's father.”
“How strange,” said the listeners, who had followed him closely to the end.
“Does your grandfather still live?” inquired one.
“He was alive this morning, and is now, for aught I know.”
The party were about to separate, when a messenger entered in great haste, and called for Berthold, stating that his (Berthold's) grandfather was very ill, and greatly desired his presence.
He was not long in answering the summons, leaving those who had listened to his story wondering over it, which wonder was not a little increased by this sudden call.
It was thought that the old gentleman was dying, but when Berthold went and sat by his side he brightened up, and motioned for the others to leave the room.
“I have been very ill,” he said, grasping the hand of his grandson, “and have had a terrible dream. For fear I may some day depart suddenly, I wish to tell you of a portion of my early life, that you may avoid the sin, and escape the suffering which I have endured.”
He then related the wrong of his early years, in deluding a young and pure girl, while loving another.
“Have you a picture of the one you allude to,” asked Berthold.
His grandfather started as though a voice from the other world had spoken to him.
“Why, how do you know that? No one but myself knows that I carry her miniature about me.”
“May I see it?” asked his grandson, not a little alarmed at the excited manner of the sick man.
“Yes,—that is if no one knows it,—not even Laura. Mind, Berthold, your grandmother knows nothing of this,—not a word.”
Berthold's word was sacred, and the old man drew from his pocket an oval case of blue velvet, ornamented with pearls.
“Here, look, and be quick; I fear some one may come; and if, if I should die, Berthold, take this and keep it forever.”
“I will,” said the faithful boy, as he unclasped the case.
Was he dreaming? There, before him, was the same; yes, the very same fair face he saw in the mist. He could not take his eyes from the picture, so strange was the spell.
“I have seen this face to-night, grandfather,” said Berthold, going close to him, and laying his hand upon his brow.
“Seen what! seen her? Sibyl! O, God, she must have died.”
He sank back exhausted on his pillow.
“Did it-did she speak?” he gasped, as he revived.
“Yes. She said, 'Tell Milan I forgive him!'”
“Berthold, Laura, quick! O come,—my breath is go-. I—am—dy—.”
He, too, was gone; gone before his wife could be summoned; gone to meet one he had so greatly wronged, perhaps to learn of her beautiful truths, which her sad life experience had taught her; and perchance to woo her soul, this time with truth and love.
Berthold kept the miniature, and when, after a few months, the club met again, confirmed the truth of the story he had startled them with that night. He could never account for the lowly cot, and the old wrinkled woman, but he remembered his grandfather's dying words, and never wooed where he knew he could not give his heart and soul; nor was his vision ever again unfolded, but one of heaven's choicest, purest women was given him to love, and in her high and spiritual life, his soul grew to sense that which by sight he could not obtain.