"Our early days! how often back
We turn on life's bewildering track,
To where, o'er hill and valley, plays
The sunlight of our early days!"
D. W. Gallagher.
They went in through the alley-way, and gained their bedroom by the
steep back-staircase. Guly, who was fatigued by his day's labor and
evening walk, immediately prepared for bed, and sought his pillow
eagerly. But Arthur, after rising from their devotion, walked toward one
of the windows, and stood for a long time gazing out upon the
neighboring wall of brick, as if he found there deep food for
reflection. Guly lay looking at him, wondering what he could be thinking
of, and even while he wondered his eyes gradually closed, and he fell
fast asleep.
As Arthur heard his soft but regular breathing, and felt assured his
brother slumbered, he threw off his coat, and seated himself on the
bedside, gazing fixedly down upon the innocent and happy brow before
him. There was a thoughtful softness upon the watcher's face, that came
not often there; and ever and anon he raised his hands, and pressed
them tightly upon his eyes, as if to keep back some emotion which would
fain force itself thence.
"What can have put these thoughts in my mind to-night?" he murmured,
impatiently, rising and walking the floor with bowed head and folded
arms. "I could almost believe the wine I drank was drugged with memories
of the past, and dark forebodings for the future. What form is this that
rises constantly before me, with haggard face and burning eyes, pointing
its skinny finger backward, ever backward, like an index turning ever to
the days gone by? It haunts me like a ghost; and turn I here or there,
'tis always crouching close before me, pointing that skinny finger
backward. Heavens! what does it mean?"
With a sharp shudder, Arthur again sought his brother's side, and sat
down upon the bed.
"If I should ever--if I should ever--_ever_ fall so low, _I_! Oh,
impossible! What a horrible picture! Yet, surrounded, as I am, by danger
and temptation--the beautiful habiliments in which vice here presents
itself--the constant laceration of my haughty pride--would it be, after
all, so impossible? Oh, my poor heart, be strong. Still that white
figure pointing backward. Can this be the foreshadowing of my own fate?
Oh, never, never! the wine I have taken has heated my brain. Guly! Guly!
wake up! I cannot bear to be here by myself!"
And, with a moan of anguish, Arthur buried his face in the pillow.
Guly started up quickly, and looked wildly around, like one suddenly
aroused from a nightmare; then his eye fell upon the prostrate figure
beside him.
"Dear Arthur, tell me what ails you to-night; you seem strangely at
variance with yourself. Tell me what troubles you, my brother."
"A ghost in my heart, Guly. I can't tell what brought it there--I feel
it, I see it constantly--a pale, haggard figure, pointing with its bony
finger backward."
"You have been asleep, and dreaming, Arthur; undress and come by me
here, and we will talk of something else."
"No, no, Guly, not asleep, but wide, wide awake--in my heart, in my
soul, everywhere!" exclaimed Arthur, flinging his clothes hastily off,
and creeping to his brother's side, as if flying from some horrid
phantom.
Guly threw an arm about him, and with the other hand stroked the dark
locks soothingly back from the excited brow.
"There, Arthur! brother! hush! don't sigh and shudder so, don't; it's
all fancy, all mere idle fancy. Do you remember, Arthur, how, on such a
night as this, the moon used to shine down upon the tall trees and green
lawn at home? And when all those merry friends used to visit us, how
their figures would flit in and out so brightly through the long green
avenues, and the shadows falling at their sides--do you not remember,
Arthur?"
"The shadows falling at their side? Yes, Guly, I remember."
"And how, when on such bright nights we sailed upon the Hudson, the
diamond foam broke away from the prow of our little boat, like a peal of
jewelled laughter, if such a thing could be? When we get the old home
back, Arthur, we will find that old boat out, and have it, too--eh,
brother?"
"Dear Guly, yes."
"Everything will be so like its old self, we shall almost think all our
troubles and separation one long dream. When that time comes we can have
no more of earthly happiness to ask for--our old home and our old joys."
"And our old friends, Guly, gliding through the green avenues, with
their shadows under their feet. Our old friends, with their old
shadows--"
Arthur was asleep; soothed to slumber by the gentle words and fond tones
breathed upon his ear, and he lay quietly, with his face calm, and his
cheek upon his hand.
Dreams came to him in the hours of that long night, and he was happy.
Time and distance were annihilated, and he was back upon the shores of
old Hudson, sporting with its waves, and gliding on its waters. There
was the old boat, with the sparkling foam parting from the rushing
prow, and the music of the dipping oars was falling gently on his ear.
Again he was on the green lawn, and the moon was looking down upon the
tall trees, and the soft green grass which lay before the broad door of
the olden home. There were the gayly-robed figures, flitting in and out
along the shaded avenues, their shadows falling by them always, and he
was in their midst--a child, merry-hearted, but fretted and proud--toyed
with by this one, caressed by that, and the favorite of all, commanding
but to be obeyed, frowning but to be more attended, angered but to be
coaxed to good-nature, first in his parents' hearts, and high in the
proffered love of every guest, reigning, like a boy-king, over all he
surveyed.
Then his dream for a moment grew clouded, and a tiny form, with snowy
robes and gentle blue eyes, rose up before him, and took his place upon
his mother's bosom, and he knew he had a brother. The form expanded, and
grew in height, and the hair hung in golden ringlets down to shadow the
beautiful eyes. And a tiny hand sought his, and tottering steps fell
lightly at his side. Still the form grew, till in his dream it seemed to
rise above him--not _grown_ above him; but the feet stood upon a silver
cloud, which kept rising higher and higher, till the tiny hand he
clasped in his was drawn perforce from his grasp, and still standing on
the silver cloud, the light form, the golden hair, and blue eyes, passed
from his sight; and looking up, he learned to believe it was an angel,
not a brother, which had been sent to him. And while he looked
yearningly after it, a mother's hand fell upon his shoulder, and her
sweet voice trembled as she pointed upward, and bade him follow. Then he
showed her his empty hand, from which the tiny hand had been drawn, and
stepping quickly backward, he plunged headlong over an unseen precipice,
and fell, fell far down, where all was darkness; but finding no bottom,
and shuddering with the thought that so he must go dizzily rushing
through that blackened space to all eternity! But, looking up, a
glorious light broke through the surrounding gloom, and the light form,
with the golden hair, was coming down--down with a smile of thrilling
happiness, and outstretched arms to save him. It reached him, it clasped
him to its warm bosom, and he felt a quick heart throbbing there, and
knew again it was his brother, with the sunny curls and radiant smile,
who had saved him from that bottomless pit, and mounted, holding him
upon his heart, to purer and to brighter realms.
Thus the spirits of his earlier days thronged his fancy, as he slumbered
there; but the pale ghost in his heart, pointing with its skinny finger
backward, came not to him as he lay there dreaming, with his cheek upon
his hand.