At fifteen I became a resident in a country village more than a hundred
miles from home. The morning after my arrival—a September morning, but
warm and bright as any in July—I rambled into a wood of oaks with a few
walnut trees intermixed, forming the closest shade above my head. The
ground was rocky, uneven, overgrown with bushes and clumps of young
saplings and traversed only by cattle-paths. The track which I chanced
to follow led me to a crystal spring with a border of grass as freshly
green as on May morning, and overshadowed by the limb of a great oak.
One solitary sunbeam found its way down and played like a goldfish in
the water.
From my childhood I have loved to gaze into a spring. The water filled
a circular basin, small but deep and set round with stones, some of
which were covered with slimy moss, the others naked and of variegated
hue—reddish, white and brown. The bottom was covered with coarse sand,
which sparkled in the lonely sunbeam and seemed to illuminate the
spring with an unborrowed light. In one spot the gush of the water
violently agitated the sand, but without obscuring the fountain or
breaking the glassiness of its surface. It appeared as if some living
creature were about to emerge—the naiad of the spring, perhaps, in the
shape of a beautiful young woman with a gown of filmy water-moss, a
belt of rainbow-drops and a cold, pure, passionless countenance. How
would the beholder shiver, pleasantly yet fearfully, to see her sitting
on one of the stones, paddling her white feet in the ripples and
throwing up water to sparkle in the sun! Wherever she laid her hands on
grass and flowers, they would immediately be moist, as with morning
dew. Then would she set about her labors, like a careful housewife, to
clear the fountain of withered leaves, and bits of slimy wood, and old
acorns from the oaks above, and grains of corn left by cattle in
drinking, till the bright sand in the bright water were like a treasury
of diamonds. But, should the intruder approach too near, he would find
only the drops of a summer shower glistening about the spot where he
had seen her.
Reclining on the border of grass where the dewy goddess should have
been, I bent forward, and a pair of eyes met mine within the watery
mirror. They were the reflection of my own. I looked again, and, lo!
another face, deeper in the fountain than my own image, more distinct
in all the features, yet faint as thought. The vision had the aspect of
a fair young girl with locks of paly gold. A mirthful expression
laughed in the eyes and dimpled over the whole shadowy countenance,
till it seemed just what a fountain would be if, while dancing merrily
into the sunshine, it should assume the shape of woman. Through the dim
rosiness of the cheeks I could see the brown leaves, the slimy twigs,
the acorns and the sparkling sand. The solitary sunbeam was diffused
among the golden hair, which melted into its faint brightness and
became a glory round that head so beautiful.
My description can give no idea how suddenly the fountain was thus
tenanted and how soon it was left desolate. I breathed, and there was
the face; I held my breath, and it was gone. Had it passed away or
faded into nothing? I doubted whether it had ever been.
My sweet readers, what a dreamy and delicious hour did I spend where
that vision found and left me! For a long time I sat perfectly still,
waiting till it should reappear, and fearful that the slightest motion,
or even the flutter of my breath, might frighten it away. Thus have I
often started from a pleasant dream, and then kept quiet in hopes to
wile it back. Deep were my musings as to the race and attributes of
that ethereal being. Had I created her? Was she the daughter of my
fancy, akin to those strange shapes which peep under the lids of
children’s eyes? And did her beauty gladden me for that one moment and
then die? Or was she a water-nymph within the fountain, or fairy or
woodland goddess peeping over my shoulder, or the ghost of some
forsaken maid who had drowned herself for love? Or, in good truth, had
a lovely girl with a warm heart and lips that would bear pressure
stolen softly behind me and thrown her image into the spring?
I watched and waited, but no vision came again. I departed, but with a
spell upon me which drew me back that same afternoon to the haunted
spring. There was the water gushing, the sand sparkling and the sunbeam
glimmering. There the vision was not, but only a great frog, the hermit
of that solitude, who immediately withdrew his speckled snout and made
himself invisible—all except a pair of long legs—beneath a stone.
Methought he had a devilish look. I could have slain him as an
enchanter who kept the mysterious beauty imprisoned in the fountain.
Sad and heavy, I was returning to the village. Between me and the
church-spire rose a little hill, and on its summit a group of trees
insulated from all the rest of the wood, with their own share of
radiance hovering on them from the west and their own solitary shadow
falling to the east. The afternoon being far declined, the sunshine was
almost pensive and the shade almost cheerful; glory and gloom were
mingled in the placid light, as if the spirits of the Day and Evening
had met in friendship under those trees and found themselves akin. I
was admiring the picture when the shape of a young girl emerged from
behind the clump of oaks. My heart knew her: it was the vision, but so
distant and ethereal did she seem, so unmixed with earth, so imbued
with the pensive glory of the spot where she was standing, that my
spirit sunk within me, sadder than before. How could I ever reach her?
While I gazed a sudden shower came pattering down upon the leaves. In a
moment the air was full of brightness, each raindrop catching a portion
of sunlight as it fell, and the whole gentle shower appearing like a
mist, just substantial enough to bear the burden of radiance. A rainbow
vivid as Niagara’s was painted in the air. Its southern limb came down
before the group of trees and enveloped the fair vision as if the hues
of heaven were the only garment for her beauty. When the rainbow
vanished, she who had seemed a part of it was no longer there. Was her
existence absorbed in nature’s loveliest phenomenon, and did her pure
frame dissolve away in the varied light? Yet I would not despair of her
return, for, robed in the rainbow, she was the emblem of Hope.
Thus did the vision leave me, and many a doleful day succeeded to the
parting moment. By the spring and in the wood and on the hill and
through the village, at dewy sunrise, burning noon, and at that magic
hour of sunset, when she had vanished from my sight, I sought her, but
in vain. Weeks came and went, months rolled away, and she appeared not
in them. I imparted my mystery to none, but wandered to and fro or sat
in solitude like one that had caught a glimpse of heaven and could take
no more joy on earth. I withdrew into an inner world where my thoughts
lived and breathed, and the vision in the midst of them. Without
intending it, I became at once the author and hero of a romance,
conjuring up rivals, imagining events, the actions of others and my
own, and experiencing every change of passion, till jealousy and
despair had their end in bliss. Oh, had I the burning fancy of my early
youth with manhood’s colder gift, the power of expression, your hearts,
sweet ladies, should flutter at my tale.
In the middle of January I was summoned home. The day before my
departure, visiting the spots which had been hallowed by the vision, I
found that the spring had a frozen bosom, and nothing but the snow and
a glare of winter sunshine on the hill of the rainbow. “Let me hope,”
thought I, “or my heart will be as icy as the fountain and the whole
world as desolate as this snowy hill.” Most of the day was spent in
preparing for the journey, which was to commence at four o’clock the
next morning. About an hour after supper, when all was in readiness, I
descended from my chamber to the sitting-room to take leave of the old
clergyman and his family with whom I had been an inmate. A gust of wind
blew out my lamp as I passed through the entry.
According to their invariable custom—so pleasant a one when the fire
blazes cheerfully—the family were sitting in the parlor with no other
light than what came from the hearth. As the good clergyman’s scanty
stipend compelled him to use all sorts of economy, the foundation of
his fires was always a large heap of tan, or ground bark, which would
smoulder away from morning till night with a dull warmth and no flame.
This evening the heap of tan was newly put on and surmounted with three
sticks of red oak full of moisture, and a few pieces of dry pine that
had not yet kindled. There was no light except the little that came
sullenly from two half-burnt brands, without even glimmering on the
andirons. But I knew the position of the old minister’s arm-chair, and
also where his wife sat with her knitting-work, and how to avoid his
two daughters—one a stout country lass, and the other a consumptive
girl. Groping through the gloom, I found my own place next to that of
the son, a learned collegian who had come home to keep school in the
village during the winter vacation. I noticed that there was less room
than usual to-night between the collegian’s chair and mine.
As people are always taciturn in the dark, not a word was said for some
time after my entrance. Nothing broke the stillness but the regular
click of the matron’s knitting-needles. At times the fire threw out a
brief and dusky gleam which twinkled on the old man’s glasses and
hovered doubtfully round our circle, but was far too faint to portray
the individuals who composed it. Were we not like ghosts? Dreamy as the
scene was, might it not be a type of the mode in which departed people
who had known and loved each other here would hold communion in
eternity? We were aware of each other’s presence, not by sight nor
sound nor touch, but by an inward consciousness. Would it not be so
among the dead?
The silence was interrupted by the consumptive daughter addressing a
remark to some one in the circle whom she called Rachel. Her tremulous
and decayed accents were answered by a single word, but in a voice that
made me start and bend toward the spot whence it had proceeded. Had I
ever heard that sweet, low tone? If not, why did it rouse up so many
old recollections, or mockeries of such, the shadows of things familiar
yet unknown, and fill my mind with confused images of her features who
had spoken, though buried in the gloom of the parlor? Whom had my heart
recognized, that it throbbed so? I listened to catch her gentle
breathing, and strove by the intensity of my gaze to picture forth a
shape where none was visible.
Suddenly the dry pine caught; the fire blazed up with a ruddy glow, and
where the darkness had been, there was she—the vision of the fountain.
A spirit of radiance only, she had vanished with the rainbow and
appeared again in the firelight, perhaps to flicker with the blaze and
be gone. Yet her cheek was rosy and lifelike, and her features, in the
bright warmth of the room, were even sweeter and tenderer than my
recollection of them. She knew me. The mirthful expression that had
laughed in her eyes and dimpled over her countenance when I beheld her
faint beauty in the fountain was laughing and dimpling there now. One
moment our glance mingled; the next, down rolled the heap of tan upon
the kindled wood, and darkness snatched away that daughter of the
light, and gave her back to me no more!
Fair ladies, there is nothing more to tell. Must the simple mystery be
revealed, then, that Rachel was the daughter of the village squire and
had left home for a boarding-school the morning after I arrived and
returned the day before my departure? If I transformed her to an angel,
it is what every youthful lover does for his mistress. Therein consists
the essence of my story. But slight the change, sweet maids, to make
angels of yourselves.