It was neither dark nor day; and as we stepped into the village streets
the confused light trembled about us delicately. The stars were still
shining. Snow was on the ground; and I think it had freshly fallen in
the night, for I noticed that the way before us lay quite white and
untrodden. I looked back over my shoulders as my father closed the gate,
which he did without noise. I meant to take a gaze at the old house,
from which, with a thrill at the heart, I began to feel that I was
parting under strange and solemn conditions. But when I glanced up the
path which we had taken, my attention was directed altogether from the
house, and from the slight sadness of the thought I had about it.
The circumstance which arrested me was this. Neither my father’s foot
nor mine had left any print upon the walk. From the front door to the
street, the fine fair snow lay unbroken; it stirred, and rose in
restless flakes like winged creatures under the gentle wind, flew a
little way, and fell again, covering the surface of the long white path
with a foam so light, it seemed as if thought itself could not have
passed upon it without impression. I can hardly say why I did not call
my father’s attention to this fact.
As we walked down the road the dawn began to deepen. The stars paled
slowly. The intense blue-black and purple of the night sky gave way to
the warm grays that precede sunrise in our climate. I saw that the gold
and the rose were coming. It promised to be a mild morning, warmer than
for several days. The deadly chill was out of the air. The snow yielded
on the outlines of the drifts, and relaxed as one looked at it, as snow
does before melting, and the icicles had an air of expectation, as if
they hastened to surrender to the annunciation of a warm and impatient
winter’s day.
“It is going to thaw,” I said aloud.
“It seems so to you,” replied my father, vaguely.
“But at least it is very pleasant,” I insisted.
“I’m glad you find it so,” he said; “I should have been disappointed if
it had struck you as cold, or--gloomy--in any way.”
It was still so early that all the village was asleep. The blinds and
curtains of the houses were drawn and the doors yet locked. None of our
neighbors were astir, nor were there any signs of traffic yet in the
little shops. The great factory-bell, which woke the operatives at
half-past four, had rung, but this was the only evidence as yet of human
life or motion. It did not occur to me, till afterwards, to wonder at
the inconsistency between the hour struck by my own Swiss clock and the
factory time.
I was more interested in another matter which just then presented itself
to me.
The village, as I say, was still asleep. Once I heard the distant hoofs
of a horse sent clattering after the doctor, and ridden by a messenger
from a household in mortal need. Up to this time we two had seemed to
be the only watchers in all the world.
Now, as I turned to see if I could discover whose horse it was and so
who was in emergency, I observed suddenly that the sidewalk was full of
people. I say full of people; I mean that there was a group behind us; a
few, also, before us; some, too, were crossing the street. They
conversed together standing at the corners, or walked in twos, as father
and I were doing; or strolled, some of them alone. Some of them seemed
to have immediate business and to be in haste; others sauntered as he
who has no occupation. Some talked and gesticulated earnestly, or
laughed loudly. Others went with a thoughtful manner, speaking not at
all.
As I watched them I began to recognize here and there, a man, or a
woman;--there were more men than women among them, and there were no
children.
A few of these people, I soon saw, were old neighbors of ours; some I
had known when I was a child, and had forgotten till this moment.
Several of them bowed to us as we passed along. One man stopped and
waited for us, and spoke to Father, who shook hands with him;
intimating, however, pleasantly enough, that he was in haste, and must
be excused for passing on.
“Yes, yes, I see,” said the man with a glance at me. I then distinctly
saw this person’s face, and knew him beyond a doubt, for an old
neighbor, a certain Mr. Snarl, a miserly, sanctimonious man--I had never
liked him.
“Father!” I stopped short. “Father, that man is dead. He has been dead
for twenty years!”
Now, at this, I began to tremble; yet not from fear, I think; from
amazement, rather, and the great confusion which I felt.
“And there”--I pointed to a pale young man who had been thrown from his
carriage (it was said because he was in no condition to drive)--“there
is Bobby Bend. He died last winter.”
“Well,” said Father quietly, “and what then?”
“And over there--why, certainly that is Mrs. Mersey!”
I had known Mrs. Mersey for a lovely woman. She died of a fever
contracted in the care of a poor, neglected creature. I saw her at this
moment across and far down the street, coming from a house where there
was trouble. She came with a swift, elastic motion, unlike that of any
of the others who were about us; the difference was marked, and yet one
which I should have found it at that time impossible to describe.
Perhaps I might have said that she hovered above rather than touched the
earth; but this would not have defined the distinction. As I looked
after her she disappeared; in what direction I could not tell.
“So they _are_ dead people,” I said, with a sort of triumph; almost as
if I had dared my father to deny it. He smiled.
“Father, I begin to be perplexed. I have heard of these hallucinations,
of course, and read the authenticated stories, but I never supposed I
could be a subject of such illusions. It must be because I have been so
sick.”
“Partly because you have been so sick--yes,” said Father drawing down
the corners of his mouth, in that way he had when he was amused. I went
on to tell him that it seemed natural to see him, but that I was
surprised to meet those others who had left us, and that I did not find
it altogether agreeable.
“Are you afraid?” he asked me, as he had before. No, I could not say
that I was afraid.
“Then hasten on,” he said in a different tone, “our business is not with
them, at present. See! we have already left them behind.”
And, indeed, when I glanced back, I saw that we had. We, too, were now
traveling alone together, and at a much faster speed, towards the
outskirts of the town. We were moving eastward. Before us the splendid
day was coming up. The sky was unfolding, shade above shade, paler at
the edge, and glowing at the heart, like the petals of a great rose.
The snow was melting on the moors towards which we bent our steps; the
water stood here and there in pools, and glistened. A little winter
bird--some chickadee or wood-pecker--was bathing in one of these pools;
his tiny brown body glowed in the brightness, flashing to and fro. He
chirped and twittered and seemed bursting with joy. As we approached the
moors, the stalks of the sumachs, the mulberries, the golden-rod, and
asters, all the wayside weeds and the brown things that we never know
and never love till winter, rose beautiful from the snow; the icicles
melted and dripped from them; the dead-gold-colored leaves of the low
oaks rustled; at a distance we heard the sweet sough from a grove of
pines; behind us the morning bells of the village broke into bubbles of
cheerful sound. As we walked on together I felt myself become stronger
at every step; my heart grew light.
“It is a good world,” I cried, “it is a good world!”
“So it is,” said my father heartily, “and yet--my dear daughter”--He
hesitated; so long that I looked into his face earnestly, and then I saw
that a strange gravity had settled upon it. It was not like any look
that I had ever seen there before.
“I have better things to show you,” he said gently.
“I do not understand you, sir.”
“We have only begun our journey, Mary; and--if you do not
understand--but I thought you would have done so by this time--I wonder
if she _is_ going to be frightened after all!”
We were now well out upon the moors, alone together, on the side of the
hill. The town looked far behind us and insignificant. The earth
dwindled and the sky grew, as we looked from one to the other. It seemed
to me that I had never before noticed how small a portion of our range
of vision is filled by the surface of earth, and what occupies it; and
how immense the proportion of the heavens. As we stood there, it seemed
to overwhelm us.
“Rise,” said my father in a voice of solemn authority, “rise quickly!”
I struggled at his words, for he seemed to slip from me, and I feared to
lose him. I struggled and struck out into the air; I felt a wild
excitement, like one plunged into a deep sea, and desperately swimming,
as animals do, and a few men, from blind instinct, having never learned.
My father spoke encouragingly, and with tenderness. He never once let go
my hand. I felt myself, beyond all doubt, soaring--slowly and
weakly--but surely ascending above the solid ground.
“See! there is nothing to fear,” he said from time to time. I did not
answer. My heart beat fast. I exerted all my strength and took a
stronger stroke. I felt that I gained upon myself. I closed my eyes,
looking neither above nor below.
Suddenly, as gently as the opening of a water lily, and yet as swiftly
as the cleaving of the lightning, there came to me a thought which made
my brain whirl, and I cried aloud:
“Father, _am I_ DEAD?” My hands slipped--I grew dizzy--wavered--and
fluttered. I was sure that I should fall. At that instant I was caught
with the iron of tenderness and held, like a very young child, in my
father’s arms. He said nothing, only patted me on the cheek, as we
ascended, he seeing, and I blind; he strength, and I weakness; he who
knew all, and I who knew nothing, silently with the rising sun athwart
the rose-lit air.
I was awed, more than there are words to say; but I felt no more fear
than I used to do when he carried me on his shoulder up the garden walk,
after it grew dark, when I was tired out with play.