The country residence of Mr. John Hinckman was a delightful place to
me, for many reasons. It was the abode of a genial, though somewhat
impulsive, hospitality. It had broad, smooth-shaven lawns and
towering oaks and elms; there were bosky shades at several points,
and not far from the house there was a little rill spanned by a
rustic bridge with the bark on; there were fruits and flowers,
pleasant people, chess, billiards, rides, walks, and fishing. These
were great attractions; but none of them, nor all of them together,
would have been sufficient to hold me to the place very long. I had
been invited for the trout season, but should probably have finished
my visit early in the summer had it not been that upon fair days,
when the grass was dry, and the sun was not too hot, and there was
but little wind, there strolled beneath the lofty elms, or passed
lightly through the bosky shades, the form of my Madeline.
This lady was not, in very truth, my Madeline. She had never given
herself to me, nor had I, in any way, acquired possession of her.
But as I considered her possession the only sufficient reason for
the continuance of my existence, I called her, in my reveries, mine.
It may have been that I would not have been obliged to confine the
use of this possessive pronoun to my reveries had I confessed the
state of my feelings to the lady.
But this was an unusually difficult thing to do. Not only did I
dread, as almost all lovers dread, taking the step which would in an
instant put an end to that delightful season which may be termed the
ante-interrogatory period of love, and which might at the same time
terminate all intercourse or connection with the object of my
passion, but I was also dreadfully afraid of John Hinckman. This
gentleman was a good friend of mine, but it would have required a
bolder man than I was at that time to ask him for the gift of his
niece, who was the head of his household, and, according to his own
frequent statement, the main prop of his declining years. Had
Madeline acquiesced in my general views on the subject, I might have
felt encouraged to open the matter to Mr. Hinckman; but, as I said
before, I had never asked her whether or not she would be mine. I
thought of these things at all hours of the day and night,
particularly the latter.
I was lying awake one night, in the great bed in my spacious
chamber, when, by the dim light of the new moon, which partially
filled the room, I saw John Hinckman standing by a large chair near
the door. I was very much surprised at this, for two reasons. In the
first place, my host had never before come into my room; and, in the
second place, he had gone from home that morning, and had not
expected to return for several days. It was for this reason that I
had been able that evening to sit much later than usual with
Madeline on the moon-lit porch. The figure was certainly that of
John Hinckman in his ordinary dress, but there was a vagueness and
indistinctness about it which presently assured me that it was a
ghost. Had the good old man been murdered? and had his spirit come
to tell me of the deed, and to confide to me the protection of his
dear--? My heart fluttered at what I was about to think, but at this
instant the figure spoke.
"Do you know," he said, with a countenance that indicated anxiety,
"if Mr. Hinckman will return to-night?"