When I became conscious of surrounding things I found myself in a
large airy room, the pervading characteristics of which were space and
light. I was lying in a bed, all the coverings of which were white;
there were no curtains to it, and no hangings in the apartment to mar
the deliciously cool and refreshing air which flowed in through the
open folding windows. These windows, which stretched from ceiling to
floor, faced the foot of the bed; my head was almost on a level with
my body, and I could not obtain a level view of the gardens which
bloomed without. But I had before me in the heights a delightful
perspective of flowering trees, stretching upwards into the clouds.
These clouds, of various shades of blue and white, filled all the
spaces between the lovely network of leaves and branches. It was like
gazing upwards instead of downwards into the waters of a clear and
placid lake. A sense of blissful repose reigned within my soul. I had
not the least desire to move; so perfect and so sweet was the peace in
which I lay, as it were, embalmed, that I felt as if I were in a
celestial land. There were trees with great clusters of red blossoms
hanging in the clouds; a soft breeze was playing among them, and as
they swayed gently to and fro fresh peeps of fairyland were
continually disclosed to my contented eyes. There were nests in the
trees, and the cloud-scapes of fleecy blue and white were beautifully
broken now and again by the fluttering flight of birds as they came
and went. The pictures I gazed upon, idealised and perfected by my
mind's eye, have always abided with me. It is seldom given to man to
enjoy what I enjoyed as I lay, then and for some time afterwards, in
my white and healthful bed. It was a foretaste of heaven.
So fearful was I that the slightest movement might destroy the lovely
pictures that I did not even turn my head at the sound of my bedroom
door being softly opened and closed. A light footstep approached the
bed, and I beheld a young girl whose form and face I silently and
worshipfully greeted as the fairest vision of womanhood in her spring
that ever blessed the sight of man. Observing that my eyes were open,
she gazed at me for a moment of two in wondering and glad surprise,
and then, with her finger at her smiling lips, trod softly from the
room as lightly as she had entered it. I closed my eyes, so that this
fair picture, in its dress of pale blue, with lace about the neck and
arms, might not be entirely lost to me, and when another sound in the
room caused me to open them, in the hope that she had returned, I saw
standing at my bedside a grave and kindly man.
"So," he said in a quiet tone, "you are at length in the land of
conscious life. You remember me?"
"First enlighten me," I said, and I was surprised to hear my voice so
weak and wavering. "I am really awake? I am really in the land of the
living?"
"So far as we know," was his reply. "There are those who say this life
is but a dream, and that when we yield up our breath it is simply that
our dream is ended, and that we are awaking to reality. For myself, I
have not the least doubt that life is life, and death death, and that
pain and joy are just what those words are intended to convey to our
understanding."
"So fair and peaceful is the scene before me," I said, "so calm was my
soul when I awoke, that it is difficult to realise that I am in the
land of the living."
"You will realise it very vividly," he said gaily, "in an hour or two,
when you are hungry. There is nothing so convincing as our grosser
passions. You have not answered my question. Do you remember me?"
"Yes, I remember you. I had sprained my ankle in crossing the stream
that runs through the woods, and not being able to walk, was doomed to
lie there all night with a fine storm playing pranks upon my helpless
body. It was a wild night, and I had wild fancies. What would have
become of me had you not providentially come to my assistance is easy
enough to guess. I should really by this time have been in possession
of the grand secret."
"When did this occur?"
"Yesterday."
"My friend," said Doctor Louis, with a light laugh, "what you have so
faithfully described took place four weeks ago. If you have any doubt
of it, you have only to pass your hand over your beard."
The statement bewildered me. Accepting it as fact--and it was not
possible for me to doubt it--I must have lain during those four weeks
in a state of delirium. What perplexed me was the consciousness that I
had been so well cared for by strangers, and that something more than
a friendly interest had been taken in me. The evidences were around
and about me. The sweet-smelling room, the beautiful scene through the
open folding windows, the entrance of the fair girl, the smile on
whose lips seemed to speak of innocent affection, the presence of
Doctor Louis, and the friendliness and sympathy with which he was
conversing with me--all these might be construed into evidences even
of love. Still it would not do to take things too much for granted.
"Am I in an inn?" I asked.
"You are in my house," replied Doctor Louis courteously, "my guest, in
whom we are all very much interested."
"All?"
"Myself--who should properly be mentioned last--my wife, who is first,
as she deserves to be--and my daughter, who is our Home Rose."
Our Home Rose! The mere utterance of the words conveyed a sense of
spiritual sweetness to me, who had never known the meaning of Home.
"It pleases us to call her so," said Doctor Louis.
"The young lady," I said, in a musing tone, "I saw in the room shortly
before you entered, and whose appearance so harmonised with the peace
and loveliness of the view of cloud and flower I see from my bed, that
I should not have been surprised to hear she was spirit or angel."
"An angel in a blue dress," said Doctor Louis, with pleasant nods;
"but it is agreeable to me, her father, to hear you speak so of her.
She is, as I have said, the rose of our home. If there is an angel in
our house, it is her mother. Lauretta, as yet, is but a child; she has
to prove herself in life. But I ask your pardon. These details can
scarcely interest you."
"They more than interest me," I said earnestly; "they do me good.
Although you are a physician, your friendly confidence--which I accept
as a privilege--is better than the most potent medicine you could
administer to me. Pray continue to speak of your home and family. I
beg of you!
"A wise doctor," said Doctor Louis, "and such, of course, I account
myself, occasionally humours his patient. But I must not give you all
the credit; the theme is agreeable to me; it is, indeed, closest to my
heart. I used to think, when Lauretta was a little child, and we were
deriving an exquisite happiness from her pretty ways, that no happier
lot could be ours than that she should always remain a child. But that
would never do, would it? A world inhabited by children is not in
Nature's scheme. Fit theme for a fairy story. It behoves us, however,
of necessity, to be to some extent practical. I have no fear for
Lauretta. Children who are not violently wrenched from their natural
bent inherit and exhibit their parents' qualities. I, we will say, am
negative. I have my opinions, strong ones and deeply planted, but
there is no positive vice in me, so far as I am aware, and it is
pleasing to me to reflect that I have transmitted to my child neither
moral nor physical hurt. But Lauretta's mother possesses qualities of
goodness which proclaim her to be of a rare type of womanhood. She is
not only benevolent, she is wise; she is not only strong, she is
tender; and she has taught me lessons, not in words, but by the
example of her daily life, which have strengthened my moral nature.
You see, I am in love with my wife--of which I am not at all ashamed,
though I am an old married man. If Lauretta's life resemble her
mother's, if she follow in her footsteps, I shall be more than
content--I shall continue to be truly happy. There are so many
foolish, vicious children born in the world that it is something to be
proud of to add to its millions one who will instinctively tread in
the straight path of duty, and who, if it is her lot to suffer, will
'suffer and be strong.' Once more, forgive me for being so garrulous
about my household treasures; it is a weakness into which it is not
difficult to lead me. A few words concerning yourself, in explanation
of what has occurred. Learning from your own lips, on the morning we
first met in the forest yonder, that you were a stranger, and
perceiving that you were a gentleman, I brought you straight to my
house--with no settled intention, I must frankly own, of keeping you
here for any length of time. After thoroughly studying your case I saw
that you would be ill for weeks, and for a great part of that time
that you would be not exactly in your right senses. To tell you the
truth, I was puzzled, and while I was debating what to do with you,
who should introduce herself into the matter but my estimable wife.
She can invariably tell, by a certain puckering of my brows, when I am
in a brown study, and she inquired what troubled me. I told her,
You--yes, you, my friend. 'He will not be able to get about for a
month,' I said. 'Poor young gentleman!' said my wife. 'And in spite of
my undoubted skill,' I continued, 'I may not be able to save him!' She
clasped her hands, and the tears gathered in her eyes. She has always
a heartful of them ready to shed for those who are in sickness and
trouble. A foolish woman, a very foolish woman indeed. 'He may die on
our hands,' I said. 'Heaven forbid!' she cried. 'Heaven's forbidding
it,' I sagely remarked--occasionally I say a good thing, my
friend--'will not save him, if I cannot. There is healing by faith,
certainly, but this hapless gentleman is not in a condition to bring
faith to bear. I know what I will do. I will take him to an inn, where
they will run him up a fine fat bill. His accident shall do some one
good. There is the inn of the Three Black Crows. The landlord is a
worthy fellow, and has a large family of round bright eyes and small
red cheeks. To be sure, his wine is execrable, and he cannot cook a
decent meal. But what of that? Our friend here will care little for
either, and is not likely to complain of the quality. Yes, to the inn
of the Three Black Crows he shall go.' My wife did not interrupt me;
she never does; but she kept her eyes fixed earnestly upon my face
while I was speaking, and when I had finished, she said, 'Louis, you
are not in earnest.' 'Nonsense, nonsense,' said I; 'here, help me to
carry this troublesome gentleman to the Three Black Crows.' 'You are
not in earnest,' she repeated, and the foolish woman smiled at me
through her tears; 'you know well that you have made up your mind that
he shall stop here, and that I shall nurse him, with your assistance,
into health and strength. His room is ready for him.' My friend, it is
a rule with me never to create dissension in my home. Therefore, what
could I do? Break through my rule, and cause my wife sorrow? And for
you, a stranger? It was not to be thought of. That is how it has
happened you have become my guest."
"How can I thank you?" I murmured, much moved. "How can I thank your
good wife?"
"Thank me!" exclaimed Doctor Louis. "Have I not told you I had nothing
to do with it? As to thanking my wife, she is never so happy as when
she is nursing the sick. We really ought to pay you for the pleasure
you have afforded us by spraining your ankle in the woods, and falling
into a dangerous fever. Heavens, how you raved! What is the meaning of
the expression I see in your eyes? Are you going to rave again?"
"No; I am wondering whether the sounds of music I hear are created by
my imagination."
"The sounds are real sounds. It is my wife who is playing."
"But the instrument?"
"The zither."
"Its tones are most beautiful."
"It is her favourite instrument. She has sometimes played on it while
you were lying unconscious, in the belief that its soft tones would
not be a bad medicine for you. My daughter plays also. To conclude my
explanation. During your fever your ankle has been attended to, and it
is now nearly well. The sprain was so severe that it would have
confined you to your bed without the fever, and as you were to have
it, the two evils coming together was a piece of positive good
fortune. It saved time."
"As I was to have it!" I exclaimed.
"My friend," said Doctor Louis, "do not forget that I am a doctor.
Either then, or now, or at some time within the next twelve months,
you would have succumbed to the strain which you have lately been
putting upon yourself. The fever was lying dormant in your veins, and
needed but a chance to assert itself. Whether you are conscious of it
or not, there is no doubt that there have been severe demands upon
your nervous system. To speak plainly, you have over-taxed yourself,
and have treated Nature unfairly. She is long-suffering, but, push her
too far, she will turn upon you and exact the penalty. Too late then
to repent; the mischief is done, and all that we can do thereafter is
to patch up. Have you met with any misfortune lately--have you lost
any one who was dear to you?"
"Within a short time," I said, "I have lost both my parents."
"That is sad; but you have brothers, sisters?"
"Not one; nor, so far as I am aware, a relative the wide world over. I
am alone."
"I regret to hear it, and sincerely sympathise with you; but you are
young, and have all your life before you. There are, however, persons
with whom you wish to communicate, friends who will be anxious at your
long silence. Now that you are conscious and sensible you will have
letters to write. Do not flatter yourself that you are strong enough
to write them. It will be another fortnight, at least, before you will
be fit even for that slight exertion."
"I have no letters to write," I said, "and none to receive. I am
without a friend."
I saw him look in pity at me, and he seemed to be surprised and
disturbed.
"I am a new experience to you," I observed.
"I admit it, yes," he said thoughtfully, "but we have talked enough.
Sleep, and rest."
As he uttered these words he passed his right hand with a soothing
motion across my brows. I was disposed for sleep, and it came to me.
The days passed as in a blissful dream. There was always within me the
same sense of perfect repose; there were always before me delightful
panoramas of cloudland, moving through graceful foliage and bright
blossoms. Sometimes Lauretta's mother came into the room, and sat by
my bedside, and spoke a few gentle words. She was the embodiment of
Peace; her voice, her movements, her graceful figure, formed a
harmony. I did not see Lauretta during those days, nor was her name
mentioned again by Doctor Louis. But when her mother was with me, and
I heard the sound of the zither, I knew it was Lauretta who was
playing. The music, in the knowledge that she was the player, produced
upon me the same impression as when her mother played--for which I can
find no apter figure of speech than that I was lying in a boat on the
peaceful waters of a lake, with a heavenly calm all around me.
Doctor Louis came daily, and we indulged in conversation; and
frequently before he left me made similar passes across my forehead,
which had the effect of producing slumber. After a time I spoke of
this, and we conversed upon the subject. I had read a great deal
concerning mesmerism and clairvoyance, and Doctor Louis expressed
surprise at the extent of my information on those subjects. He said he
was glad to perceive that I was a student, and I replied that my
chiefest pleasures had been derived from books.
At length I was convalescent, and, for the first time for many weeks,
I enjoyed the open air. We sat in the garden, and I was enchanted with
its beauties, which seemed all to radiate from Lauretta. It was she
who imparted to surrounding things, to flowers, to trees, to grassy
sward and floating cloud, the touch of subtle sweetness which made me
feel as if I had found a heaven upon earth. On that day, for the first
time, our hands met.
She gathered fruit, and we ate it slowly. Lauretta's mother sat
nearest to me, engaged upon a piece of embroidery. Lauretta, waiting
upon us, came and went, and my eyes followed the slight figure
wherever she moved. When she disappeared into the house I did not
remove my eyes from the door through which she had passed until she
emerged from it again. Once or twice, meeting my gaze, she smiled upon
me, and I was agitated by an exquisite joy. Doctor Louis, wearing a
hat which shaded his brows, sat at a little distance, sometimes
reading, sometimes contemplating me with attention.
"You must be glad to be well," said Lauretta's mother.
I answered, "No, I regret it."
"Surely not," she said.
"Indeed it is so," I replied. "I am afraid that the happiest dream of
my life is drawing to an end."
"The days must not be dreamt away," she said, with grave sweetness;
"life has duties. One's ease and pleasure--those are not duties; they
are rewards, all the more enjoyable when they have been worthily
earned."
"Earned in what way?" I asked.
"In administering to others, in accomplishing one's work in the
world."
"How to discover what one's work really is?" I mused.
"That is not difficult, if one's nature is not wedded to sloth."
"And where," I continued, "supposing it to be discovered, should it be
properly performed?"
"In one's native land," she said. "He belongs to it, and it to him."
"There have been missionaries who have done great good."
"They could have done as much, perhaps more, if they had devoted
themselves to the kindred which was closest to them."
"Not that I have a desire to become a missionary," I said. "I have
not within me the spirit of self-sacrifice. I have been travelling for
pleasure."
"It is right," she said, quickly, "it is good. Do not think I mean to
reproach you. Had I a son, and could afford it, I would bid him travel
for a year or two before he settled down to serious labour."
"It was my good fortune that I resolved to see the world, for it has
brought me to this happy home."
"It is happy," she said, "because it is home."
I asked Lauretta if she would play.
"In the house?" she inquired.
"No," I replied, "here, where Nature's wondrous works are closest to
us."
The zithers were brought out, and mother and daughter played. I was
not yet strong enough to bear the tension of great excitement, and I
leant back in the easy chair they had provided for me, and closed my
eyes. Whether I slept or not I should not, at the time, have been able
to decide, nor for how long I lay thus, listening to the sweet
strains. Awake or asleep, I was in a kind of dreamland, in which there
was no discordant note; and even when I heard the music merge into the
Tyrolean air which I had so often heard in fancy during my residence
in Rosemullion, and concerning which Mrs. Fortress had questioned me,
I did not regard it as strange or unusual. It was played by those to
whom I had been spiritually drawn. I recognised now the meaning of the
mysterious strains I used to hear in the silent woods. The players and
I were one; our lives were one, I who had all my life scoffed at fate,
suddenly renounced my faith. Chance had not brought us together; it
was Destiny.