alarm him, and with the coming of the morning sun he thought it all a
dream.
After he had his breakfast he took his easel out upon the porch; he felt
ashamed of the wasted hours which lay behind him, and determined to be
more diligent; he placed his board, took his pencil in his hand—and sat
staring straight before him. He sought vainly for an inspiration; his
brain seemed empty, imagination dead. But one object rose before his
mental vision—the face he had seen under the old hat!
He felt tempted to throw pencils and board in among the weeds. He left
the easel standing, and went for a long walk; while walking his
imagination leaped responsive to his desire; he outlined his work, and
hastened back eager to commence; but as he once more seated himself, the
same tormenting sense of inability assailed him; the same terrifying
face came ever between him and the board.
With an angry exclamation he commenced sketching; at once he lost all
feeling of uncertainty; he worked feverishly, and line by line the face
grew before him; he seemed inspired by some power other than his own; a
mole in front of the ear, a dimple in the chin, which he did not
remember having seen, grew under his hand. A face of strange beauty, but
from every lineament shone forth a fierce unconquerable nature, and at
last, as the light was fading, he threw down his pencil and stepped back
to look at it; he saw the ghostly counterpart hovering just above it; he
gave utterance to a frightened exclamation; then said angrily: “I’ve
looked so steadily at that thing, that I see double; I’ll take a run and
rest myself.”
So he carried everything within, and took his way to the lone farmhouse
visible in the distance; he found the place occupied by an elderly
couple. After some desultory talk, he questioned the woman about the old
house and its former occupants; she, nothing averse, told him the
following story:
The house was built long before her birth, by a strange, foreign looking
man, who, although he appeared to be wealthy, lived the life of a
recluse. He suddenly disappeared, and what became of him no one ever
knew; the estate was finally sold by the courts, and John Hilyer, then a
young man, and just married to pretty, winsome Rachel Drew, bought the
place, and came there to live.
A year or so later a son was born to them; John Hilyer, Jr. As young
John grew to manhood, he resembled his father in feature and physique;
but had a beauty inherited from his mother. No one ever knew the elder
Hilyer to transgress a law, human or divine—according to his own
estimation of himself. But he ruled his gentle wife as though she were a
child; and he required of John unquestioning obedience—a complete
subjugation of will, not considering that so sturdy a sapling must
possess a growth of its own. He was a hard, selfish man; without
sympathy or understanding for desires, and feelings not possessed by
himself; he was, to himself, the criterion by which to judge all things.
Added to this, he had a mean, miserly way of using religion as a
specious plea for denying others the things conducive to comfort or
pleasure; he stigmatized all such as sinful.
Young John was of a fiery, almost cruelly persistent turn; where he
loved, he loved fiercely, jealously; where he hated it was with a
violence of passion frightful to contemplate. His father allowed him no
money to spend, and no time for pleasure, or even for recreation, saying
that it was a sinful waste of time. All the love of John’s fierce heart
was poured out upon his mother, and when she laid down her hard burden,
his grief and anger were beyond words, though he cried out to his
father: “You starved her to death! You starved her body of the things
that might have prolonged her life, and her very soul of all
intellectual and spiritual food!” Some little of the truth must have
penetrated the old man’s armor of selfishness, as he turned away without
reply.
A year later his father died, and so bitter was his feeling against him
that he saw him lowered into his grave without a regret. He was like a
child let loose from restraint; he plunged into all kinds of excess. He
gathered around him a horde of evil companions, who for months made the
old place a pandemonium. John was no fool, and he soon sickened of this
life; and when one of them thought to be witty at the expense of his
mother, and her poor way of living, he grew livid with wrath, and turned
them all out, saying as he closed the door upon them, “Neither you, nor
I, are fit to mention my mother; but you shall not disgrace her room
again!”
He shut himself up in almost total solitude, with a wild idea of doing
penance for having outraged his mother’s memory. Several months later
one or two of his profligate associates sought him, he promptly shut the
door in their faces, and what he said to them he said in such a manner
that they left him undisturbed in his solitude. Then he disappeared, and
no one knew of his whereabouts for fully a year; even at this time the
house had come to have an evil reputation; people said of it that it was
an unlucky place, but they passed it with a shudder which meant much
more.
One night in early springtime, a passer-by saw a dim light in the front
room—the others had long since been stripped of the old-fashioned
furniture; the uncanny reputation of the house made him hasten by
without a glance more than he could help.
The next day the whole country was in commotion. Early in the forenoon
three large vans, loaded with furniture—which in those days was
considered elegant—drove up to the door of the farmhouse. To their
repeated knocking there was no response; one of the teamsters looked in
through the uncurtained window; he gave a horrified cry. In the center
of the room, ghastly and covered with blood, lay the body of John
Hilyer; in his right hand he still grasped the pistol with which he had
slain himself. He had bought the furniture the day before, and ordered
it delivered at the house; he seemed to be in an unusually happy mood.
What cause led to the deed none could conjecture, and during all these
years the old house had kept its secret. Not a person could be induced
to approach the place after dark, as all declared it to be haunted.
When Philip returned night had fallen, dark and solemn; he dreaded to
enter the room; the weird story impressed him with a nervousness
unaccountable to himself; he had ever been of a skeptical turn, and had
scoffed at spiritual phenomena and manifestations as creations of an
overwrought brain. He felt tempted to leave the old house this night, he
had a dread of the coming hours; then, he thought scornfully, it would
look too much like running away because of a weird story, and—some
unseen force seemed to restrain him; a whisper in the air—an unseen
hand—seemed to be holding him.
He tried to shake himself out of the feeling, and said pettishly: “What
nonsense this is!—Much better to have gone on!” but he would not,
neither could he go.
He gathered a great armful of wood from the old barn at the far end of
the lot, and soon the blaze leaped up brightly; the room grew
oppressively warm, the heat, together with the loss of sleep the night
before, lulled his senses into drowsy nodding; then he dropped into deep
sleep, with his head thrown back against the dark cushion, the dying
fire playing over his sun-browned face fitfully.
The night waned; the fire died to a bed of embers, still he slept
quietly on.
Of a sudden he opened his eyes, wide awake on the instant; he did not
stir, but he felt sure—sure that a hand was resting lightly on his
shoulder, that a face almost touched his own; it seemed not the presence
of one unknown, but rather of one for whom he had been waiting; he had
not before realized this fact, but it now dawned upon him with solemn
gladness. At once he seemed to know that it was for this that he had
waited; like a dawning light it occurred to him that there is no such
thing as accident, that all things proceed from cause to effect, that
the intelligent power which is the source of all things _cannot_ forsake
His children; the law which is immutable to the least of His children is
just as unalterable for Him; he realized that he had been led in this
path. He did not seem to be thinking this; it was shown to him through
the spiritual sense as though the search light of the soul had been
thrown upon the facts for his guidance; his every physical effort seemed
to be absorbed in the sense of hearing.
Some force other than his own compelled him to turn around; at that
instant a sob sounded close beside him; it thrilled him like a blast of
cold wind, but he was bound to his chair as though with iron bands.
About the middle of the room he heard a rustling sound, but saw nothing
except the indistinct shadows called forth by the dying fire; then a cry
smote his ear, a sound full of fear and anguish; gradually upon his
sight grew the forms of a man and woman in agitated conversation; he
stern and angry; she, with her face in her hands, sobbed bitterly; this
appeared to melt the man’s anger, and bending above her bowed figure he
kissed her bright hair. Behind him crept the man whose face Phil had
seen beneath the battered hat, and dealt the other man a terrible blow
with a hatchet; the woman raised her face with an appalled shriek, and
with a mad ferocity he struck her to the floor; as she sank down the
assailed man appeared to recover somewhat, and sought to defend himself;
Phil could see the straining muscles, the tigerish ferocity of the
assailant’s countenance, the failing struggles of the man on the
defensive, a falling back inertly; when he lay ghastly, and cadaverous,
the assailant seized him and dragged him out; not as one in fear, but
fiercely, as though desirous of putting something he loathed out of his
sight. Presently he returned, and stood looking down at the woman with
strangely working features; he brought his hands together despairingly,
as though bewailing his work; then a sudden wave of passion seemed to
sweep over him, a wild frenzy of mingled love and hate; for an instant
he clasped her form in mad embrace; then as though he loathed even the
inanimate flesh, he bore her out of the house as he had carried the man.
Phil could hear the fierce panting breath, and the vicious tread upon
the porch outside.
For an instant Phil lost all consciousness of the room, of all
circumstances, of even the heavy tread outside—it was as though his very
spirit swooned; when he again became cognizant of his surroundings the
murderer was peering through the open door; his eyes shone out of his
ghastly face with a fierce, yet half affrighted, maniacal light. He
strode across the room to the bed, and with angry gestures, he pulled
the clothing hither and thither; at last he seemed to find that for
which he sought, a small packet tied in oiled silk. He walked to a panel
in the wall, directly opposite the foot of the bed; he grasped the
hound’s head by the muzzle, and it looked as though the animal sprang to
life; its eyes rolled wildly, it opened its jaws as though to devour the
assailant, who tossed the packet into the wide-open mouth, which closed
with a snap as though appeased by the sacrifice. The scene faded away;
exhaustion held Phil a prisoner until far into the next day.
He returned to a consciousness of his surroundings with a shiver of
affright, but as he looked out at the sunlit fields, and smelled the
fresh dewy atmosphere, he thought his vision of the past night but the
illusions of a dream.
“This close, stuffy room is quite enough to give one a nightmare,” he
said, stretching his limbs; which felt sore and bruised; he also had a
horrible sense of exhaustion.
He walked into the garden, and bathed his face in the stream; there was
such fresh life in the atmosphere that his soul filled with the
elasticity of hope, and his spirits rose to exaltation; after all, what
is energy but hope put to use?
Yesterday his imagination lay dormant; to-day his purposed picture
formed itself in his mind, in lineaments of beauty and glowing color. He
ate his breakfast in healthy mood; he said to himself: “I’ll get out of
this witch’s den to-day! I wouldn’t spend another night here—” a touch
light as thistledown grazed his cheek; a breath from the unseen—a
pressure on his shoulder, as of an invisible hand; he felt, without
knowing the cause, that he could not go.
He arose and went into the house: “I wonder!” though what he wondered he
did not say.
He took the sketch of the head he had drawn yesterday, and held it to
the light, turning it from side to side. It was, line for line, the face
of the murderer as he saw it in his vision; as he sat regarding the
drawing thoughtfully, another phase of the vision—was it vision or
dream? though the distinction between a vision and a dream might be a
nice point for argument—but his mind dwelt with strange insistence upon
the packet which he had seen put away.
“If I find that parcel it will prove that it was a vision, and it will
determine my next step; though why I should go prying around this old
house I do not know. The sketch of the head and this illusion also, may
both be the effect of that old woman’s story; but—but—it doesn’t tally.
Well, here goes for the next move!” he said.
Was it but fancy, that a soft, happy sigh reached his ear? or was it but
the summer breeze?
How like the unbroken links of a chain it all appeared; he had planned
none of it, he could never have imagined himself in such a rôle; some
volition other than his own had led him in a well-prepared way. No
abrupt breaks, no jumps, no indecisions are necessary in our lives; when
such is the case we are in fault; we fail to heed the signboards and the
danger signals; we are shocked when we halt on the verge of a precipice,
or disgusted when we find that we have walked weary miles on the wrong
road, all because we read the signs to suit our fancied pleasure, or
plunged ahead and read them not at all.
His exalted, happy mood left him; he grew restless and nervous; he was
conscious of a stir all about him, a continuous vibration; he could not
sit still. At last he arose and walked over to the panel which he had,
in his vision, seen opened; he passed his hands over the ornamental
head, searching for a screw, bolt, or anything to indicate that any
portion of it was movable; it seemed one solid piece of carving.
“This is all nonsense! I have dreamed the whole thing!” But though he
derided, he could not rid himself of his unrest, or the intuition of a
sweet presence urging him on.
He examined the alternate panel, and could detect no difference; he
again returned, grasping the muzzle as he had seen the murderer do; he
started, it felt cold to his hand; he tapped it with his knife, it gave
forth a metallic sound; this was iron, the others, wood. He trembled
with excitement as he searched for a hinge, spring, or other means of
ingress; he no longer doubted being intuitively led. He placed himself
as nearly as possible in the position he had witnessed, and grasped the
muzzle in the same manner; a hot flush passed over his face, for a
single instant his knees grew weak with superstitious fear as he felt
the yielding of a tiny spring beneath the ends of his fingers. He
pressed firmly upon it; the jaws flew apart, the eyes rolled so fiercely
and so suddenly that it made him start back in affright; he thrust his
arm into the opening thus formed, and drew forth the package wrapped in
oiled silk, just as he had seen it in his vision—he could no longer
doubt its being such. Something else he saw, but a warning click caused
him to withdraw his hand; none too soon, the jaws closed like a steel
trap.
He eagerly unfolded the parcel, it seemed that he knew previous to
opening it what it would contain; the marriage certificate of John
Hilyer, and Amanda Cosgrove.
He returned to his chair and sat looking at the paper thoughtfully; it
was dated from a distant city, but he knew in some occult way that
Amanda Cosgrove was of the country. I cannot express it better than by
saying that the name wafted to him a breath of country air; the odor of
buttercups, and a glint of their gold.
The package held another paper—a sealed will.
He drew a breath of relief, and experienced a glad sense of freedom, as
though until now he had been bound to some onerous duty. He sat long
with his hand pressed over his eyes, his senses deadened to all outside
impressions; repeating over many times the name of Amanda Cosgrove;
formulating slowly and distinctly his desire to see her.
At first all things waved and swayed, a conglomeration of darkness, shot
with rays of light and color; gradually, there evolved from this a hilly
country, verdant with grass, and beautified with many trees; a sunny
valley with carpet of a brighter hue, and fields of waving grain. A low,
picturesque cottage stood in the shelter of a grove; before the door
stood a woman whose hair was like silver, and the face though sad and
worn did not look old. She shaded her eyes with her hand, and looked
wistfully in his direction; dimly outlined within the doorway
shone—fairly shone—a face which his spirit recognized as her whose hand
had rested upon his shoulder, whose spirit presence had been his guide
in this search.
Gradually the picture faded, and so great was his sense of loss that for
a time his mind seemed a perfect blank. Then, a fever possessed him to
sketch the cottage, the valley, the fair hillside, and the persons he
had seen, and with whom he had been in spiritual communion. He worked
with an eagerness and joy never before experienced, he delighted in
every detail; he touched the fair, dimly seen face lovingly,
lingeringly.
Three days later he left the old house; a half regret assailed him as it
disappeared from view, for here he first saw the pure spirit whose
occult influence was lifting him to a higher and purer life. He went
direct to the city named in the marriage certificate; he found a record
of it which gave that city as the residence of Amanda Cosgrove. He could
find no further trace of her; the time was so distant, and the clew so
slight; it was like searching for a drop of water in the sea to endeavor
to find one insignificant individual amid the shifting population of a
large city.
It would be less than interesting to follow Philip through his frequent
and grievous disappointments.
During all the time a change was taking place in all his thoughts and
feelings; from the _ennui_ and disgust of the former time and former
associates, he had grown into a healthy, hearty happiness in the
present; putting the evil of the past wholly behind him, living in the
good of each day as each day dawned; trying honestly and joyously to
reach upward to a higher standard of thought and work. The presence of
the sweet spirit was ever near him, prompting his laggard efforts,
renewing his courage, and his faith in himself; chiding if at any time
the evil spell of the old ways tempted him. I must do him the justice to
say that it seldom occurred, because he had reached this happy
knowledge, that so long as truth abides life cannot be wholly worthless,
because the very life of hope is in truth. He came to feel a
compassion—in the place of the past hatred—for his former associates,
whose minds had become diseased; so long as we hate we too are touched
with moral leprosy. He saw that none were so degraded but that some germ
of good yet remained for future development; for good is the seed of the
Infinite, and He will not destroy his own, though it be but in the
proportion of one grain to a mountain of sand.
How strange that we should be taught that even the hairs of our heads
are numbered—the mere material—and then believe that one pure spiritual
ray shall go out in darkness. It may not be that the germ will be
developed in this plane, but when the limitations and our own
degradation of the flesh shall cease, the seed will be planted and
fostered in the Beyond, and the trend of good can be no otherwise than
toward perfection; all life must grow toward the light. Filled with such
thoughts as these, he worked faithfully and conscientiously.
One lovely afternoon he visited the art gallery; he had not been there
for some time, and he went prepared to enjoy the treat; he took with him
his favorite book, and sought a cozy corner; for a time he read, then he
wandered among the paintings until his eyes were satisfied with beauty;
again returning to his corner and his book, enjoying his feast of good
things.
It was growing late in the day; he would make one more excursion, then
return to his room, feeling that it had been a well-spent afternoon. He
walked slowly down the room, looking abstractedly upon the floor;
thinking how strange that he had not been able to obtain a single trace
of Amanda Cosgrove; the thought struck him coldly—that he saw John
Hilyer carry her out as though dead—yet he felt that she still lived. He
sighed, for several days he had not felt the sweet, haunting Presence;
he missed it as one does a dear, familiar friend; he longed for the soft
thrilling vibration.
Preoccupied with thought, he did not observe a lady standing before one
of the paintings, and awkwardly stepped upon her dress; he turned to
apologize, but speechless, held his hat poised in the air. Meeting a
person for the first time, did never the feeling assail you that this
one was not a stranger to you, although time or place of meeting you
could not recall? So it was with him; his heart leaped in recognition,
yet—he could not recall—what? It made his brain dizzy, his heart beat
tumultuously, thought was in disorder; the words he uttered seemed to
him to have been spoken before, he was merely repeating them; he was as
one in a dream, doing things without conscious volition. He went through
the apology mechanically, stiffly, though he longed with all his soul to
reach out his hands and clasp her in sweet embrace, but he turned coldly
away, to be confronted by a picture; a country scene; the sloping hills,
the woody heights, the velvet carpet of grass, the waving grain, the
cottage half-embowered in trees, a woman with upraised hand, looking, as
though to peer into futurity; line for line as he had seen it in his
concentration, as he had painted it since; the coloring, the touch
seemed identical.
He stooped to read the name: “The Hope of a Lifetime, by Maida
Cosgrove.” He uttered an exclamation of astonishment; the lady turned,
regarding him strangely; he was intently studying the picture, and she
turned again to depart. By what narrow chances do we lose or gain the
desire of a lifetime, the fruition of our dearest hope—and humanity
says—How sad an accident!
A gentleman passing raised his hat, with the salutation:
“Good-afternoon, Miss Cosgrove!”
Philip wheeled suddenly, trembling in every fibre of his body; like a
brilliant sunlight the knowledge that this fair woman was she whose
spirit had hovered over him, elevating and encouraging him, broke in
upon his intelligence. The strange man was regarding him curiously; Phil
removed his hat, and addressed her in a formal manner: “I beg pardon! I
am Philip Aultman. Will you excuse my boldness—are you related to Amanda
Cosgrove?” he asked excitedly.
“She is my mother,” replied Maida with quiet dignity.
“I have some papers of value belonging to her, which I think she would
be glad to obtain,” he explained.
The whole occurrence seemed informal, but a feeling of sympathy lay
between them, as of old acquaintanceship. Philip spoke of the picture,
and Maida replied that it was her home. It was with strange sensations
that Philip the next day approached the house. He had given Maida no
knowledge of the character of the papers in his possession, yet she had
exhibited no surprise or curiosity, but rather as though she knew and
appreciated his mission; he felt himself in a very awkward position.
How should he account to Amanda Cosgrove for their possession? What
excuse had he for searching out her whereabouts? What did it concern
him? He found it hard—impossible to answer these questions to himself;
how then should he answer to her satisfaction? Could he say to her that
it was through psychic knowledge?