statement, but—was it not true? In what other manner had he gained one
iota of this knowledge? He was not yet strong enough to stand up and
declare the truth in the face of skepticism and ridicule. Very many
people enjoy antagonism; it brings out their fighting qualities, and
they feel very strong; but ridicule hits the very heart of their
conceit, and they weakly go down before it.
Phil drove up to the door feeling very weak indeed; all things had a
familiar look; in his psychic condition, he had seen even the gray cat,
that sunned itself on the door mat, and the tall hollyhocks, standing
like red-coated sentinels, near the gate.
It seemed very proper when Amanda Cosgrove stepped forward to meet him,
although his thought of the moment before had been: “What shall I say to
her?”
Her first words were a surprise, and settled all difficulties.
“I knew that you would come! But I have waited so long!”
His way was very easy after that; he placed the papers and drawings in
her hands; as she opened the marriage certificate, she sobbed aloud.
“Oh, mother! Don’t grieve, mother!” cried Maida imploringly.
“Oh, not for grief! not for grief, my child! This is greater joy than I
have known in many a day! Poor, misguided John, he was to be pitied; but
you, my Maida, have had to bear the stain of illegitimacy all these
years! It has nearly broken my heart. I have seen your playmates slight
you; I have heard them cast it in your face, and was powerless to prove
the truth; and yet, my Maida never loved her mother the less,” she cried
hysterically.
“You could have proved it by the church record,” said Phil, in surprise
that she should be ignorant on such a point.
Such however was the fact, living within a few miles of the proof of her
marriage she and her child had been shunned and scorned, because of that
ignorance. One thing only sustained her, the firm belief that some day
all would be made right.
That evening, sitting in the twilight, she finished the story of that
awful night.
She became acquainted with John Hilyer through a young friend in the
city; none of her people liked him, they bitterly opposed her seeing
him. John, with all the fiery impetuosity of his nature, had fallen in
love with her; it was mating the dove with the fierce bird of prey; he
fairly compelled her with his fiery persistence. She at last eloped with
him, and they were married; he loved her too truly to wrong her. For
three months they traveled, he then made preparations to take her to his
home. Often his fierce love frightened her; she adored him, but she was
afraid of him.
He knew all of her family except one brother, whom he had never seen.
The whole family misjudged him in thinking that he had wronged the girl;
the brother whom he had never met endeavored to find them; but it was
not until they were returning to the old home that he obtained a trace
of them. When they were first married Amanda wished to write to her
people, but John sternly forbade it.
It was night when they reached home; John kindled a fire, seated her in
the great easy-chair with much ceremony, and with many fond words, and
fierce kisses made his wife welcome.
He had scarcely left the house to care for the team which brought them,
when her brother burst into the room; the happy smiles died upon her
lips, never to return again. She trembled with affright; she knew that
John might return at any moment and she feared his anger. She excitedly
rose to her feet, and advanced to the center of the room, and as the
accusation of shame left her brother’s lips, she sank upon her knees,
sobbing forth her denial; at first he scoffed at her words; but as
conviction of the truth was forced upon him, he begged her pardon, and
stooped to kiss her bowed head; through the uncurtained window John
witnessed the closing part of the scene.
In his hand he had a hatchet, with which to cut kindling for the fire;
in an instant the demon of jealousy sprang to life full grown; he did
not consider the absurdity of his thought—does jealousy ever consider?
His mind held no thought but that this man was his wife’s lover, and the
fancied knowledge drove him insane. He silently let himself into the
room, creeping, creeping up behind them; as the brother stooped over to
caress her, John dealt him a fearful blow; Amanda raised her face with a
horrified cry; with an infuriated epithet he struck her, the blow was
sufficiently hard to render her insensible, but her heavy garments saved
her life. Regaining consciousness, the brother fought desperately, but
against a madman he had no chance in his favor.
When his opponent lay before him, a livid corpse, still no compunction
touched his conscience; he spurned the lifeless form with his foot, and
dragged him out as he would have cast out a dead dog; he threw the body
into the well at the end of the porch, and returned to the room.
Amanda recovered consciousness during the struggle between the two men,
but she was without power either of speech or motion; horror held her
dumb, her brain only held life. She tried to cry out but could not, she
was like one in a trance, even when John lifted her in his arms, and
cast her from him, she had little sense of the horror of her situation;
something caught her, and with a sudden jerk, she felt herself
suspended. She had no idea of what held her, or what would become of her
should the fabric give way. Instinctively she threw up her arm as her
head came in contact with a timber, and for a few seconds she hung there
without consciousness enough to make an effort.
Then a sudden terror of the unknown shook her, and she made an effort to
raise herself; it was well for her that she could not see the dizzy
depth beneath her, in such situations fear is our worst enemy. She
cautiously raised herself by a board above her head, until she could
loosen her sleeve from a large hook, upon which it had caught; she then
easily raised herself until she could climb over the low curb, and stood
upon the ground outside; here she sank down, weak and trembling for a
few minutes. Then, though a chill fear assailed her, she determined to
go into the house; she wondered where her brother was, that he did not
come to her rescue; but she must go in! John, her John, would surely not
harm her knowingly; she dragged herself along wearily, holding on to the
side of the house for support; she felt so sick and tired.
She looked in through one of the long windows, the candle had been
extinguished long since by a draught of wind, the fire had burned low,
and only an occasional fitful blaze leaped up, and lighted the room
intermittently; in one of the flashes she saw John lying in the middle
of the floor.
“Poor fellow, he is sorry now that he gave way to his quick temper, and
he is lying there grieving. I wonder where Brother Ernest is?”
She pulled herself slowly into the room; the wall clock ticked loudly,
its long pendulum seeming to take a preternatural sweep; as she neared
the recumbent figure the fire crackled ominously, and the blaze flared
up redly, like blood; she shivered as she bent over the recumbent
figure. A brand fell to the earth, a bright flame shot up lighting all
the room, and the pallid face of the dead man. The horror and desolation
of all things smote her with sudden madness.
Months afterward she wandered into her old home; it was in dead of
winter, she was half naked, white haired, wan, and emaciated; her father
and mother remembered nothing, save that she was their child. For weeks
she lay on the bed, white and silent, or sat in an easy-chair beside a
sunny window, propped up with pillows, but when her baby girl was laid
in her arms she looked at it with the light of love and reason in her
sad eyes; but the same silence which had characterized her lunacy,
remained in her sanity. Of what use to explain to them those awful
incidents; they did not believe that she was John Hilyer’s wife—why
should she make further explanation to be disbelieved? She was either
morbidly wrong, or—still a little unbalanced by all that she had
endured.
She named her babe Maida Hilyer, but all persisted in calling the child
Cosgrove.
“The name doesn’t matter,” she said sadly; but later when she saw her
supposed sin visited upon the innocent child she cried aloud to the All
Merciful to right her wrong.
The ways of the All Wise are not our ways, very fortunately, or things
would be greatly muddled. The old father and mother died, but Amanda and
her child remained at the farm.
Maida was eighteen, a gentle, rarely thoughtful girl; her mother’s
sorrow seemed to have left its impress on her character and mind; she
early showed a decided artistic talent, which her mother took pains to
cultivate; all went well until Maida gained recognition; then that
jealousy which ever seems to lie in wait for unpropitious circumstances,
seized upon the name she bore to taunt her.
Poor Maida! She threw herself into her mother’s arms, ready to give up
her chosen profession. Her mother said sadly: “Be brave, my child! I
know that some day the truth will come to light!”
Maida thought continually of her mother’s words, and with all her soul
sought to reach the one who she felt was destined to help right the
grievous wrong; but she continued her work as sweetly and firmly as
though no wound was there.
One night her mother dreamed of the old house, it looked as it did the
night of the tragedy; she saw a strange form there, and she reached out
her hands supplicatingly, beseeching his help; to her spiritual sense it
was made manifest that her wish should be accomplished; she told this to
Maida, and the two talked of little else, and thought of it without
cessation, until night after night in her dreams Maida stood by that
stranger’s form, urging him to clear up the mystery.
The will inclosed with the certificate gave all of his property to his
“beloved wife, Amanda Cosgrove Hilyer.”
There was no more cause to taunt Maida, and there was no opposition to
Amanda’s taking possession of the property, which necessitated a visit
to the place. Amanda walked silently about: “Poor John! Poor John!” she
said pathetically; they looked shudderingly down into the depths of the
old well, and as though some occult influence prompted her, Amanda said,
“I wonder what became of brother Ernest. No one ever saw him after that
time; I wish that I knew!”
Philip thought it far better that she did not know, therefore he kept
silence.
The hook upon which Amanda had caught was still firmly imbedded in the
beam; in the elder Mrs. Hilyer’s day it had been used to suspend butter
and cream into the cool depths below.
Philip showed them the secret panel, and in doing so discovered another
secret for himself; the lower portion of the panel formed a drawer; as
long as the drawer remained open, the mouth of the dog would not close,
but as the drawer was shut, the mouth came together with a vicious snap,
as though the thing were possessed of life. This drawer contained all of
John Hilyer’s papers, and a large sum of money; and here also they found
the story of the lonely heart life of a man of strong feeling, and
untaught, ungoverned passions; a sad record of a noble soul gone astray.
Phil and his wife Maida are very happy, and with the gentle,
white-haired mother, they live in the pleasant cottage where Phil in his
concentration first saw them.
A NINETEENTH CENTURY GHOST.
My health had failed at last through constant work, long hours,
insufficient and irregular diet, and my nerves paid the penalty for thus
transgressing nature’s laws. Every sin brings its own punishment,
whether it be mental, moral, or physical; it may be that payment is not
exacted to-day, or to-morrow, but sooner or later the penalty will
surely follow the sin.
I was in fact mentally, as well as bodily exhausted; I had reached the
very depths of disgust; nothing seemed worth doing, everything was
useless; work was worse than useless, a foolishness; pleasure—nothing
was a pleasure. Like one of old I cried out: “All is vanity and vexation
of spirit.”
I went into the country; not to a distant railway station, to become one
of a dissatisfied mob at a crowded summer hotel, but into the very heart
of the green hills, where the limpid streams gurgled for very joy, as
they frolicked on their way to the distant river; where the woods were
so dense that the sun could only play hide and seek with the softly
fluttering leaves, once in a while touching the soft mossy carpet, or
the glossy leaves of the scarlet checkerberries lovingly.
Here I found the dearest, quaintest old houses with pointed gables under
which the noisy swallows built their nests of mud—a house with small,
many-paned windows, and great, yawning fireplaces.
The simple-hearted old people who owned the place welcomed me with
unaffected curiosity.
I dawdled in the evenings in the sitting room with grandpa and grandma
Yoeman, with no light save the flickering blaze of the hickory logs;
idly watching the pictures in the glowing coals, and dreaming strange
sweet dreams, which ever held a reflection of entrancing sadness.
The fitful blaze cast strange lights and shadows on the low ceiling;
glinting on grandma’s busy knitting needles; brightening and fading like
an uncertain life.
Occasionally one of the neighbors came in to exchange news about the
planting; to borrow or “swap” garden seeds; to speculate on the weather;
the greater reason being to see the city boarder.
Sometimes their frank inquisitiveness amused, at other times it annoyed
me.
I had been there a month; the weather had grown too warm to permit a
fire in the evening, and the sitting room looked dismal with its one
small kerosene lamp, around which the moths fluttered, and singed their
foolish wings, nearly obscuring the light.
“Drat the things,” said grandma, from time to time.
Heavy clouds lay low in the west, and the occasional low growling of
thunder indicated the coming of a storm; the breeze scarcely lifted the
muslin curtain at the window.
A rush of homesickness came over me; the gloom depressed me, and left me
wretched; the sultry atmosphere seemed unbearable; the quaint,
low-ceiled rooms seemed suffocating, and detestably ugly, and I wondered
that I could have thought them so charming.
I hurried away to my room, which was at the further end of the house, to
hide my tears. The long, draughty hall seemed filled with lurking
shadows; I thought it endless, and was sure that the doors were opening
on either side as I passed. I dashed open the door of my own room, and
for a few breathless minutes crouched in the corner most thoroughly
frightened. Presently, ashamed of my childish terror, I arose and
lighted my lamp.
I could not shake off the frightened feeling; the dim, uncertain light
of the small lamp left the corners of the room in wavering gloom; the
gathering clouds sent out their advance signals—a fitful gust of moist
wind—now and then, which suddenly flapped the curtain at the window as
though shaken by an angry hand, and swayed the old-fashioned valance to
the bed until I felt ready to scream.
I closed the blinds, turned the blaze of the lamp still higher,
endeavoring to make the room look cheerful. Ah, well! The cheerfulness
oftener comes from within than without, and I was nervously depressed
and homesick.
I was in that restless mood in which everything is irksome. I wished to
write, I could not; a thousand elusive fancies floated by me like
thistledown; my mind reached out to grasp them—a tantalizing caprice of
the brain, a feeling of mental inadequacy—and they were gone into the
realm of the goblin, Incompetent.
I threw down the pen: “What a strange thing the brain is! At times
docile and obedient; again, willful, elusive, exasperating; a thing over
which one has no control,” I cried angrily.
I walked restlessly up and down the room until I was fatigued, and
impatiently threw myself into a great armchair; taking up an unfinished
book I tried to read, I turned a page or two without comprehending a
thought; I threw the book to the furthest corner of the room in anger
and disgust.
Again I walked the floor impatiently, and in the same wretched mood,
undressed and went to bed, where I vainly endeavored to sleep.
The clouds, which had been gathering since dusk, now marshalled their
forces for battle; the vivid lightning played about the room in wildly
fantastic manner; a momentary white glare, then the darkness of Inferno.
The heavy thunder growled an accompaniment, or broke into a sharp crash,
dying away like the angry growl of the discomfited storm fiend.
The wind arose, and swung the rickety shutters to and fro throughout the
whole house with many an angry crash; the dead branches of an old
tree—standing by the corner window—tapped on the shaking pane with
ghostly fingers.
I had extinguished my light, the flame annoyed me; and now—from being
nervous—I became hysterical. Several times, as a vivid glow illumined
the room, followed by an awful crash, I screamed outright; it disturbed
no one; grandma and grandpa Yoeman slept in the far end of the house. I
became so frightened that I pulled the covers over my head and lay there
shivering.
The electrical storm had somewhat subsided, but the wind was blowing
shrilly, and the rain coming down in sheets.
Some impulse compelled me to uncover my head; a nervous sensation that
something or some one was in the room—a terror of the unseen. I drew
down the bedclothes, arose on one elbow, and gave a horrified scream,
which died away in an awful constriction of the throat.
A figure floated before my affrighted eyes; now coming toward me a pace,
then receding; disappearing only to return again. It seemed to float in
the air with a strange undulating motion. I could not turn my eyes away,
although filled with a mortal terror. It stood out like a picture, clear
and distinct, as though the body were filled with luminous light; the
turn of the head, the glint of the hair, suggestive of one whom I had
known and hated in the past—which it still drove me mad to remember—as I
perceived the likeness, or as it seemed, the reality, all fear left me;
instantly my soul was filled with wrath; all the old agony came over me
like an overwhelming flood; I seemed to feel again all the pangs caused
by the treachery and deceit of that false friend. I started up with a
bitter cry, and rushed at the hated face to rend it.
My hands clutched but empty air! The vision was as elusive as had been
my thoughts; I could grasp neither.
I crept back into bed bathed in a cold perspiration, and such was my
mental and bodily exhaustion that I sank into a stupor and knew no more
until morning.
When I awoke the sun was shining brightly, and as I jumped out of bed
and threw open the blinds my fears of the past night seemed like an
absurd dream.
The face of nature looked so refreshed after her bath; the gentle breeze
shook the blossoming lilacs, to which the raindrops still clung like
countless jewels; their odor came deliciously wafted to me as I leaned
from the open windows; the grass glittered with clinging moisture among
its tender green; a bluebird swung on the branch of a gnarled old apple
tree just bursting into bloom and let out a flood of glorious song; a
meadow lark, sitting on the single post which rose above its fellows,
accepted the challenge and sang with all his might: “Sweet, sweet,
sweet; John G. Whittier!” again and again.
Fear seemed most absurd with all this wealth of sunshine and springing
vegetation around me; but grandma Yoeman said to me as I entered the
kitchen for breakfast, “You look awfully peaked, Miss Eda; was you so
’fraid of the storm that you didn’t sleep well?”
“Oh, I’m all right, grandma!” Nevertheless, I could not eat my breakfast
of hot biscuit, golden honey, ham and eggs; although I made a pretense
of enjoying the food, as I knew that grandma tried very hard to please
me.
When night came my nerves again asserted themselves; every sound made me
start apprehensively. My window was wide open; the great old lilac
bushes seemed to lean caressingly in, their odor borne to me on the
soft, warm wind, as it playfully lifted the thin curtain.
All was so balmy, quiet and sweet that after a time it soothed my
excited nerves, and I slept soundly until morning.
Thus it continued for two weeks, until I began to think that I must have
been dreaming. I saw nothing, I heard nothing more alarming than the
rats, which scurried up and down between the plastering and the
clapboards, or gnawed industriously at the narrow base.
I had been roaming over the fields all day; I had climbed from rock to
rock down the shallow creek as happy as a child; I had lain on the last
year’s leaves, and plaited a crown of checkerberries, the glossy green
of the leaf, and the brilliant red of the berries forming a lovely
contrast. I gathered also a great bunch of wild forget-me-nots; it was
sunset when I reached home; I placed the flowers on the little stand in
front of the mirror, and hung the wreath above it, so that the mirror
reflected it like a duplicate.
I retired early, and immediately dropped to sleep. Some time during the
night I was awakened—it might have been a shutter that slammed, or a
door in one of the empty rooms—in my half-awakened state it sounded like
a pistol shot. As I started up in bed I became conscious of an unusual
commotion; the trees were swaying and creaking; the lilacs bent and
shivered; my curtains were swept straight out into the room, and as I
looked with startled eyes the luminous figure once more stood before me,
fearfully distinct; the bouquet of forget-me-nots I had gathered held in
her hand; the crown of leaves and berries resting on her head; even in
my awful fright I observed that it was tipped coquettishly over the
right side of the head, instead of being set demurely on top. She seemed
to advance and recede, waving the flowers at me derisively; again the
resemblance to that woman whom my soul loathed struck me with a
sickening sense of pain and hatred.
I had often listened to my old grandmother as she told tales of
supernatural visitations and mysterious warnings; of the death watch in
the wall, and that immediately following these prognostications some
beloved one surely departed this life; she related instances of ghostly
tappings on the headboard, and of a deadly chill, like a cadaverous
finger, creeping up and down the spine, to warn the unhappy recipient
that a stranger was treading on their future grave.
These half-forgotten teachings recurred to me with awful vividness, and
I experienced the same sensations which drove me, at that time,
shivering to my bed to lie with sleepless eyes listening for the dread
signal. I felt sure that this “presence” was a warning that my death was
near, and that _she_ brought the message, was an added menace—unless I
forgave her. I had never known hate of any other being in my life; I had
said egotistically that it was not in my nature to hate. Circumstances
show us that we have a very limited acquaintance with our capabilities
and proclivities; I learned that lesson through fiery tribulation.
Another thing which I had been taught as a child now recurred to my mind
as a torment. I had been taught that I must forgive, if I would be
forgiven, and that I must love my enemy.
How could I forgive her? Though death, or that punishment which I had
been taught would come after death, should stare me in the face, I could
not forgive the deliberate wrecking of my life’s happiness.
The vision disappeared while these tormenting thoughts raced each other
through my mind; as suddenly returning, it advanced menacingly toward
the bed.