doors crashed, blinds rattled and shook; trees swayed and groaned
dismally; the low of the frightened cattle was borne on the wings of the
blast; a dog howled dismally from out the darkness. I could look no
more; I covered my head and shivered with mortal terror. The following
morning I was unable to rise; there was no questioning in my mind. I
felt sure that I was doomed; that the warning was not only of my demise,
but of future punishment as well, unless I forgave the bearer of that
message. This last thought continually tortured me. How could I force
forgiveness? I might profess it, I might even try and cheat myself into
thinking it; but the turn of a head, the movement of a hand, the tone of
a voice, would bring a never-to-be-forgotten picture before my mind,
which would give the lie to all my pretense. I hated with just cause,
and should I forgive, would I not thereby place myself on a level with
that creature of debasement? Could I stoop to such forgiveness, and
retain my own self-respect? No! no! no! I could pass by; I could leave
her and her ways to the inevitable punishment that must follow her
deeds; I could avoid being in anywise the instrument of vengeance in the
hand of Providence, though Providence walked by my side and whispered in
my ear temptingly; but forgive her and respect myself I could not; by
condoning the offense I should actually sanction it.
Oh, the agony of that incessant thinking! Fighting the battle over and
over again, only to cry out despairingly: “I cannot! I cannot!” Day by
day my strength diminished; night after night ended in horror and
despair.
Sometimes for a night or two the ghostly presence did not appear, then,
as hope began to dawn, it suddenly stood leering at me motionlessly; at
other times it undulated, advanced and receded, in maddening fashion. I
made all necessary preparations for the end which I felt must be very
near; there were none who would mourn me greatly; although I had but one
enemy, yet I had few friends; I could not open my heart to the whole
world.
I had lived as nearly right as I knew—now another question added to the
torment of my mind; was I to be punished for that which I did not know?
How well I remembered the grim old preacher, who, pacing back and forth,
told us Sabbath after Sabbath that we were certain of punishment because
we did not know, that we must repent; that all were born in sin. I used
to think how much better it would have been not to have been born at all
than to have to be sorry for something you did not know anything about.
He looked so savage as he pounded the pulpit that I used to slip off the
seat and try and hide; I thought he was going to help the Lord punish
us, and I tried so hard to be sorry, although I did not know for what.
Now I was troubled fearing that this was a truth; we are so much more
lazy than we wish to admit; we drift with circumstances, and call it
fate; we crouch down and receive degrading blows because it is so much
easier than fighting for the right. Letting things drift had ever been
my weakness, I so enjoyed being lazily happy; now I was tormented with
fear of the sins of omission.
All through the day I dreaded the coming of the night, and the detested
vision; thus day brought me no solace because of harassing doubts, and
too perplexing questions. I had irritably begged grandma Yoeman to take
the hated wreath and flowers out of my sight, and from that day to this
their sweet, woody odor turns me faint and sick.
The days lengthened with the fullness of summer, the petals of the apple
blossoms covered the ground with their fragrant snow, and now the green
globes hung from the bending boughs, and the old-fashioned garden was a
wealth of color; still I lay languid and helpless, in the low-ceiled
room—unheeding the beauty outside—as I lay with my face turned
hopelessly to the wall; or if perchance I looked out of the open window,
it was but to sigh despairingly: “I shall soon pass away from all things
earthly.”
I had watched in vain for the tormenting presence for the past two weeks
until my mind was in that strange paradoxical state in which I dreaded,
yet anxiously awaited its appearance. I believed that one more visit
would surely be the last.
Still another week passed, a week of dread anticipation; the day had
been so invigorating that in spite of my morbid imaginings, my
overwrought nerves loosed their tension. I had in the afternoon sat by
the open window for an hour or two, drinking in the balm of the
atmosphere, and when in the dusk I again crept into the bed I felt
fatigued, and lying down was restful; the fresh, clean sheets smelled of
lavender, and the soft mattress seemed fitted to every curve of my body.
I nestled my head in the pillow, and with the soft wind blowing through
the wide-open window, at once dropped asleep. Once or twice in the
earlier part of the night I opened my eyes, drowsily conscious that the
moon was lighting up the room with pale radiance, also vaguely realizing
an unusual sense of peace and comfort.
It must have been very near morning when I awoke with a sinking sense of
fright; perspiration stood on my brow cold as death dew; I thought that
my hour of dissolution had come. Only the faintest ray of moonlight was
visible, as it was disappearing behind a bank of clouds in the west; the
wind was whistling shrilly through the trees, and into the room through
the open window, between which and the bed, undulated, receded, or
darted viciously forward the detestable specter.
For a single instant my whole being sank inertly; I thought the very
elements in coalition with my tormenter; then a sudden anger, or
antagonism—assailed me. This fiend had wrecked my material life, through
my having been taught that resistance was wrong; that if “thine enemy
smite thee on one cheek, turn to him also the other.”
Should I allow this old parody upon truth to drive me beyond the plane
of material existence?
Since evolution began—and who can date its commencement?—resistance has
been the law governing the survival of the fittest; can that natural law
be wrong? The fact that the possessor of the greater power of resistance
survives is practical demonstration of its justice and right. I had in
the past weakly let go of home and happiness; now a rage assailed me as
fierce as a devastating forest fire; I cried out as I leaped from the
bed, “I will not succumb!” I rushed madly at the detested semblance; the
hateful leer appeared to grow more diabolical, the poise of the head
more insolent, as it evaded me. There came a blast which tore at the
shutters, and dashed the old mirror with a crash to the floor; at that
instant the specter dashed wildly toward me, swung dizzily around, and
it seemed to my excited imagination that the features assumed an
appalled look; a crash at the rear end of the room caused me to turn my
head, a thousand misplaced stars seemed scattered over the floor,
scintillating in the gloom.
I turned again to renew my warfare—but the specter was nowhere to be
seen. I stood bewildered awaiting its return; but it came no more, and
with a shiver—half of fright, half of cold—I closed the window and crept
into bed; as I pulled the blankets about me, and snuggled down into the
pillows, I felt a comforting sense of having defeated my adversary; from
that beatific state I fell to musing upon the many contradictory
teachings of this life, and idly wondering which was right, or if all
were in error, and thus I drifted into slumber.
Grandma Yoeman was in a state of terrible excitement the next morning
over the devastation of the storm.
“To think, I’ve had that looking-glass ever since I was married! I do
hope it won’t bring you any bad luck, Miss Eda!” said she plaintively.
“Oh, nonsense, grandma! From this hour my better health and my happiness
are assured,” I replied gayly. I had such perfect confidence that I
should no more be troubled by the uncanny vision that it made me very
happy.
As I was lazily putting on my clothing, grandma’s lamentations broke out
afresh: “There’s that picture that my niece Mandy painted, broke all to
bits!”
“I wonder that I never saw the picture,” said I, more to comfort grandma
by an interest in her misfortune than for any other reason.
“Oh, I covered it up to keep the dust from it; it was real purty, jest
shone at night like anything,” she concluded regretfully.
From that time on, I danced about the old house, and dreamed under the
gnarled apple trees, or among the sweet-scented clover, as happy as it
is possible to be—except for one longing pain.
I seemed to see that I might, and ought to be, uplifted, exalted above
all evil; thus gaining the right from that elevation of purity, to pity
and forgive the soul so warped as to prefer evil to good. I now
understood that it was like crossing a bridge spanning a foul stream;
one might shudder at the offensive sight, but no soil or attaint could
touch even the outer garments. I let the sweet air of heaven blow all my
bitterness away; the birds and flowers spoke only of love and harmony,
and their sweet language taught me that I too had sinned, although I had
transgressed simply because I did not understand that I need neither
fraternize nor hold aloof, but walk my way in peace and quietude;
inasmuch as it lies not in the power of any person to wound my feelings,
or to injure me beyond the material; that within me, only, lies the
weakness which makes that possible.
As I sat watching the great, lumbering bumble-bees crawl in and out of
the hollyhocks, thinking what fortunate fellows they were, to taste only
the sweets of life, there came a quiet step behind me, and a hand was
laid upon my shoulder which thrilled me from head to foot; I essayed to
rise, but my traitor limbs refused their support; the well-remembered
voice sounded afar off, but—oh, so sweet!
“I have come to ask your forgiveness, and to acknowledge my wrong;
little woman, will you be merciful?”
I cried out sharply: “But how can I trust you? You promised before, and
deceived me so bitterly!” the pent-up agony vibrating through my voice.
Very gently he answered me: “I acknowledge that I did; but give me one
more trial—a chance to prove my better self to you—you shall never
regret it. Oh, Eda! Look at this tree upon which you are sitting;
through some mishap it grew warped and unsightly; but see! it has
changed its course, and is growing steadily upward, bearing an abundance
of wholesome fruit. Can’t you believe that I, too, will mend my course,
and that the fruit of my future life will be good?”
The earnest, thrilling voice was as sweetest music to my ear; my heart
was so hungry, but—a memory—“But, oh, that woman!” I cried.
“My wife, let us never again mention her! At last I see——”
Manlike, he wished no mention made of his wrongdoing—that he put it
behind him he considered sufficient. A sharp pain went through my heart,
that all my agony was to be put aside so lightly; but—he was my husband.
I sat a moment irresolute, then placed my hands in his, and replied, “As
you wish; but let there be no looking backward, let us both live aright
each day, and we shall not fail of being happy.”
I made instant resolve to put those higher and better thoughts into
practical use, and I have never had cause to regret so doing. Neither
the ghost of my enemy, nor the wraith of a regret have since visited me.
WHAT BECAME OF THE MONEY?
Marjorie Melton and Henry Laselle, were an ideally happy couple; for
once the course of true love seemed to run smoothly, thus belying the
old adage. Marjy was the pet and heiress of an old aunt with whom she
lived. Henry was a young lawyer, with a fair amount of practice, a good
reputation, and every prospect of success. Aunt Hattie—as she was
lovingly called—lived as befitted her station, on one of the most
fashionable avenues.
One Monday evening Aunt Hattie received a large sum of money from the
sale of property; as it was after banking hours she locked it away in a
small safe in her sitting room. Henry and Marjy sat by the table
reading, and commenting on a work of occult science; Henry taking the
stand that it was like hunting for a half a dozen pearls in a mountain
of sand; Marjy defending the theories with much warmth, as much because
of their beauty as because of their truth. Hypnotism was the subject
under discussion, Henry declaring that he considered the whole thing
“fudge.”
Aunt Hattie locked away her money, and as she passed the table, she
tossed a slip of paper on which was written the combination of the safe,
to Marjy, saying, “Put that away, please; it is a pity that one must
become so forgetful; I have but this instant locked that safe, yet I
cannot even now, remember the combination.” Her tone expressed such
intense disgust with herself that Henry and Marjy laughed merrily.
Henry picked up the slip of paper and read the numbers and letters
aloud: “I’ll wager that I could repeat that a week from to-night!”
“I’ll take that bet; you have a good memory, but I think not quite equal
to that; however I’ll put this out of your sight, so that you cannot
study it;” answered she teasingly, as she hid the paper.
He left the house an hour or so later, and nothing further was said on
the subject. After he reached home the letters and figures kept
repeating themselves over and over in his mind, until he heartily tired
of them; even after he retired they continued to dance before his mental
vision, until he angrily exclaimed aloud:
“Oh, confound the things! Small chance of my forgetting them!”
He had barely reached his office the next morning when the telephone
bell ran sharply; Aunt Hattie answered his, “Hello!”
“Hello! Henry, is that you?”
“Yes; what is the trouble? Anything wrong up there?”
“No—that is—nothing in particular. Say, Henry, did you take that money
last night?”
“Aunt Hattie! Why should you think that I would take your money?” he
cried indignantly.
“I thought that perhaps you did it to tease me; can’t you come to the
house for a few minutes?”
“Certainly,” he replied.
He had been very busy all the morning, and had not once thought of the
combination, but no sooner was he on his way to the house than, with
tantalizing pertinacity, it began repeating itself over, again and
again. Marjy met him at the door, she had evidently been weeping; he
caught her hands: “Why, Marjy, what is the matter? Have you been crying
over the loss of that money?” he asked in astonishment.
She raised her eyes to his face, a troubled questioning in their depths,
“Did you not take it, Henry?”
He drew back in hurt surprise: “What do you mean, Marjy? Do you think
that I would take your aunt’s money?” he asked indignantly.
Marjy burst into tears: “Auntie—Auntie—” she stammered, and there she
stopped, unable to proceed.
He finished the sentence for her; “Thinks me a thief,” he said grimly.
She hung her head and sobbed: “You—you are the only person—beside auntie
and me, who knew the combination, you know!” she paused, then continued
desperately, “You remember that you boasted that you could repeat it a
week from that day——”
“I should think so! I haven’t been able to get it out of my mind for one
minute since; but what has that to do with your aunt’s money?”
“No other person knew anything about it,” she said naïvely.
“That explains your strange look when you hid the paper; you suspected
that I would steal the money.”
“Oh, Henry! I had no thought of such a thing!”
“Perhaps not, but you looked it!” he replied hotly.
She drew herself up angrily: “I tell you that there was no such thought
in my mind; it must have had birth in your own consciousness; you
remember the old adage about ‘fleeing when no man pursueth.’” She tossed
her pretty head high in the air, and walked into the sitting room; he
followed sullenly behind.
Here everything was in disorder; chairs were thrown about; books lay all
over the floor with their leaves fluttered open; window drapings were
shaken out of their usual prim folds; the piano cover lay in the middle
of the room; and at the instant of their entrance Aunt Hattie was on her
knees tearing frantically at the edge of the carpet. She turned a red
and disheveled countenance toward them.
“Come and help me with this,” said she shortly.
“For what are you tearing up the carpet?” asked Marjy.
Auntie stopped her work, and dropped on to her knees staring blankly.
“Looking for the money, ninny!” she ejaculated in a tone of intense
disgust.
“But Auntie, you put it in the safe!”
She looked bewildered for a moment, then said fatuously, “Did I? I
thought perhaps I hid it under the carpet. Oh, yes; I remember! Henry
had the combination; there wasn’t any one knew it except you two,” she
finished angrily.
Marjy turned a reproachful glance on Henry, who stood looking angrily at
auntie; she returned an equally angry gaze.
“I do not think it kind of you to play such tricks upon me; give me back
the money, and have done with such foolishness!” said she.
“Do you really think that I took your money?” he questioned hotly.
“Of course! There was no one else knew the combination but you——”
“Oh, confound that combination! I’ve heard it until I’m sick of it! Your
niece knew it as well as I—why not suspect her? She was in the house, I
was not!”
“Yes, that’s so! Marjy did you take it?” fatuously.
Marjy gave Henry a withering look: “What nonsense!” she cried.
“Well, some one took it!” gloomily iterated auntie, as she continued to
lift up books, and flutter open papers.
“You had best have a detective look into the matter,” said Marjy coldly.
“Oh, not for the world! I wouldn’t be so disgraced!” cried auntie
excitedly.
“I do not see how you are to ascertain the truth otherwise,” remarked
Henry.
“Oh, dear! I wouldn’t care so much for the money—though it’s too much to
lose—but to have to suspect those in whom we have placed so much
confidence, and one’s very own, is awful!” wailed Aunt Hattie, not very
lucidly.
Henry frowned angrily, then Marjy shot him a disdainful glance, and Aunt
Hattie glared reproachfully at both.
Henry turned abruptly, lifting his hat in a sudden access of politeness;
“I bid you a very good day; if you wish to arrest me, you will find me
in my room, two doors away; or in my office on Tremont Street,” saying
which he strode angrily away.
Marjy ran up to her room and locked herself in, despite her aunt’s
shrill cry: “Come here, Marjy, and help me to look for that money! Oh, I
must find it, it cannot be lost!”
Notwithstanding her asseveration, it did seem to be lost. She one moment
declared that she was positive that she had locked it in the safe—and
scolded and reproached Marjy—then, she railed about Henry, and how
impossible it was to trust any one; taking another turn, she doubted
herself; she did not know whether or not she put it in the safe at all.
“It might be that I took it out after I put it there, and thought it
more secure in some other place; but of course I never once thought that
Henry would rob me, and he pretended to love you,” she would grumble.
Then she would fall to tearing things to pieces again.
Whenever her aunt accused her, Marjy only cried out impatiently: “Oh,
nonsense, auntie! What would I do with it?”
“I do not know, I am sure!” weakly.
But when she assailed Henry, then Marjy flew into a tempest of passion.
“You know that he could not have touched it; we were all in the room
together until he left, and I went to the front door, and closed and
locked it after him; he lives two doors away, he couldn’t very well come
through the walls,” indignantly.
“That’s so! You must have taken it, then!” hysterically.
“Much more likely that you have hidden it away yourself. Oh, dear! My
life is ruined on account of that miserable money! Henry scarcely speaks
to me, and says that he will never step inside the house again!”
“I do not see why you should mourn over a thief!” answered Aunt Hattie.
“He isn’t a thief. I would as soon think that you took it yourself,” she
cried wrathfully.
Aunt Hattie grew pale with anger: “Take care what you say, miss,” she
retorted with quivering lips.
The whole household arrangement, mind, morals and manners, seemed
demoralized. Never before had an ill-natured word been spoken between
auntie and Marjy. Auntie had been like the placid autumn day, Marjy like
the blithe spring sunshine. Now everything was like a draught of bitter
water. Henry went about his work listlessly.
The days dragged along tiresomely, Marjy and Henry met occasionally, and
although no word was spoken, by tacit consent the engagement was ended.
Marjy went nowhere and would receive no company. Gossips commented—there
must be something wrong; a bird of the air whispered—there always is a
telltale bird—that Henry was a defaulter; then, rumor had it, a common
thief. A kind friend? told him the report—there is also always the kind
friend—he was raging. He declared that he would leave the place, that he
would not stay here in disgrace; he surely thought that Marjy or her
aunt had circulated the report, and he was furious over it.
A little reflection caused him to change his mind about leaving: “I have
done no wrong, and I will not run! If they think to drive me away by
that scheme, they will get left, that’s all!” said he grimly. Meanwhile
some one told Marjy that _she_ heard that “Henry and Marjy had stolen
money from her auntie, and had intended to elope; that Auntie Nelson had
caught them before they could get out of the street door; she took the
money from Henry, and forbid him the house. It isn’t true is it, dear?”
concluded she.
Marjy astonished the gossip by such an outburst of temper as frightened
her out of the house, after which she locked herself in her own chamber,
to sob and cry for the rest of the day. Everything was as miserable as
it was possible to be; Marjy would go out no more in daylight, but after
nightfall, with a heavy veil over her face, she would steal out for a
walk as though she were some guilty thing.
One night as she passed Henry’s room she paused and looked up at the
window; he sat beside a small table on which was placed a lamp, his head
bowed upon his arms in an attitude of despair; he raised his face, the
change and melancholy look filled Marjy’s heart with grief. He arose
wearily and began pacing to and fro. Marjy dropped her face in her hands
and sobbed bitterly; the moon, which had been under a cloud, came out a
flood of silver radiance; Marjy leaning against a low railing on the
opposite side of the street, was, unconsciously to herself, in the full
glow.
“Marjy! Marjy!” called a voice softly.
She started in affright; but Henry caught her hands, and held them fast.
“Marjy, Marjy, my pet, don’t cry!”
She made him no answer, but sobbed hysterically in his arms.
“What is it, Marjy, is there more trouble?” he asked, feeling—as most
men do in the presence of a woman’s tears—perfectly helpless.
“No! no! There doesn’t need be more trouble! There isn’t any happiness
left; auntie is so cross and suspicious—she suspects you, me, and even
herself; for whole days at a time she doesn’t speak, and if I take a
book to read she looks at me as reproachfully as though I were doing
some wrong thing; if I look sad she says—she says—I am mourning over a
thief, and that makes me mad, because I know it isn’t true!” she
finished excitedly.
“God bless you, Marjy! That is the first bit of comfort I have received
since that miserable night,” he answered.
“How could you imagine that I would think you guilty of such a thing?”
reproachfully.
“How happens it that you are out so late at night?” he asked
irrelevantly.
“I cannot go out in daytime, people say such awful things about us that
it makes me ashamed;” sobbing hysterically. “When I saw you looking so
despondent it just broke my heart.”
“Oh, my dear, don’t cry!” helplessly.
She smiled at him through her tears: “Well, I will not, you have enough
to bear as it is; but why were you so sad to-night?”
He put his hand under her chin, lifting up her face: “First, and
greatest; I thought I had lost that which was dearest to me of aught on
earth; I thought that you believed me guilty of taking that money, as
you both said repeatedly that I was the only one who knew that accursed
combination—and do you know, Marjy, that I can no more get it out of my
mind than I can fly. By day and night it haunts me until I am very near
insane. I see it before me like sparks of fire; I heard it iterated, and
reiterated, and nothing that I can do rids me of the torture; frightful
or grotesque pictures are formed, from the midst of which your aunt’s
face looks out at me with wide-open, reproachful eyes.”
A shudder swept over him at the remembrance; he drew her into closer
embrace, and said, “Little comforter! It is sweet to know that you have
faith in me, when friends and clients are deserting me; some one is
busily reporting the whole affair, with numerous embellishments;” after
a moment’s pause, he continued: “Do you think that auntie would spread
the report?”
“Oh, no! No matter what she may say to me, she would not breathe a word
of it to others. I must return to the house, or someone will see us
talking, and there will be more reports,” added Marjy laughingly. They
parted with many fond words, and Marjy went home happier than she had
been in many a day. This was but one of many meetings.