nobler sight than Gnulemah in her simple, clinging tunic, whose heavy
golden hem kissed her polished knee, while her round and clear-cut
arms were left bare. After the first glance, her lover lowered his
eyes, lest he should forget all else in gazing at her. But the blood
mounted silently to his cheeks and burned there. As for her,--she
trusted Balder more freely than herself.
Manetho was laid gently on the broad robe, and so upraised and borne
forwards; Balder at the head, Gnulemah at the foot. Heavy, heavy is a
lifeless body; but the man had cause to wonder at the woman's fresh
and easy strength. What a contrast was she to the disfigured creature
who hobbled moaning beside the litter, the relaxed hand clutched in
both hers, kissing it again and again with grotesque passion! Yet both
were women, and loved as women love.
The granite statues sitting serene at the doorway maintained the stony
calm which, only, deserves the name of supernatural. These passed, the
flowery heat of the dim conservatory brought them to Gnulemah's room.
The curtain was looped up and the passage clear. Thus first did the
wedded pair enter what should have been their bridal chamber, and laid
the lifeless body on the nuptial bed.
A fair, pure room; the clear walls frescoed with graceful wreaths of
floating figures. In the eastern window, through which the earliest
sunbeams loved to fall, stood an alabaster altar; on it a chain of
faded dandelions. The bed was a lovely nest, the lines flowing in long
curves,--a barge of Venus for lovers to voyage to heaven in. On a
table near at hand lay some embroidered work at which Gnulemah's magic
needle had been busy of late. Balder glanced at these things with a
reverence almost timid; and, turning back to what lay so inert and
doltish on the sacred bed, he could not but sigh.
Every means was employed to rally the Egyptian from his swoon. He bore
no external marks of injury, but there could be no doubt that he had
sustained a terrible shock, and possibly concussion of the brain; the
amount of the internal damages could not yet be estimated.--Meanwhile
the black cloud from the west was muttering drowsily overhead, and an
occasional lightning-flash dulled the mild radiance of the lamp. As
consciousness ebbed back to the patient, the storm increased, and the
trembling roll of heavy thunder drowned the first gasps of returning
life. Had that vast cloud come to shut out his soul from heaven, and
was its mighty voice uttering the sentence of his condemnation? The
air was thick with the inconsolable weeping of the rain, and gusty
sighs of wind drove its cold tear-drops against the window.
How was it with Manetho?--During the instant after the ladder had
given way and he was rushing through the air and clutching vainly at
the dark void, every faculty had violently expanded, so that he seemed
to see and think at every pore. The next instant his rudely battered
body refused to bear the soul's messages; light and knowledge sank
into bottomless darkness!
By and by--for aught he knew it might have been an eternity--a brief
gleam divided the night; then another, and others; he seemed to be
moving through air, upborne on a cloud. He strove to open his eyes,
and caught a glimpse of reeling walls,--of a figure,--figures. A deep
rumbling sound was in his ears, as of the rolling together of chaotic
rocks, gradually subsiding into stillness.
He felt no pain, only dreamy ease. He was resting softly on a bank of
flowers, in the heart of a summer's day. He was filled with peace and
love, and peace and love were around him. Some one was nestling beside
him; was it not the woman,--the bright-eyed, smiling gypsy with whom
he had plighted troth?--surely it was she.
"Salome,--Salome, are you here? Touch me,--lay your cheek by mine.
So,--give me your hand. I love you, my pretty pet,--your Manetho loves
you!"
The slow sentences ended. Nurse had laid her unsightly head beside his
on the pillow, and the two were happy in each other. O piteous,
revolting, solemn sight! Those faces, grief-smitten, old; long ago, in
passionate and lawless youth, they had perchance lain thus and
murmured loving words. And now for a moment they met and loved
again,--while death knocked at their chamber door!
But Balder had perceived a startling significance in Manetho's words.
He took Gnulemah by the hand and led her to the eastern window. A
flash greeted them, creating a momentary world, which started from the
womb of night, and vanished again before one could say "It is there!"
Then followed a long-drawn, intermittent rumble, as if the fragments
of the spectre world were tumbling avalanche-wise into chaos.
"I remember now about the dandelions," Balder said. "Was not Nurse
with us then?"
"Yes," answered Gnulemah; "and it was she and Hiero who took me from
you. But why does he call her Salome? and who is Manetho?"
Balder did not reply. He leant against the window-frame and gazed out
into the black storm. Knowing what he now did, it required no great
stretch of ingenuity to unravel Manetho's secret.--He turned to
Gnulemah, and, taking her in his arms, kissed her with a defiant kind
of ardor.
"What is it?" she whispered, clinging to him with a reflex of his own
unspoken emotion.
"We are safe!--But that man shall not die without hearing the truth,"
he added, sternly.
Again there was a dazzling lightning-flash, and the thunder seemed to
break at their very ears. By a quick, sinuous movement, Gnulemah freed
herself from his arm and looked at him with her grand eyes,--night-black,
lit each with a sparkling star. Her feminine intuition perceived a
change in him, though she could not fathom its cause. It jarred the
fineness of their mutual harmony.
"Our happiness should make others' greater," said she.
He looked into her eyes with a gaze so ardent that their lids drooped;
and the tone of his answer, though lover-like, had more of masculine
authority in it than she had yet heard from him.
"My darling, you do not know what wrong he has done you--and others.
It is only justice that he should learn how God punishes such as he!"
"Will not God teach him?" said Gnulemah, trembling to oppose the man
she loved, yet by love compelled to do so.
Balder paused, and looked towards the bed. There was a flickering
smile on Manetho's face; he seemed to be reviving. His injuries were
perhaps not fatal after all. Should he recover, he must sooner or
later receive his so-called punishment; meanwhile, Balder was inclined
to regard himself as the chosen minister of Divine justice. Why not
speak now?
This was the second occasion that he had held Manetho in his power, at
a time when the Egyptian had been attempting his destruction. In the
previous encounter he had retaliated in kind. Would the bitter issue
of that self-indulgence not make him wary now? Here was again the
murderous lust of power, albeit disguised as love of justice. Had
Balder's penitent suffering failed to teach him the truth of human
brotherhood, and equality before God? Love, typified by Gnulemah,
would fain dissuade him from his purpose: but love (as often happens
when it stands in the way of harsh and ignoble impulses) appeared
foolishly merciful.
Once again his glance met Gnulemah's,--lingered a moment,--and then
turned away. It was for the last time. At that moment he was less
noble than ever before. But the expression of her eyes he never
forgot; the love, the entreaty, the grandeur,--the sorrow!--
He turned away and approached the bedside, while Gnulemah went to
kneel at her maiden altar. Manetho's eyes were closed; his features
wore a singularly childlike expression. In truth, he was but half
himself; the shock he had sustained had paralyzed one part of his
nature. The subtle, evil-plotting Egyptian was dormant; his brain
interpreted nothing save the messages of the heart; only the
affectionate, emotional Manetho was awake. The evil he had done and
the misery of it were forgotten.--All this Balder divined; yet his
assumption of godlike censorship would not permit him to relent. It is
when man deems himself most secure that he falls, in a worse way than
ever.
"Do you know me, Manetho?" demanded the young man.
The priest opened his eyes dreamily, and smiled, but made no further
answer.
"I am Balder Helwyse,--the son of Thor," continued the other, speaking
with incisive deliberation, better to touch the stunned man's
apprehension, "I once had a twin sister. You believe that Gnulemah is
she."
The priest's features were getting a bewildered, plaintive expression.
Either he was beginning to comprehend the purport of Balder's words,
or else the sternness of the latter's tone and glance agitated him.
Bader concentrated all his force into the utterance of the final
sentences, vowing to himself that his fallen enemy should understand!
Did he think of Gnulemah then? or of Salome--partly for whose; sake,
he feigned, he had assumed the scourge?
"My sister died,--was burned to death before she was a year old. In
trying to save her, the nurse almost lost her own life. On that same
night, this nurse gave birth to a daughter,--whose name you have
called Gnulemah. Salome is her mother. Who her father is, Manetho, you
best know!"
The words were spoken,--but had the culprit heard them? Salome (who
from the first had shrunk back to the head of the bed, beyond the
possible range Manetho's vision) burst into confused hysteric cries.
Gnulemah had risen from her altar and was looking at Balder: he felt
her glance,--but though he told himself that he had done but justice,
he dared not meet it!--He kept his eyes fastened on the pallid
countenance of the Egyptian. The latter's breath came feebly and
irregularly, but the anxious expression was gone, and there was again
the flickering smile. All at once there was an odd, solemn change.--
The man was dying. Balder saw it,--saw that his enemy was escaping him
unpunished! There yet remained one stimulant that might rouse him, and
in the passion of the moment this self-appointed lieutenant of the
Almighty applied it.
"Come forward here, Salome!" cried he; "let him look on the face that
his sins have given you. As there is a God in Heaven, your wrongs
shall be set right!"
Salome moved to obey; but Gnulemah glided swiftly up and held her
back. Balder stepped imperiously forward to enforce his will. Had he
but answered his wife's eyes even then!--He came forward one step.
Then burst a thunder-clap like the crashing together of heaven and
earth! At the same instant a blinding, hot glare shut out all sight.
Balder was hurled back against the wall, a shock like the touch of
death in every nerve.
He staggered up, all unstrung, his teeth chattering. He saw,--not the
lamp, flickering in the draught from the broken window,--not Manetho,
lying motionless with the smile frozen on his lips,--not Salome,
prostrate across the body of him she had worshipped.
He saw Gnulemah--his wife whom he loved--rise from the altar's step
against which she had been thrown; stand with outstretched arms and
blank, wide-open eyes; grope forwards with outstretched arms and
uncertain feet; grope blindly this way and that, moaning,--
"Balder,--Balder,--where are you?"
Shivering and desperate,--not yet daring for his life to
understand,--he came and stood before her, almost within reach of
those groping hands.
"I am here,--look at me, Gnulemah!--I am here--your husband!"
There was a pause. The storm, having spent itself in that last burst,
was rolling heavily away. There was silence in the nuptial chamber,
infringed only by the breathing of the newly married lovers.
"I hear you, Balder," said Gnulemah at length, tremulously, while her
blank eyes rested on his face, "but I cannot see you. My lamp must
have gone out. Will not you light it for me?"--
Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord: I will repay!
* * * * *
The storm-cloud moved eastward and was dispersed. Black though had
been its shadow, it endured but for a moment; the echo of its fury
passed away, and its deadly thunderbolt left behind a purer
atmosphere. So sweeps and rages over men's heads the storm of
calamity; and so dissolves, though seeming for the time indissoluble.
But the distant planet comes forth serene from its brief eclipse, and
as night deepens, bears its steady fire yet more aloft. Like God's
love, its radiance embraces the world, yet forgets not the smallest
flower nor grain of sand. From its high station it beholds the
infinite day surround the night, and knows the good before and beyond
the ill. Great is its hope, for causes are not hidden from its quiet
eternal eye.
No journal of a life has been our tale; rather a glimpse of a
beginning! We have traversed an alpine pass between the illimitable
lands of Past and Future. We have felt the rock rugged beneath our
feet; have seen the avalanche and mused beside the precipice, and have
taken what relief we might in the scanty greensward, the few flowers,
and the brief sunshine. Now, standing on the farewell promontory, let
us question the magic mirror concerning the further road,--as, before,
of that from the backward horizon hitherwards.
Mr. MacGentle's quiet little office: himself--more venerable by a year
than when we saw him last--in his chair: opposite him, Dr. Balder
Helwyse. The latter wears a thick yellow beard about six inches in
length, is subdued in dress and manner, and his smile, though genial,
has something of the sadness of autumn sunshine. The two have been
conversing earnestly, and now there is a short silence.
"We must give up hoping it, then," says Mr. MacGentle at last, in a
more than usually plaintive murmur. "It is hard,--very hard, dear
Balder."
"Now that I know there is no hope, I can acknowledge the good even
while I feel the hardship. Her dreams have been of a world such as no
real existence could show; to have been awakened would permanently
have saddened her, if no worse. But she is great enough to believe
without seeing; and in the deepest sense, her belief is true. She
still remains in that ideal fairy-land in which I found her; and no
doubt, as time goes on, her visions grow more beautiful!"
Thus Balder Helwyse, in tones agreeably vigorous, though grave and
low.
"Yes--yes; and perhaps, dear Balder, the denial of this one great boon
may save her from much indefinite disquiet; and certainly, as you say,
from the great danger of disappointment and its consequences.
Yes,--and you may still keep her lamp alight, with a more lasting than
Promethean fire!--But how is it with you, dear boy?"
"Let none who love me pray for my temporal prosperity," returns
Helwyse, turning his strong, dark gaze on the other's aged eyes. "I
have met with many worshippers of false gods, but none the germs of
whose sin I found not in myself. The _I_ to whom was confided this
excellent instrument of faculties and senses is a poor, weak, selfish
creature, who fancied his gifts argued the possession of the very
merits whose lack they prove. God, in His infinite mercy, deals
sternly with me; and I know how to thank Him!"--
Mr. MacGentle does not reply in words; but a grave smile glimmers in
his faded eyes, and, smiling, he slowly shakes his venerable head.
One more brief glimpse, and then we are done.--
A pleasant parlor of southern aspect, looking through a deep
bay-window over a spacious garden. Here sits a stalwart gentleman of
middle age, with a little boy and girl on either knee, who play
bo-peep with his wide-spreading yellow beard. How they all laugh! and
what a pleasant laugh has the stalwart, dark-eyed gentleman,--so
deep-toned and yet so boyish! But presently all three pause to take
breath.
"Thor," then says the gentleman, "whose portrait did I tell you that
was?" And he points to an oil-painting hanging over the piano.
"Grandpapa MacGentle, papa!"
"What did he do for all of us?"
As Master Thor hesitates a moment, the little golden-haired lady
breaks in,--"_I_ know, papa! He made uth rich, and gave uth our
houthe, and he thaw me when I wath a wee, wee baby, and then he--he--"
"He went to Heaven, papa!" says Thor, recovering himself.
Hereupon there was a silence, because the two children, glancing up in
their father's face, saw that it was grave and thoughtful.
But suddenly the little girl pricks up her small ears, and scrambles
to the carpet, and sets off for the door at full speed, without a
word. Thor is close behind, but just too late to be first in opening
the door.
"Mamma! mamma!"
And Balder Helwyse springs up, and as she enters with the rejoicing
children at each hand, he meets her with the thrilling smile which, in
this world, she will never see!
THE END.
Cambridge: Electrotyped and Printed by Welch, Bigelow, & Co.