DREAMS AND VISIONS.
Winter waned. Mrs. Waugh had attended the commodore to the South, for
the benefit of his health, and they had not yet returned.
Mrs. Morris and Alice were absent on a long visit to a relative in
Washington City, and were not expected back for a month. Paul remained
in Baltimore, attending the medical lectures.
The house at Dell-Delight was very sad and lonely. The family consisted
of only Thurston, Fanny and Miriam.
A change had also passed over poor Fanny's malady. She was no longer the
quaint, fantastical creature, half-lunatic, half-seeress, singing
snatches of wild songs through the house--now here, now there--now
everywhere, awaking smiles and merriment in spite of pity, and keeping
every one alive about her. Her bodily health had failed, her animal
spirits departed; she never sang nor smiled, but sat all day in her
eyrie chamber, lost in deep and concentrated study, her face having the
care-worn look of one striving to recall the past, to gather up and
reunite the broken links of thought, memory and understanding.
At last, one day, Miriam received a letter from Paul, announcing the
termination, of the winter's course of lectures, the conclusion of the
examination of medical candidates, the successful issue of his own
trial, in the acquisition of his diploma, and finally his speedy return
home.
Miriam's impulsive nature rebounded from all depressing thoughts, and
she looked forward with gladness to the arrival of Paul.
He came toward the last of the week.
Mr. Willcoxen, roused for a moment from his sad abstraction, gave the
youth a warm welcome.
Miriam received him with a bashful, blushing joy.
He had passed through Washington City on his way home, and had spent a
day with Mrs. Morris and her friends, and he had brought away strange
news of them.
Alice, he said, had an accepted suitor, and would probably be a bride
soon.
A few days after his return, Paul found Miriam in the old wainscoted
parlor seated by the fire. She appeared to be in deep and painful
thought. Her elbow rested on the circular work-table, her head was bowed
upon her hand, and her face was concealed by the drooping black
ringlets.
"What is the matter, dear, sister?" he asked, in that tender, familiar
tone, with which he sometimes spoke to her.
"Oh, Paul, I am thinking of our brother! Can nothing soothe or cheer
him, Paul? Can nothing help him? Can we do him no good at all? Oh, Paul!
I brood so much over his trouble! I long so much to comfort him, that I
do believe it is beginning to affect my reason, and make me 'see visions
and dream dreams.' Tell me--do you think anything can be done for him?"
"Ah, I do not know! I have just left his study, dear Miriam, where I
have had a long and serious conversation with him."
"And what was it about? May I know?"
"You must know, dearest Miriam, it concerned yourself and--me!" said
Paul, and he took a seat by her side, and told her how much he loved
her, and that he had Thurston's consent to asking her hand in marriage.
Miriam replied:
"Paul, there is one secret that I have never imparted to you--not that I
wished to keep it from you, but that nothing has occurred to call it
out--"
She paused, while Paul regarded her in much curiosity.
"What is it, Miriam?" he at last inquired.
"I promised my dying mother, and sealed the promise with an oath, never
to be a bride until I shall have been--"
"What, Miriam?"
"An avenger of blood!"
"Miriam!"
It was all he said, and then he remained gazing at her, as if he doubted
her perfect sanity.
"I am not mad, dear Paul, though you look as if you thought so."
"Explain yourself, dear Miriam."
"I am going to do so. You remember Marian Mayfield?" she said, her face
beginning to quiver with emotion.
"Yes! yes! well?"
"You remember the time and manner of her death?"
"Yes--yes!"
"Oh, Paul! that stormy night death fell like scattering lightning, and
struck three places at once! But, oh, Paul! such was the consternation
and grief excited by the discovery of Marian's assassination, that the
two other sudden deaths passed almost unnoticed, except by the
respective families of the deceased. Child as I then was, Paul, I think
it was the tremendous shock of her sudden and dreadful death, that threw
me entirely out of my center, so that I have been erratic ever since.
She was more than a mother to me, Paul; and if I had been born hers, I
could not have loved her better--I loved her beyond all things in life.
In my dispassionate, reflective moments. I am inclined to believe that I
have never been quite right since the loss of Marian. Not but that I am
reconciled to it--knowing that she must be happy--only, Paul, I often
feel that something is wrong here and here," said Miriam, placing her
hand upon her forehead and upon her heart.
"But your promise, Miriam--your promise," questioned Paul, with
increased anxiety.
"Ay, true! Well, Paul, I promised to devote my whole life to the pursuit
and apprehension of her murderer; and never to give room in my bosom to
any thought of love or marriage until that murderer should hang from n
gallows; and I sealed that promise with a solemn oath."
"That was all very strange, dear Miriam."
"Paul, yes it was--and it weighs upon me like lead. Paul, if two things
could be lifted off my heart, I should be happy. I should be happy as a
freed bird."
"And what are they, dear Miriam? What weights are they that I have not
power to lift from your heart?"
"Surely you may surmise--the first is our brother's sadness that
oppresses my spirits all the time; the second is the memory of that
unaccomplished vow; so equally do these two anxieties divide my
thoughts, that they seem connected--seem to be parts of the same
responsibility--and I even dreamed that the one could be accomplished
only with the other."
"Dearest Miriam, let me assure you, that such dreams and visions are but
the effect of your isolated life--they come from an over-heated brain
and over-strained nerves. And you must consent to throw off those
self-imposed weights, and be happy and joyous as a young creature
should."
"Alas, how can I throw them off, dear Paul?"
"In this way--first, for my brother's life-long sorrow, since you can
neither cure nor alleviate it, turn your thoughts away from it. As for
your vow, two circumstances combine to absolve you from it; the first is
this--that you were an irresponsible infant, when you were required to
make it--the second is, that it is impossible to perform it; these two
considerations fairly release you from its obligations. Look upon these
matters in this rational light, and all your dark and morbid dreams and
visions will disappear; and we shall have you joyous as any young bird,
sure enough. And I assure you, that your cheerfulness will be one of the
very best medicines for our brother. Will you follow my advice?"
"No, no, Paul! I cannot follow it in either instance! I cannot, Paul! it
is impossible! I cannot steel my heart against sympathy with his
sorrows, nor can I so ignore the requirements of my solemn vow. I do not
by any means think its accomplishment an impossibility, nor was it in
ignorance of its nature that I made it. No, Paul! I knew what I
promised, and I know that its performance is possible. Therefore I can
not feel absolved! I must accomplish my work; and you, Paul, if you love
me, must help me to do it."
"I would serve you with my life, Miriam, in anything reasonable and
possible. But how can I help you? How can you discharge such an
obligation? You have not even a clue!"
"Yes, I have a clue, Paul."
"You have? What is it? Why have you never spoken of it before?"
"Because of its seeming unimportance. The clue is so slight, that it
would be considered none at all, by others less interested than myself."
"What is it, then? At least allow me the privilege of knowing, and
judging of its importance."
"I am about to do so," said Miriam, and she commenced and told him all
she knew, and also all she suspected of the circumstances that preceded
the assassination on the beach. In conclusion, she informed him of the
letters in her possession.
"And where are now those letters, Miriam? What are they like? What is
their purport? It seems to me that they would not only give a hint, but
afford direct evidence against that demoniac assassin. And it seems
strange to me that they were not examined, with a view to that end."
"Paul, they were; but they did not point out the writer, even. There was
a note among them--a note soliciting a meeting with Marian, upon the
very evening, and upon the very spot when and where the murder was
committed! But that note contains nothing to indicate the identity of
its author. There are, besides, a number of foreign letters written in
French, and signed 'Thomas Truman,' no French name, by-the-bye, a
circumstance which leads me to believe that it must have been an assumed
one."
"And those French letters give no indication of the writer, either?"
"I am not sufficiently acquainted with that language to read it in
manuscript, which, you know, is much more difficult than print. But I
presume they point to nothing definitely, for my dear mother showed them
to Mr. Willcoxen, who took the greatest interest in the discovery of the
murderer, and he told her that those letters afforded not the slightest
clue to the perpetrator of the crime, and that whoever might have been
the assassin, it certainly could not have been the author of those
letters. He wished to take them with him, but mother declined to give
them up; she thought it would be disrespect to Marian's memory to give
her private correspondence up to a stranger, and so she told him. He
then said that of all men, certainly he had the least right to claim
them, and so the matter rested. But mother always believed they held the
key to the discovery of the guilty party; and afterward she left them to
me, with the charge that I should never suffer them to pass from my
possession until they had fulfilled their destiny of witnessing against
the murderer--for whatever Mr. Willcoxen might think, mother felt
convinced that the writer of those letters and the murderer of Marian
was the same person."
"Tell me more about those letters."
"Dear Paul, I know nothing more about them; I told you that I was not
sufficiently familiar with the French language to read them."
"But it is strange that you never made yourself acquainted with their
contents by getting some one else to read them for you."
"Dear Paul, you know that I was a mere child when they first came into
my possession, accompanied with the charge that I should never part with
them until they had done their office. I felt bound by my promise, I was
afraid of losing them, and of those persons that I could trust none knew
French, except our brother, and he had already pronounced them
irrelevant to the question. Besides, for many reasons, I was shy of
intruding upon brother."
"Does he know that you have the packet?"
"I suppose he does not even know that."
"I confess," said Paul, "that if Thurston believed them to have no
connection with the murder, I have so much confidence in his excellent
judgment, that I am inclined to reverse my hasty opinion, and to think
as he does, at least until I see the letters. I remember, too, that the
universal opinion at the time was that the poor young lady had fallen a
victim to some marauding waterman--the most likely thing to have
happened. But, to satisfy you, Miriam, if you will trust me with those
letters, I will give them a thorough and impartial study, and then, if I
find no clue to the perpetrator of that diabolical deed, I hope, Miriam,
that you will feel yourself free from the responsibility of pursuing the
unknown demon--a pursuit which I consider worse than a wild-goose
chase."
They were interrupted by the entrance of the boy with the mail bag. Paul
emptied the contents of it upon the table. There were letters for Mr.
Willcoxen, for Miriam, and for Paul himself. Those for Mr. Willcoxen
were sent up to him by the boy. Miriam's letter was from Alice Morris,
announcing her approaching marriage with Olive Murray, a young lawyer of
Washington, and inviting and entreating Miriam to come to the city and
be her bridesmaid. Paul's letters were from some of his medical
classmates. By the time they had read and discussed the contents of
their epistles, a servant came in to replenish the fire and lay the
cloth for tea.
When Mr. Willcoxen joined them at supper, he laid a letter on Miriam's
lap, informing her that it was from Mrs. Morris, who advised them of her
daughter's intended marriage, and prayed them to be present at the
ceremony. Miriam replied that she had received a communication to the
same effect.
"Then, my dear, we will go up to Washington and pass a few weeks, and
attend this wedding, and see the inauguration of Gen. ----. You lead too
lonely a life for one of your years, love. I see it affects your health
and spirits. I have been too selfish and oblivious of you, in my
abstraction, dear child; but it shall be so no longer. You shall enter
upon the life better suited to your age."
Miriam's eyes thanked his care. For many a day Thurston had not come
thus far out of himself, and his doing so now was hailed as a happy omen
by the young people.
Their few preparations were soon completed, and on the first of March
they went to Washington City.