_Century Magazine, May, 1882._
The country residence of Mr. John Hinckman was a delightful place to
me, for many reasons. It was the abode of a genial, though somewhat
impulsive, hospitality. It had broad, smooth-shaven lawns and towering
oaks and elms; there were bosky shades at several points, and not far
from the house there was a little rill spanned by a rustic bridge with
the bark on; there were fruits and flowers, pleasant people, chess,
billiards, rides, walks, and fishing. These were great attractions,
but none of them, nor all of them together, would have been sufficient
to hold me to the place very long. I had been invited for the trout
season, but should, probably, have finished my visit early in the
summer had it not been that upon fair days, when the grass was dry,
and the sun not too hot, and there was but little wind, there strolled
beneath the lofty elms, or passed lightly through the bosky shades,
the form of my Madeline.
This lady was not, in very truth, my Madeline. She had never given
herself to me, nor had I, in any way, acquired possession of her. But
as I considered her possession the only sufficient reason for the
continuance of my existence, I called her, in my reveries, mine. It
may have been that I would not have been obliged to confine the use of
this possessive pronoun to my reveries had I confessed the state of my
feelings to the lady.
But this was an unusually difficult thing to do. Not only did I dread,
as almost all lovers dread, taking the step which would in an instant
put an end to that delightful season which may be termed the
ante-interrogatory period of love, and which might at the same time
terminate all intercourse or connection with the object of my passion;
but I was, also, dreadfully afraid of John Hinckman. This gentleman
was a good friend of mine, but it would have required a bolder man
than I was at that time to ask him for the gift of his niece, who
was the head of his household, and, according to his own frequent
statement, the main prop of his declining years. Had Madeline
acquiesced in my general views on the subject, I might have felt
encouraged to open the matter to Mr. Hinckman, but, as I said before,
I had never asked her whether or not she would be mine. I thought of
these things at all hours of the day and night, particularly the
latter.
I was lying awake one night, in the great bed in my spacious chamber,
when, by the dim light of the new moon, which partially filled the
room, I saw John Hinckman standing by a large chair near the door. I
was very much surprised at this for two reasons. In the first place,
my host had never before come into my room, and, in the second place,
he had gone from home that morning, and had not expected to return for
several days. It was for this reason that I had been able that evening
to sit much later than usual with Madeline on the moonlit porch. The
figure was certainly that of John Hinckman in his ordinary dress, but
there was a vagueness and indistinctness about it which presently
assured me that it was a ghost. Had the good old man been murdered?
and had his spirit come to tell me of the deed, and to confide to me
the protection of his dear----? My heart fluttered at what I was
about to think, but at this instant the figure spoke.
"Do you know," he said, with a countenance that indicated anxiety, "if
Mr. Hinckman will return to-night?"