The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 10, No. 62, December, 1862

He lifted up his one usable hand in agony.

"We wait until we die, before going there," I said; "I am alive, don't you see?"

"Alive, and not dead? you! whom I killed eighteen years ago, have you come to reproach me now? Oh, I have suffered, even to atonement, for it! You would pardon, if you only knew what I have suffered for you."

Surely delirium had returned. I urged the poor man to take the contents of the glass.

He promised, upon condition of my forgiveness,—forgiveness for having killed me, who never had been killed, who was surely alive. Jeffy had come in again, and had listened to the pleading.

"Why don't you tell him yes, Miss Anna? He doesn't know a word he's sayin'. It'll keep him quiet like; he's like a baby," he whispered, with a covert pull at my dress by way of impressment.

And so, guided by Chloe's boy, I said, "I forgive."

"Why don't you go, if you forgive me? I don't like to keep you here, when you belong up there"; and he pointed his words by the aid of his available hand.

I knew then why Miss Axtell had loved this man: it was simply one of those cruel, compulsory offerings up of self, that allure one, in open sight of torture, on to the altar. Oh, poor woman! why hath thy Maker so forsaken thee? And in mute wonder at this most wondrous wrong, that crept into mortal life when the serpent went out through Eden and left an opening in the Garden, I forgot for the while my present responsibility, in compassionate pity for the pale, beautiful lady in Redleaf, into whose heart this man had come,—unwillingly, I knew, when I looked into his face, and yet, having come, must grow into its Eden, even unto the time that Eternity shadows; and I sent out the arms of my spirit, and twined them invisibly around her, who truly had spoken when she said, "I want you," with such hungry tones. God, the Infinite, has given me comprehension of such women, has given me His own loving pity,—in little human grains, it is true, but they come from "the shining shore." "Miss Axtell does want me," I thought; "she is right,—I am gladness to her."

"Will you go?" came from the invalid.

"A woman, loving thus, never comes alone into a friend's heart," something said; "you must receive her shadow"; and I looked at the person who had said, "Will you go?"

There are various words used in the dictionary of life, descriptive of men such as him now before me. They mostly are formed in syllables numbering four and five, which all integrate in the one word irresistible: how pitifully I abhor that word!—every letter has a serpent-coil in it. "Love thy neighbor even as thyself." It is good that these words came just here to wall themselves before the torrent that might not have been stayed until I had laid the mountain of my thought upon the sycophantic syllabication that the world loves to "lip" unto the world,—the false world, that, blinded, blinds to blinder blindness those that fain would behold. There is a crying out in the earth for a place of torment; there are sins for which we want what God hath prepared for the wicked.

"Are you going?"—and this time there was plaintive moaning in the accents.

"You must take him in, too," my spirit whispered; and I acted the "I will" that formed in the mental court where my soul sat enthroned,—my own judge.

"Oh, no, I am not going away," I said; "I am come to stay with you, until some one else comes."

A certain resignment of opposition seemed to be effected. I knew it would be so,—it is in all such natures,—and he seemed intent upon making atonement for his imaginary wrong, since I would stay.

"Mary, I didn't mean to kill you," he said; "I wouldn't have destroyed your young life; oh! I wouldn't;—but I did! I did!"

"You make some strange mistake; you ought not to talk," I urged, surprised at this second time being called Mary.

"Yes, I guess 'twas a mistake,—you're right, all a mistake,—I didn't mean to kill you; but I did him, though. Oh! I wanted to destroy him,—he hadn't any pity, he wouldn't yield. But it's you, Mary, you oughtn't to hear me say such things of him."

"I am not Mary, I am Miss Percival; and you may tell me."

"I beg pardon, I had no right to call you Mary; but it is there, now, on your tomb-stone in the old church-yard,—Mary Percival,—there isn't any Miss there. Do they call you Miss Percival in heaven?"—and he began to sing, deep, stirring songs of rhythmic melody, that catch up individual existences and bear them to congregated continents, where mountains sing and seas respond, amid the encore of starry spheres.

O Music! if we could but divine thee, dear divinity, thou mightst be less divine! then let us be content to be divinized in thee!—and I was. I let him sing, knowing that it was in delirium; and for the moment my wonder ceased concerning Miss Axtell's love for Herbert.

This while, Jeffy stood speechless, transfused into melody. Whence came this love of Africans for harmonious measure? Oh, I remember: the scroll of song whereon were written the accents of the joyed morning-stars, when they grew jubilant that earth stood create, was let fall by an angel upon Afric's soil. No one of the children of the land was found of wisdom sufficient to read the hieroglyphs; therefore the sacred roll was divided among the souls in the nation: unto each was given one note from the divine whole.

"Jeffy must have received a semi-breve as his portion," I thought, for he was rapt in ecstasy.

"Oh, sing again!" he said, unconsciously, when, exhausted, the invalid reached the shore of Silence,—where he did not long linger, for he changed his song to lament that he could not reach his ship, that would sail before he could recover; and he made an effort to rise. He fell back, fainting.

It seemed a great blessing that at this moment the housekeeper introduced the person Doctor Percival had sent.

That night, and for many after, it seemed, my father looked extremely anxious. I did not see the patient again until the eventful twenty-fifth of March was past.

Two days only was I permitted for my visit. Would Miss Axtell expect me? or had she, it might be, forgotten that she had asked my presence?

My father had not forgotten the obligation of the ring of gold; he made allusion to it in the moment of parting, and I felt it tightening about me more and more as the miles of sea and land rolled back over our separation; and a question, asked long ago and unanswered yet, was repeated in my mental realm,—"Canst thou bind the sweet influences of the Pleiades, or loose the bands of Orion?" and I said, "I will not try."

It was evening when I arrived at the parsonage. Sophie was full of sweet sisterly joy on seeing me, and of surprise when I told her what had occurred in our father's house. It was so unprecedented, this taking in a stranger whose name and home were unknown; for I could not tell Sophie my conviction that father had discovered who the patient was.

"Miss Axtell is almost well." Sophie gave the information before I found time to ask. "She pleases to be quite charming to me. I hope she will be equally gracious to you." And so I hoped.

From out the ark of the round year God sends some day-doves of summer into the barren spring-time, to sing of coming joys and peck the buds into opening. One of His sending brooded over Redleaf when I walked forth in its morning-time to redeem my promise.

"Miss Percival! I'm so glad!"

Katie showed me into the room that once I had been so much afraid of.

She did not long leave me there.

"Miss Lettie would like to see you in her room."

Sophie was right. She is almost well.

"Come!" was the sole word that met my entering in; then followed two small acts, supposed to be conventionalities. Isn't it good that all suppositions are not based upon truth? I thought it good then. I hope I may away on to the dawning of the new life.

This was my first seeing of Miss Axtell in her self-light. She said,—

"This is the only day that I have been down in time for breakfast,"—she, who looked as if the fair Dead-Sea fruits had been all of sustenance that had dropped through the leaden waves for her; and an emotion of awe swept past me, borne upon the renewal of the consciousness that I had been made essential to her.

"I knew that you would come," she continued. "Oh! I have great confidence in you; you must never disappoint me,—will you?"—and, playfully, she motioned me to the footstool where she had appointed me a place on the first night when she told me of her mother, dead.

I assured her that I should. I must begin that moment by mentioning the time of my visit's duration.

"How long?" and there was import in the tone of her voice.

"I must be at home to-morrow morning."

"No reprieve?"

I answered, "None,"—and turned the circlet of obligation upon my finger.

"I am glad you told me; I like limits; I wish to know the precise moment when my rainbows will disband. It's very nice, meeting Fate half-way; there's consolation in knowing that it will have as far to go as you on the return voyage."

I smiled; a little inward ripple of gladness sent muscle-waves to my lips. She noticed it, and her tone changed.

"I see, I see, my good little Anemone! You don't know how exultant it is to stand alone, above the forest of your fellows,—to lift up your highest bough of feeling,—to meet the Northland's fiercest courser that thinks to lay you low. Did you ever turn to see the expression with which the last leap of wind is met, the peculiar suavity of the bowing of the boughs, that says as plainly as ever did speaking leaves, 'You have left me myself'? You don't understand these things, you small wind-flower, that have grown sheltered from all storms!"

"One would think not, Miss Axtell, but"—and I paused until she bade me "Go on."