Little Novels | Page 9

letter in his daughter's presence.
Looking at the open envelope after he had taken out the leaves of
writing which it contained, he noticed these lines traced inside the
cover:

"My one excuse for troubling you, when I might have consulted my
brother-in-law, will be found in the pages which I inclose. To speak
plainly, you have been led to fear that I am not in my right senses. For
this very reason, I now appeal to you. Your dreadful doubt of me, sir, is

my doubt too. Read what I have written about myself--and then tell me,
I entreat you, which I am: A person who has been the object of a
supernatural revelation? or an unfortunate creature who is only fit for
imprisonment in a mad-house?"

Mr. Rayburn opened the manuscript. With steady attention, which soon
quickened to breathless interest, he read what follows:
VI.
THE LADY'S MANUSCRIPT.
YESTERDAY morning the sun shone in a clear blue sky--after a
succession of cloudy days, counting from the first of the month.
The radiant light had its animating effect on my poor spirits. I had
passed the night more peacefully than usual; undisturbed by the dream,
so cruelly familiar to me, that my lost husband is still living--the dream
from which I always wake in tears. Never, since the dark days of my
sorrow, have I been so little troubled by the self-tormenting fancies and
fears which beset miserable women, as when I left the house, and
turned my steps toward Kensington Gardens--for the first time since
my husband's death.
Attended by my only companion, the little dog who had been his
favorite as well as mine, I went to the quiet corner of the Gardens
which is nearest to Kensington.
On that soft grass, under the shade of those grand trees, we had loitered
together in the days of our betrothal. It was his favorite walk; and he
had taken me to see it in the early days of our acquaintance. There, he
had first asked me to be his wife. There, we had felt the rapture of our
first kiss. It was surely natural that I should wish to see once more a
place sacred to such memories as these? I am only twenty-three years
old; I have no child to comfort me, no companion of my own age,
nothing to love but the dumb creature who is so faithfully fond of me.

I went to the tree under which we stood, when my dear one's eyes told
his love before he could utter it in words. The sun of that vanished day
shone on me again; it was the same noontide hour; the same solitude
was around me. I had feared the first effect of the dreadful contrast
between past and present. No! I was quiet and resigned. My thoughts,
rising higher than earth, dwelt on the better life beyond the grave. Some
tears came into my eyes. But I was not unhappy. My memory of all that
happened may be trusted, even in trifles which relate only to myself--I
was not unhappy.
The first object that I saw, when my eyes were clear again, was the dog.
He crouched a few paces away from me, trembling pitiably, but
uttering no cry. What had caused the fear that overpowered him?
I was soon to know.
I called to the dog; he remained immovable--conscious of some
mysterious coming thing that held him spellbound. I tried to go to the
poor creature, and fondle and comfort him.
At the first step forward that I took, something stopped me.
It was not to be seen, and not to be heard. It stopped me.
The still figure of the dog disappeared from my view: the lonely scene
round me disappeared--excepting the light from heaven, the tree that
sheltered me, and the grass in front of me. A sense of unutterable
expectation kept my eyes riveted on the grass. Suddenly, I saw its
myriad blades rise erect and shivering. The fear came to me of
something passing over them with the invisible swiftness of the wind.
The shivering advanced. It was all round me. It crept into the leaves of
the tree over my head; they shuddered, without a sound to tell of their
agitation; their pleasant natural rustling was struck dumb. The song of
the birds had ceased. The cries of the water-fowl on the pond were
heard no more. There was a dreadful silence.
But the lovely sunshine poured down on me, as brightly as ever.

In that dazzling light, in that fearful silence, I felt an Invisible Presence
near me. It touched me gently.
At the touch, my heart throbbed with an overwhelming joy. Exquisite
pleasure thrilled through every nerve in my body. I knew him! From
the unseen world--himself