MR. AXTELL.
PART V.
"Miss Anna! Miss Anna! Doctor Percival is waiting for you," were the opening words of the next day's life. Its bells had had no influence in restoring me to consciousness of existence. I never have liked metallic commanders. Now Jeffy's Ethiopian tones were inspiriting, and to their music I began the mystic march of another day.
Doctor Percival was not out of patience, it seemed, with waiting; for, as I went in, he was so engrossed with a morning paper that he did not even look up, or notice me, until I made myself vocal, and then only to say,—
"Ring for breakfast, Anna; I shall have done by the time it comes."
"It is here, father"; and he dropped the newspaper, turned his chair to the table, leaned his arms upon it, covered his precious face with two thin, quivering hands, and remained thus, whilst I prepared coffee, and lingered as long as possible in the seeming occupation.
Jeffy—and I suspect that the mischievous African designed the act—overturned the coffee in handing it to my father, who is not endowed with the most equable temper ever consigned to mortals; but this morning he did not give Jeffy even a severe look, for his eyes were full of tender pity, such as I had never seen in them in all the past.
"How is your patient?" I asked.
"Better, thank God!" he replied.
"Were you with him all night?"
"Yes, all night. I must go out this morning to see some patients. I'll send up a nurse from the hospital on my way. I don't think the delirium will return before mid-day; can you watch him till then, Anna?"—and he asked with a seeming doubt either of my willingness or my ability, perhaps a mingling of both.
I did not like to recount my serious failures with Miss Axtell, but I answered,—
"I will try."
Before he went, he took me in to the place of my watching. The gentleman was asleep. The housekeeper was quite willing to relinquish her office. The good physician gave me orders concerning the febrifuge to be administered in case of increase of febrile symptoms, and saying that "it wouldn't be long ere some one came to relieve me," he bent over the sleeping patient for an instant, and the next was gone.
I think a half-hour must have fled in silence, when Jeffy stole in, his eyes opening as Chloe's had done not many days agone, when the vision of myself was painted thereon. I upheld a cautionary index, and he was still as a mouse, but like a mouse he proceeded to investigate; he opened a bureau-drawer the least way, and pushing his arm in where my laces were wont to dwell, he drew out, with exultant delight, the wig before mentioned.
"What do you s'pose he wants with this thing'?" whispered Jeffy; and he pointed to the soft, fair masses of curling hair that rested against the pillow.
Jeffy was a spoiled boy,—"my doing," everybody said, and it may have been truly. He was Chloe's son, and had inherited her ways and affectionate heart, and for these I forgave him much.
I said, "Hush!"—whereupon he lifted up the wig and deposited it upon the top of his tangled circlets of hair before I could stay him.
I reached out my hand for it, not venturing on words, for fear of disturbing the patient; but Jeffy, with unpardonable wilfulness, danced out of my circuit, and at the same instant the sick man turned his head, and beheld Jeffy in the possession of his property. Jeffy looked very repentant, said in low, deprecatory tones, "I'm sorry," and, depositing the wig in the drawer, hastened to escape, which I know he would not have done but for the disabled condition of the invalid, who could only look his wrath. I had so hoped that he would sleep until some one came; but this unfortunate Jeffy had dissipated my hope, and left me in pitiable dilemma.
In the vain endeavor to restore the scattered influence of Morpheus, I flew to one of the aids of the mystic god, and beseeching its assistance, I prepared to administer the draught. I could not find a spoon on the instant. When I did, I made a mistake in dropping the opiate, and was obliged to commence anew, and all the while that handsome face, with large, pleading eyes in it, held me in painful duress. When I turned towards him and held the glass to his lips, I trembled, as I had not done, even in the church, when Abraham Axtell and I stood before the opened entrance into earth. All the words that I that day had heard in the tower were ringing like clarions in the air, and they shook me with their vibrant forces.
"Am I in heaven?"
It was the same voice that had said to Miss Axtell, "Will you send me out again?" that spake these words.
Was he going into delirium again? I was desirous of keeping him upon our planet, and I said,—
"Oh, no,—they don't need morphine in heaven."
"They need you there, though. You must go now," he said; and he made an effort to take the glass from my hand.
"I have never been in heaven," I said.
"Then they deceive, they deceive, and there isn't any heaven! Oh, what if after all there shouldn't be such a place?"
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."
"Perhaps it is vanity,—I hope not,—but it seems to me that I have a mirror of all Nature set into the frame of my soul. It isn't a part of myself; it is a mental telescope, that resolves the actions of all the people around me into myriads of motives, atomies of inducement, that I see woven and webbed around them, by the sight-power given. Besides, I am not an anemone,—oh, no! I am something more substantial."
"I see, very"; and before I could divine her intent, she had lifted up my face in both her hands and held my eyes in her own intensity of gaze, as, oh, long ago! I remember my mother to have done, when she doubted my perfect truth.
Miss Axtell was engaged in looking over old treasured letters, bits of memory-memoranda, when I arrived. She had laid them aside to greet me, somewhat hastily, and a rustling commotion testified their feeling at their summary disposal. Now she sat framed in by the yellow-and-white foam, that had settled to motionlessness,—an island in the midst of waves of memory.
"Did you bring my treasures?" were the first words, after investigating my truth.
"They are safely here."
I gave the package.
She made no mention of former occurrences. She trusted me implicitly, with that far-deep of confidence that says, "Explanation would be useless; your spirit recognizes mine." She only said, drooping her regal head with the slightest dip into motion,—
"I want to tell you a story; it is of people who are, some in heaven and some upon the earth;—a story with which you must have something to do for me, because I cannot do it for myself. I did not intend telling so soon, but my disbanded rainbow lies in the future."
Before commencing, she wandered up and down the room a little, stopped before the dressing-bureau, brushed back the hair, with many repetitions of stroke, from the temples wherein so much of worship had been gathered, smoothed down the swollen arches of veinery that fretted across either temple's dome, looked one moment into the censers of incense that burned always with emotionary fires, flashed out a little superabundant flame into the cold quicksilver, turned the key, fastening our two selves in, examined the integrity of the latch leading into the dressing-room beyond, threw up the window-sash,—the same one that Mr. Axtell had lifted to look out into the night for her,—asked, "should I be cold, if she left it open?" looked contentment at my negative answer, rolled the lounge out to where her easy-chair was still vibrating in memory of her late presence, made me its occupant, reached out for the package over which I had been guardian, pinioned it between her two beautiful hands, laid it down one moment to wrap a shawl around me, then, resuming it, sat where she had when she said, "I want to tell you a story," and perhaps she was praying. I may never know, but it was many moments before she made answer to my slight touch, "Yes, child, I have not forgotten," and with face hidden from me she told me her story.