Floating Fancies among the Weird and the Occult

by Clara H. Holmes

Was it but fancy, that a soft, happy sigh reached his ear? or was it but the summer breeze?

How like the unbroken links of a chain it all appeared; he had planned none of it, he could never have imagined himself in such a rôle; some volition other than his own had led him in a well-prepared way. No abrupt breaks, no jumps, no indecisions are necessary in our lives; when such is the case we are in fault; we fail to heed the signboards and the danger signals; we are shocked when we halt on the verge of a precipice, or disgusted when we find that we have walked weary miles on the wrong road, all because we read the signs to suit our fancied pleasure, or plunged ahead and read them not at all.

His exalted, happy mood left him; he grew restless and nervous; he was conscious of a stir all about him, a continuous vibration; he could not sit still. At last he arose and walked over to the panel which he had, in his vision, seen opened; he passed his hands over the ornamental head, searching for a screw, bolt, or anything to indicate that any portion of it was movable; it seemed one solid piece of carving.

“This is all nonsense! I have dreamed the whole thing!” But though he derided, he could not rid himself of his unrest, or the intuition of a sweet presence urging him on.

He examined the alternate panel, and could detect no difference; he again returned, grasping the muzzle as he had seen the murderer do; he started, it felt cold to his hand; he tapped it with his knife, it gave forth a metallic sound; this was iron, the others, wood. He trembled with excitement as he searched for a hinge, spring, or other means of ingress; he no longer doubted being intuitively led. He placed himself as nearly as possible in the position he had witnessed, and grasped the muzzle in the same manner; a hot flush passed over his face, for a single instant his knees grew weak with superstitious fear as he felt the yielding of a tiny spring beneath the ends of his fingers. He pressed firmly upon it; the jaws flew apart, the eyes rolled so fiercely and so suddenly that it made him start back in affright; he thrust his arm into the opening thus formed, and drew forth the package wrapped in oiled silk, just as he had seen it in his vision—he could no longer doubt its being such. Something else he saw, but a warning click caused him to withdraw his hand; none too soon, the jaws closed like a steel trap.

He eagerly unfolded the parcel, it seemed that he knew previous to opening it what it would contain; the marriage certificate of John Hilyer, and Amanda Cosgrove.

He returned to his chair and sat looking at the paper thoughtfully; it was dated from a distant city, but he knew in some occult way that Amanda Cosgrove was of the country. I cannot express it better than by saying that the name wafted to him a breath of country air; the odor of buttercups, and a glint of their gold.

The package held another paper—a sealed will.

He drew a breath of relief, and experienced a glad sense of freedom, as though until now he had been bound to some onerous duty. He sat long with his hand pressed over his eyes, his senses deadened to all outside impressions; repeating over many times the name of Amanda Cosgrove; formulating slowly and distinctly his desire to see her.

At first all things waved and swayed, a conglomeration of darkness, shot with rays of light and color; gradually, there evolved from this a hilly country, verdant with grass, and beautified with many trees; a sunny valley with carpet of a brighter hue, and fields of waving grain. A low, picturesque cottage stood in the shelter of a grove; before the door stood a woman whose hair was like silver, and the face though sad and worn did not look old. She shaded her eyes with her hand, and looked wistfully in his direction; dimly outlined within the doorway shone—fairly shone—a face which his spirit recognized as her whose hand had rested upon his shoulder, whose spirit presence had been his guide in this search.