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.