"I knew that I was very ill, and that Philip was anxious and wretched, but I never thought that I might die. My fierce pain gave me no hint of death, and so it came almost without warning. I would not believe that I must go away, and that this brief illness meant death was incredible, preposterous! I shrank from thinking of it; I cried out that I would not die; I would not leave Philip! I begged my physicians for life; I entreated Heaven to spare me; I almost broke my husband's heart by my wild cries for life. It was a bitter struggle! I prayed for annihilation—for anything but the knowledge that we were separated. Do not think that I forgot Nellie, or that I did not grieve to part with her; but other mothers have loved their children for the father's sake, and I could have surrendered anything to have kept him. I could trust her to a Higher love, but for us there was nothing but daily, hourly union.
"The night before I died—for who can thrust away the inevitable!—I lay close in Philip's arms as he knelt by my bedside. I was almost helpless, but I clung body and soul to him. It was poor comfort to tell each other that this was but a temporary separation; that we had yet an eternity in which to live together. Eternity was indefinite and far away, while our parting, his lonely life, my waiting hours, were so near. I cannot forget how he wept as he held me close, closer to him, and how his courage failed as he realized how fast my hour of departure was hastening to us! I do not now know how it was that we did not die together that night! We talked of it, and it seemed so easy and natural that we thought we could not help it; but the daylight came, and we were still alive, clinging to each other.
"But this night of agony did more than death alone could have done, for it shaped my future. Out of our frantic grief there came a prayer that has fixed me here, and which has taught me of what love is made! Together that night we besought Heaven to give me no other happiness than that I had known in life, but to let me linger near my home, and be with my husband until he died. I cried out that any other existence would be hell to me; and with desperate hands we beat against the doors of prayer, and pleaded for power to choose our own future.
"The next night I died. All day I had laid on my bed passive and quiet. My grief had worn me out, and I could not have spoken had I wished. Philip sat by me holding my hand, but he too was silent. I felt vaguely that mine was the easier task; that living could be harder than dying; but I had no words with which to comfort or strengthen him. I could faintly smile when he would bend his head, and kiss my nerveless hand, and I wondered if he knew how much I liked to lie quietly and look at him. Yet I did not care for it all! I remember the watchful indifference with which I regarded my physician's face, and followed the motions of the nurse about the room. I remember my sister's tears, and how little Nellie sat by me on the bed with her doll, until she fell asleep on my pillow. I remember how the hours measured themselves away, how the sunshine deepened and faded, how the night came, and all grew dim and silent. An absolute hush rested upon the earth. The fire blazed, but it had ceased its crackling; the watchers moved noiselessly about the room, the street had become quiet, and everything seemed awaiting some coming, some solemn change. As Philip leaned over me, and I saw his lips move, but heard no sound, I fancied that perhaps my hearing had gone from me, but I cared nothing for it! Then the fire grew dim, the room seemed full of shadows, the lights faded away, and my eyes became heavy, but I did not care to shut them, or to brush away the film that covered them. My breath gained substance, and began to push its way through my lungs, my throat seemed closing, and then suddenly everything changed!
"It is not to my purpose, even were I allowed, to tell you anything of the conditions of my present life, or to explain to you how I can reveal myself to you, and why it was that Philip could never see me. All that I am to tell you is connected with this earth.
"After the first surprise was over I turned to Philip, who was kneeling by the bed. He could not believe that I was dead, but called vehemently on me to look at him. I remember the joy with which I sprang to his side, and putting my arms around, tried to turn his head away from the dead body to my living, happy face! But it was all in vain, in vain! He was deaf, he was blind to me! Our prayer, our compact was as nothing: he knew only the dead wife! I was as indifferent to the body as to a shadow on the wall; but to be clinging to him unrecognized, unfelt, terrified me, shocked me! I cannot dwell on this, but after all was over, and the body carried away, he was still ignorant of my presence. I followed his aimless steps through the house; I stood by his chair as he sat idly at his easel; I watched with him through the long nights, but he never suspected that I was there! How often when he has called me have I answered, and when he has prayed for one glimpse of me have I clung to him, but had no sign from him to tell me that he even blindly guessed that our prayer might have been granted! I have put my arms around him; my head has lain upon his shoulder; I have passionately called upon him, but still been as empty air! Yet it comforted me to be with him, and I could not doubt that some time he would come to know of my presence. It was impossible, I thought, for him to dwell in such an atmosphere of love and always be unconscious of it. Why, we thought only of each other, we longed only for each other, and so he must at last come to know how near I was, and then, I thought with joy, waiting would lose its pain!
"I could laugh as I now think of this fond and foolish fancy—of my trust in time, in a man's intuition! Why, I did not even know that men do not nurse grief as we do; and I was surprised by Philip's resolute bravery in turning to work, and trying to forget in study all he had lost in love. But do not think it was easy for him! I was much too intimately connected with his art not to be always suggested by it; and my dumb and unknown presence awakened none of the old inspiration of our talks, our mutual sympathy and interest. Sometimes his desire for me became so intense that I felt that my time for recognition had surely come, and I have knelt, clinging to him, waiting for that blessed smile of knowledge, but all in vain!
"Time, however, smoothes all griefs for mortals, and soon life began to run tranquilly in the house. Nellie was happy in my sister's care, and Philip became absorbed in work. The old sparkle and gayety was gone, but youth and vigor were left, so they lived pleasantly enough, and I wandered through the rooms lonely, but not forlorn. I could not be miserable, for I was ever with them. And I could not but be happy in seeing how tenderly I was remembered, how constantly I was thought of by them all. Nothing was changed, for even my work-basket kept its place in Philip's room, and some of my ribbons were still tumbled in with his collars! Thus some years passed away. Nellie grew tall and pretty, and Philip became graver, more studious, and was as famous as he was popular. I do not believe that he ever thought of making any change in his life, of filling my place in his home or heart. I never dreamed it was possible! But ignorance is a poor safeguard, and at last the time came when the shadow began to lift from off his life, to deepen over mine. I do not know how to tell you more; the thought of speaking of it almost strikes me dumb; but I must, I must! I am compelled to do it! And it all came of a picture—a picture of youth and beauty; and she—Esther—came to sit for it! You need not expect me to tell you much of her, for some things are impossible; but she had been as a schoolgirl a pet of mine. She was the daughter of a friend, and she was pretty; she was rich; she was good and loving: what else could any mortal ask for? These quiet hours in the studio were pleasant to both of them, and one day Philip broke the silence of years and spoke of me to her. She was glad to talk of me, for she had been fond of me; and she told him of what I had said to her; she brought him a little drawing I had made of Nellie for her. They spoke of me lovingly and gently, but I stood off and wrung my hands in anguish. The most cruel silence would have been better than these confidences which brought them so close together.
"But what a wonderful picture he painted! How fair, how lovely she looked upon the canvas, and how happy she was when the painting was praised! She danced for joy when she first saw it in its frame; but I—I who knew so well what a success it was—I did not rejoice! I did not look at the picture, but instead I watched the soft and tender smile with which Philip regarded her! Need I tell you more?" she said in a husky voice, standing up and clenching her hands. "Must I repeat the history of these days as though it was a story I was telling you! Have I not suffered penance enough in witnessing a grief I could not comfort, a resignation that I could not share, and a happiness that has made me desperate; but must I also put it all into words? But there was one trial spared me. I did not have to witness the growth of this new love, for I rarely saw them together during the days of courtship. She did not come often to the house after the picture was finished, and so I escaped this much. Yet I knew when they saw each other, and he was no laggard wooer. I never followed him or her, for I could not leave the home where we had lived; but in thought I was never parted from him. How often have I paced the floor in lonely agony, waiting for his return from her house. I have crouched in the corner, fearing, yet eager to see him enter with the new happiness in his eye, the new elasticity in his step. I saw him grow brighter and gayer; and as he whistled or sang at his work I have fled away in helpless agony. Yet he had not forgotten me; and in the midst of the new life that was thrilling through him I was still dear to him. I cannot pretend to understand a man's love, nor to tell you how faithfulness to an old affection, and desire for one that is new, can dwell in the same heart. He thought of me tenderly. I was a part of a past too dear to be forgotten; but I did not belong to the present. He had lived without me, and I was no longer necessary to him, but this younger love was very near and real to him.
"At last he brought her home, and with many smiles and happy glances he led Nellie to her new mother. It seemed very proper to the people who filled the house that her grace and youth should mate with his dignity and reputation, and that they should love each other; but none of them saw, few thought of the disembodied wife who was still chained to his side by links he had helped to forge, and who, standing unsuspected in their midst, cursed—not the bride nor her husband—but her own immorality.