Only a Girl: or, A Physician for the Soul.

by Wilhelmine von Hillern

Ernestine placed a small library-ladder against one of the tall, heavily-carved bookcases, and mounted it, with the lamp in her hand. She took out one book after another, without finding the one for which she was searching. Impatiently she rummaged among the dusty folios, that had not been touched for months. At last, by the dim light of her lamp, she saw the title that she was looking for, but it was beneath a pile of books hastily heaped above it. She dragged it out with feverish impatience. The volumes tumbled about, some hard, heavy object, lying among them, fell upon her head, almost stunning her, and then shattered the lamp in her hand, falling afterwards upon the floor with a dull noise amidst the broken glass that accompanied it. Ernestine, her book under her arm, got down from the ladder with trembling knees, to see, by the expiring flame of the wick of the lamp, what it was that had caused the mischief. As she stooped to pick it up, a fleshless, grinning face stared into her own. She started back with a cry. It was one of the skulls that she had put away in the library and long forgotten. The dim light of the lamp died out, but through the darkness the white jaws still grinned horribly. Almost insane with horror, she called again for lights. To her overwrought nerves, the trifling accident was in strange harmony with the thoughts that were tormenting her. It was as if nature thus gave her ominous warning of her fate.

When lights were brought, she forced herself to look the hateful thing in the face again. She picked up the head by its empty eye-sockets. "Thus shall I shortly look,--no fairer than this horror!" And she went up to a mirror, and, in a kind of bravado, compared her own head with the fleshless thing. "You must learn to recognize the family likeness," she said to her own reflection, and in feverish fancy she began to analyze her own fair, noble features and imagine all the changes that they must pass through before their resemblance to their mute, bleached companion should be complete. Disgust and dread mastered her again, and she feared her own reflection in the mirror as much as the skull. She threw it from her, and then started at the noise it made as it fell into the corner of the room. The blood rushed to her head, and she was deafened by the whirr and singing in her ears, although, through it all, she seemed to hear something, she knew not what, that she could not comprehend, and that increased her terror. The death's-head in the corner would not--so it seemed to her--keep quiet; it was rolling about there. She could not stay in the room,--there was something evil in the air. She took the book that she had found, and the candle, and fled like a hunted deer to her own apartment, never looking around her in the desolate rooms, in fear lest the formless thing that so filled her with dread should take visible shape and stare at her from some dim recess. But it followed at her heels, dogging her footsteps, surrounding her like an atmosphere, and with its hundred arms so oppressing her chest and throat, even in the quiet of her own room, that it scarcely left space for her heart to beat. How strangely it did beat,--so irregularly! now faint, now strong, as only a diseased heart can beat! And she opened the book and read her doom,--read the pages devoted to diseases of the heart, hastily, feverishly, with little comprehension of their meaning, for by this time thought was merged in fear, and of course she gave the words a meaning they did not possess, in dread of finding what she wanted to know and yet greedily searching for it. Yes, it was just as she feared. Not a symptom here described that she had not felt. Now it was beyond all doubt, she was lost,--no cure was possible,--only delay, and even that, in her present state of weakness, was hardly to be hoped. She tossed the book aside, and went to the window for air. Damp with rain and close as it was, still it was air,--freer and purer than any that she would have in her coffin. Then, to be sure, she would need it no more, but it was still delightful to breathe, and the thought of lying beneath that close coffin-lid was suffocation!

And she was to die soon! Johannes had not been mistaken. It was true. And her strength had been failing for a long time. What was she afraid of? What was there to fear? The pain that she might suffer? Thousands had suffered the same agony, and the hour of her release was perhaps closer at hand than she thought. Then she would be strong,--this hope should sustain her. She would not falsify, even to herself, the declaration that she had made to Johannes scarcely an hour before. Fear? What? Annihilation,--to cease to be,--it was not cheering, and certainly not sad,--it was simply nothing! It was not annihilation that she feared, but a continuation of existence that might be worse than death,--the uncertainty whether the soul perished with the body. "True," she said to herself, "if our eyes are blinded they are not conscious of light, our closed ears cannot hear. Let this physical mechanism, that is our means of communication with the exterior world, pause in its working, and communication ceases. But suppose thought should be independent of this mechanism? Oh! horrible, horrible! why is there no proof that it cannot be so? What if memory lives on and there are no eyes for seeing, and of course no light,--no ears for hearing, and no sound, no body sensitive to touch, no time or space,--nothing but eternal night, eternal silence, only informed by the memory of what we have seen and heard, and the longing for light, sound, and feeling?"

This was the worst of all,--more dreadful than personal annihilation; this was what she feared. Eternal night, eternal silence, and eternal solitude! Whose blood would not curdle at the thought, except theirs, perhaps, who were weary and worn with existence, or who, looking back upon life's long labour well performed, needed not shun an eternity of remembrance? But she? She was not weary of the world, she had not yet began to enjoy it,--she was not old, she was just beginning to live. She had done nothing towards fulfilling her high purposes, nothing that she could look back upon with satisfaction. It was too soon,--if she must go now, she had nothing to look forward to but an eternity of remorse! And how long must she endure this dread before the horrible certainty came upon her? "Oh, cruel death!" she moaned, "to assail me thus insidiously in his most horrid shape,--of slow, languishing disease! If he would only attack me like an assassin, that I might do battle with him,--meet me in the shape of some falling fragment of rock that I might try to avoid, or in engulfing waves that I could breast and strive against,--it would be kinder than to steal upon me thus, invisible, impalpable, inevitable! Let me flee across the ocean to the farthest ends of the earth, I cannot escape him, I take him with me! Let me mount the swiftest steed and be borne wildly over hill and valley, I cannot escape him, he will ride with me! Let me climb the loftiest Alps,--in vain! in vain! He nestles within me." She fell upon her knees. "Oh, omnipotent nature, cruel mother who refusest me your bounteous nourishment, have compassion upon me, and save your child,--do not give my thought, my life, to annihilation, and its garment to decay! Millions breathe and prosper who are not worthy of your blessings,--will you thrust out me, your priestess, from your grace?" And she lay prostrate, wringing her hands, as if awaiting an answer to her entreaty. All around her was silent. There was no pity for her. She bethought herself, "Oh, nature is implacable, why should I pray to her? she does not hear, she does not think or feel, but sweeps me from her path in the blind despotism of her eternal mechanism. Is there no hand to aid? no judge of the worth of an existence, to say, 'Thou art worthy to live, therefore live?' There is, there is! By the agony of this hour, I know there must be a higher justice, a Divinity other than nature. The spirit that now in dread of death wrestles with nature must have another refuge, a loftier destiny than the life of this world!" She clasped her hands upon her breast. "Oh, Faith! Faith! and if it be so,--if there be a God, what claim can I have upon His pity? Could my vain pride sustain me before such a judge? What have I done to make me worthy of His compassion? Have I been of any use in the world,--conferred happiness upon a single human being, formed one tie pleasant to contemplate? Have I not all my life long denied His existence, and now, like a coward, do I fly to Him for succour? Can I expect aid, and dare to raise my eyes to heaven and seek there what the earth denies me? No! I will not deceive myself; there is no pity for me,--none in nature, none in mankind, none in God!"

And Faith overwhelmed her with its terrors, for only to the loving heart is Faith revealed as Love. To those who have shunned and denied it, it comes like an avenging blast. It bore her poor diseased mind away upon its wings like a withered leaf from the tree of knowledge, and tossed it down into the night of despair.

A cry, "Johannes, come! save me!" burst from Ernestine's lips, and, in a vain effort to reach the door, she fell senseless upon the ground.

[CHAPTER VI.]

SENTENCED.

Leuthold had listened to the conversation between Johannes and Ernestine until it reached the point where he saw that Johannes would prevail. Several times he wondered whether it might not be best to break in upon them and try to give their interview another colour, but he reflected that the attempt would be useless with a man of Möllner's determination, and that he should only be forced to listen to fresh accusations. Then he devised another plan, and determined to make use of the opportunity to effect his own escape. Convinced now that his game was lost, he gathered together the contents of his strong box, and wrote a few lines to Ernestine that might be found upon his writing-table when his absence was discovered. They ran thus:

"I have listened to your conversation, and have heard the unfortunate turn for me that it has taken. I can no longer cherish any hope, and all that I can do is to outwit this fellow and escape while he is with you. I take with me whatever of money there is in the house, to defray the expenses of my journey. I cannot wait until Möllner has gone to ask you for it, for he would stand guard at the door again, and I should never escape from his clutches. My life, and my child's future existence, are at stake. I cannot delay. If you should still decide to leave with me to-day, you will find me at the railroad-station. There are still two hours before the departure of the train. If you remain, I will send you the money for the journey as soon as I can. Farewell, and, I hope, au revoir."