“First Fear his hand its skill to try,
Amid the chords bewildered laid—
And back recoiled, he knew not why,
E’en at the sound himself had made.”—Collins.
Little Helen sat in her long flannel night-dress, by the side of Miss Thusa, watching the rapid turning of her wheel, and the formation of the flaxen thread, as it glided out, a more and more attenuated filament, betwixt the dexterous fingers of the spinner.
It was a blustering, windy night, and the window-panes rattled every now and then, as if the glass were about to shiver in twain, while the stars sparkled and winked coldly without, and the fire glowed warmly, and crackled within.
Helen was seated on a low stool, so near the wheel, that several times her short, curly hair mingled with the flax of the distaff, and came within a hair’s breadth of being twisted into thread.
“Get a little farther off, child, or I’ll spin you into a spider’s web, as sure as you’re alive,” said Miss Thusa, dipping her fingers into the gourd, which hung at the side of the distaff, while at the same time she stooped down and moistened the fibres, by slipping them through her mouth, as it glided over the dwindling flax.
Helen, wrapped in yellow flannel from head to feet, with her little white face peeping above, looked not unlike a pearl in golden setting. A muslin night-cap perched on the top of her head, below which her hair frisked about in defiance of comb or ribbon. The cheek next to the fire was of a burning red, the other perfectly colorless. Her eyes, which always looked larger and darker by night than by day, were fixed on Miss Thusa’s face with a mixture of reverence and admiration, which its external lineaments did not seem to justify. The outline of that face was grim, and the hair, profusely sprinkled with the ashes of age, was combed back from the brow, in the fashion of the Shakers, adding much to the rigid expression of the features. A pair of dark-rimmed spectacles bestrided her forehead midway, appearing more for ornament than use. Never did Nature provide a more convenient resting-place for twin-glasses, than the ridge of Miss Thusa’s nose, which rose with a sudden, majestic elevation, suggesting the idea of unexpectedness in the mind of the beholder. Every thing was harsh about her face, except the eyes, which had a soft, solemn, misty look, a look of prophecy, mingled with kindness and compassion, as if she pitied the evils her far-reaching vision beheld, but which she had not the power to avert. Those soft, solemn, prophetic eyes had the power of fascination on the imagination of the young Helen, and night after night she would creep to her side, after her mother had prepared her for bed, heard her little Protestant pater noster, and left her, as she supposed, just ready to sink into the deep slumbers of childhood. She did not know the strange influence which was acting so powerfully on the mind of her child, or rather she did not seem to be aware that her child was old enough to receive impressions, deep and lasting as life itself.
Miss Thusa was a relic of antiquity, bequeathed by destiny to the neighborhood in which she dwelt—a lone woman, without a single known relative or connection. Though the title of Aunt is generally given to single ladies, who have passed the meridian of their days, irrespective of the claims of consanguinity, no one dared to call her Aunt Thusa, so great was her antipathy to the name. She had an equal abhorrence to being addressed as Mrs., an honor frequently bestowed on venerable spinsters. She said it did not belong to her, and she disdained to shine in borrowed colors. So she retained her virgin distinction, which she declared no earthly consideration would induce her to resign.
She had formerly lived with a bachelor brother, a sickly misanthropist, who had long shunned the world, and, as a natural consequence, was neglected by it. But when it was known that the invalid was growing weaker and weaker, and entirely dependent on the cares of his lonely sister, the sympathies of strangers were awakened, and forcing their way into the chamber of the sick man, they administered to his sufferings and wants, till Miss Thusa learned to estimate, at its true value, the kindness she at first repelled. After the death of the brother, the families which composed the neighborhood where they dwelt, feeling compassion for her loneliness and sorrow, invited her to divide her time among them, and make their homes her own. One of her eccentricities (and she had more than one,) was a passion for spinning on a little wheel. Its monotonous hum had long been the music of her lonely life; the distaff, with its swaddling bands of flax, the petted child of her affections, and the thread which she manufactured the means of her daily support. Wherever she went, her wheel preceded her, as an avant courier, after the fashion of the shields of ancient warriors.
“Ah! Miss Thusa’s coming—I know it by her wheel!” was the customary exclamation, sometimes uttered in a tone of vexation, but more frequently of satisfaction. She was so original and eccentric, had such an inexhaustible store of ghost stories and fairy tales, sang so many crazy old ballads, that children gathered round her, as a Sibylline oracle, and mothers, who were not troubled with a superfluity of servants, were glad to welcome one to their household who had such a wondrous talent for amusing them, and keeping them still. In spite of all her oddities, she was respected for her industry and simplicity, and a certain quaint, old-fashioned, superstitious piety, that made a streak of light through her character.
Grateful for the kindness and hospitality so liberally extended towards her, she never left a household without a gift of the most beautiful, even, fine, flaxen thread for the family use. Indeed the fame of her spinning spread far and wide, and people from adjoining towns often sent orders for quantities of Miss Thusa’s marvelous thread.
She was now the guest of Mrs. Gleason, the mother of Helen, who always appropriated to her use a nice little room in a snug corner of the house, where she could turn her wheel from morning till night, and bend over her beloved distaff. Helen, who was too young to be sent to school by day, or to remain in the family sitting-room at night, as her mother followed the good, healthy rule of early to bed and early to rise, seemed thrown by fate upon Miss Thusa’s miraculous resources for entertainment and instruction. Thus her imagination became preternaturally developed, while the germs of reason and judgment lay latent and unquickened.
“Please stop spinning Miss Thusa, and tell me a story,” said the child, venturing to put her little foot on the treadle, and giving the crank a sudden jerk.
“Yes! Don’t tease—I must smooth the flax on the distaff and wet the thread on the spindle first. There—that will do. Come, yellow bird, jump into my lap, and say what you want me to tell you. Shall it he the gray kitten, with the big bunch of keys on its neck, that turned into a beautiful princess, or the great ogre, who killed all the little children he could find for breakfast and supper?”
“No,” replied Helen, shuddering with a strange mixture of horror and delight. “I want to hear something you never told before.”
“Well—I will tell you the story of the worm-eaten traveler. It is half singing, half talking, and a powerful story it is. I would act it out, too, if you would sit down in the corner till I’ve done. Let go of me, if you want to hear it.”
“Please Miss Thusa,” said the excited child, drawing her stool into the corner, and crouching herself upon it, while Miss Thusa rose up, and putting back her wheel, prepared to commence her heterogeneous performance. She often “acted out” her stories and songs, to the great admiration of children and the amusement of older people, but it was very seldom this favor was granted, without earnest and reiterated entreaties. It was the first time she had ever spontaneously offered to personate the Sibyl, whose oracles she uttered, and it was a proof that an unusual fit of inspiration was upon her.
She was very tall and spare. When in the attitude of spinning, she stooped over her distaff, she lost much of her original height, but the moment she pushed aside her wheel, her figure resumed its naturally erect and commanding position. She usually wore a dress of dark gray stuff, with immense pockets, a black silk neckerchief folded over her shoulders, a white tamboured muslin cap, with a black ribbon passed two or three times round the crown. To preserve the purity of the muslin, and the lustre of the ribbon, she always wore a piece of white paper, folded up between her head and the muslin, making the top of the cap appear much more opaque than the rest.
The worm-eaten traveler! What an appalling, yet fascinating communication! Helen waited in breathless impatience, watching the movements of the Sibyl, with darkened pupils and heaving bosom.
At length when a sudden gust of wind blew a naked bough, with a sound like the rattling of dry bones against the windows, and a falling brand scattered a shower of red sparks over the hearth-stone, Miss Thusa, waving the bony fingers of her right hand, thus began—
“Once there was a woman spinning by the kitchen fire, spinning away for dear life, all living alone, without even a green-eyed cat to keep her from being lonely. The coals were all burnt to cinders, and the shadows were all rolled up in black bundles in the four corners of the room. The woman went on spinning, singing as she spun—
‘Oh! if I’d good company—if I’d good company,
Oh! how happy should I be!’
There was a rustling noise in the chimney as if a great chimney-swallow was tumbling down, and the woman stooped and looked up into the black flue.”
Here Miss Thusa bowed her tall form, and turned her beaked nose up towards the glowing chimney. Helen, palpitating with excitement followed her motions, expecting to see some horrible monster descend all grim with soot.
“Down came a pair of broad, dusty, skeleton feet,” continued Miss Thusa, recoiling a few paces from the hearth, and lowering her voice till it sounded husky and unnatural, “right down the chimney, right in front of the woman, who cried out, while she turned her wheel round and round with her bobbin, ‘What makes your feet so big, my friend?’ ‘Traveling long journeys. Traveling long journeys,’ replied the skeleton feet, and again the woman sang—
‘Oh! if I’d good company—if I’d good company,
Oh! how happy should I be!’
Rattle—rattle went something in the chimney, and down came a pair of little mouldering ankles. ‘What makes your ankles so small?’ asked the woman. ‘Worm-eaten, worm-eaten,’ answered the mouldering ankles, and the wheel went merrily round.”
It is unnecessary to repeat the couplet which Miss Thusa sang between every descending horror, in a voice which sounded as if it came through a fine-toothed comb, in little trembling wires, though it gave indescribable effect to her gloomy tale.
“In a few moments,” continued Miss Thusa, “she heard a shoving, pushing sound in the chimney like something groaning and laboring against the sides of the bricks, and presently a great, big, bloated body came down and set itself on legs that were no larger than a pipe stem. Then a little, scraggy neck, and, last of all, a monstrous skeleton head that grinned from ear to ear. ‘You want good company, and you shall have it,’ said the figure, and its voice did sound awfully—but the woman put up her wheel and asked the grim thing to take a chair and make himself at home.
“ ‘I can’t stay to-night,’ said he, ‘I’ve got a journey to take by the moonlight. Come along and let us be company for each other. There is a snug little place where we can rest when we’re tired.’ ”
“Oh! Miss Thusa, she didn’t go, did she?” interrupted Helen, whose eyes, which had been gradually enlarging, looked like two full midnight moons.
“Hush, child, if you ask another question, I’ll stop short. She didn’t do anything else but go, and they must have been a pretty sight walking in the moonlight together. The lonely woman and the worm-eaten traveler. On they went through the woods and over the plains, and up hill and down hill, over bridges made of fallen trees, and streams that had no bridges at all; when at last they came to a kind of uneven ground, and as the moon went behind a cloud, they went stumbling along as if treading over hillocks of corn.
“ ‘Here it is,’ cried the worm-eaten traveler, stopping on the brink of a deep, open grave. The moon looked forth from behind a cloud, and showed how awful deep it was. She wanted to turn back then, but the skeleton arms of the figure seized hold of her, and down they both went without ladder or rope, and no mortal ever set eyes on them more.
‘Oh! if I’d good company—if I’d good company,
Oh! how happy should I be!’ ”
It is impossible to describe the intensity with which Helen listened to this wild, dark legend, crouching closer and closer to the chimney corner, while the chillness of superstitious terror quenched the burning fire-rose on her cheek.
“Was the spinning woman you, Miss Thusa?” whispered she, afraid of the sound of her own voice; “and did you see it with your own eyes?”
“Hush, foolish child!” said Miss Thusa, resuming her natural tone; “ask me no questions, or I’ll tell you no tales. ’Tis time for the yellow bird to be in its nest. Hark! I hear your mother calling me, and ’tis long past your bed-time. Come.”
And Miss Thusa, sweeping her long right arm around the child, bore her shrinking and resisting towards the nursery room.
“Please, Miss Thusa,” she pleaded, “don’t leave me alone. Don’t leave me in the dark. I’m not one bit sleepy—I never shall go to sleep—I’m afraid of the worm-eaten man.”
“I thought the child had more sense,” exclaimed the oracle. “I didn’t think she was such a little goose as this,” continued she, depositing her between the nice warm blankets. “Nobody ever troubles good little girls—the holy angels take care of them. There, good night—shut your eyes and go to sleep.”
“Please don’t take the light,” entreated Helen, “only just leave it till I get to sleep; I’ll blow it out as soon as I’m asleep.”
“I guess you will,” said Miss Thusa, “when you get a chance.” Then catching up the lamp, she shot out of the room, repeating to herself, “Poor child! She does hate the dark so! That was a powerful story, to be sure. I shouldn’t wonder if she dreamed about it. I never did see a child that listens to anything as she does. It’s a pleasure to amuse her. Little monkey! She really acts as if ’twas all true. I know that’s my master piece; that is the reason I’m so choice of it. It isn’t every one that can tell a story as I can—that’s certain. It’s my gift—I mustn’t be proud of it. God gives some persons one talent, and some another. We must all give an account of them at last. I hope ’twill never be said I’ve hid mine in a napkin.”
Such was the tenor of Miss Thusa’s thoughts as she wended her way down stairs. Had she imagined half the misery she was entailing on this singularly susceptible and imaginative child, instead of exulting in her gift, she would have mourned over its influence, in dust and ashes. The fears which Helen expressed, and which she believed would prove as evanescent as they were unreal, were a grateful incense to her genius, which she delighted with unconscious cruelty in awakening. She had an insane passion for relating these dreadful legends, whose indulgence seemed necessary to her existence, and the happiness of the narrator was commensurate with the credulity of the auditor. Without knowing it, she was a vampire, feeding on the life-blood of a young and innocent heart, and drying up the fountain of its joys.
Helen listened till the last sound of Miss Thusa’s footsteps died away on the ear, then plunging deeper into the bed, drew the blankets over head and ears, and lay immovable as a snow-drift, with the chill dew of terror oozing from every pore.
“I’m not a good girl,” said the child to herself, “and God won’t send the angels down to take care of me to-night. I played going to meeting with my dolls last Sunday, and Miss Thusa says that was breaking the commandments. I’ll say my prayers over again, and ask God to forgive me.”
Little Helen clasped her trembling hands under the bed-cover, and repeated the Lord’s Prayer as devoutly and reverentially as mortal lips could utter it, but this act of devotion did not soothe her into slumber, or banish the phantom that flitted round her couch. Finding it impossible to breathe under the bed-cover any longer, and fearing to die of suffocation, she slowly emerged from her burying-clothes till her mouth came in contact with the cool, fresh air. She kept her eyes tightly closed, that she might not see the darkness. She remembered hearing her brother, who prided himself upon being a great mathematician, say that if one counted ten, over and over again, till they were very tired, they would fall asleep without knowing it. She tried this experiment, but her heart kept time with its loud, quick beatings; so loud, so quick, she sometimes mistook them for the skeleton foot-tramps of the traveler. She was sure she heard a rustling in the chimney, a clattering against the walls. She thought she felt a chilly breath sweep over her cheek. At length, unable to endure the awful oppression of her fears, she resolved to make a desperate attempt, and rush down stairs to her mother, telling her she should die if she remained where she was. It was horrible to go down alone in the darkness, it was more horrible to remain in that haunted room. So, gathering up all her courage, she jumped from the bed, and sought the door with her nervous, grasping hands. Her little feet turned to ice, as their naked soles scampered over the bare floor, but she did not mind that; she found the door, opened it, and entered a long, dark passage, leading to the stairway. Then she recollected that on the left of that passage there was a lumber-room, running out slantingly to the eaves of the house, with a low entrance into it, which was left without a door. This lumber-room had long been her especial terror. Whenever she passed it, even in broad daylight, it had a strange, mysterious appearance to her. The twilight shadows always gathered there first and lingered last; she never walked by it—she always ran with all her speed, as if the avenger of blood were behind her. Now she would have flown if she could, but her long night dress impeded her motions, and clung adhesively round her ankles. Once she trod upon it, and thinking some one arrested her, she uttered a loud scream and sprang forward through the door, which chanced to be open. This door was directly at the head of the stairs, and it is not at all surprising that Helen, finding it impossible to recover her equilibrium, should pass over the steps in a quicker manner than she intended, swift as her footsteps were. Down she went, tumbling and bumping, till she came against the lower door with a force that burst it open, and in rolled a yellow flannel ball into the centre of the illuminated apartment.
“My stars!” exclaimed Mrs. Gleason, starting up from the centre table, and dropping a bundle of snowy linen on the floor.
“What in the name of creation is this?” cried Mr. Gleason, throwing down his book, as the yellow ball rolled violently against his legs.
Louis Gleason, a boy of twelve, who was seated with the fingers of his left hand playing hide and seek among his bright elf locks, while his right danced over a slate, making algebra signs with marvelous rapidity, jumped up three feet in the air, letting his slate fall with a tremendous crash, and destroying many a beautiful equation.
Mittie Gleason, a young girl of about nine, who was deep in the abstractions of grammar, and sat with her fore-fingers in her ears, and her head bent down to her book, so that all disturbing sounds might be excluded, threw her chair backward in the fright, and ran head first against Miss Thusa, who was the only one whose self-possession did not seem shocked by the unceremonious entrance of the little visitor.
“It’s nobody in the world but little Helen,” said she, gathering up the bundle in her arms and carrying it towards the blazing fire. The child, who had been only stunned, not injured by the fall, began to recover the use of its faculties, and opened its large, wild-looking eyes on the family group we have described.
“She has been walking in her sleep, poor little thing,” said her mother, pressing her cold hands in both hers.
Helen knew that this was not the case, and she knew too, that it was wrong to sanction by her silence an erroneous impression, but she was afraid of her father’s anger if she confessed the truth, afraid that he would send her back to the dark room and lonely trundle-bed. She expected that Miss Thusa would call her a foolish child, and tell her parents all her terrors of the worm-eaten traveler, and she raised her timid eyes to her face, wondering at her silence. There was something in those prophetic orbs, which she could not read. There seemed to be a film over them, baffling her penetration, and she looked down with a long, laboring breath.
Miss Thusa began to feel that her legends might make a deeper impression than she imagined or intended. She experienced an odd mixture of triumph and regret—triumph in her power, and regret for its consequences. She had, too, an instinctive sense that the parents of Helen would be displeased with her, were they aware of the influence she had exerted, and deprive her hereafter of the most admiring auditor that ever hung on her oracular lips. She had meant no harm, but she was really sorry she had told that “powerful story” at such a late hour, and pressed the child closer in her arms with a tenderness deepened by self-reproach.
“I suspect Miss Thusa has been telling her some of her awful ghost stories,” said Louis, laughing over the wreck of his slate. “I know what sent the yellow caterpillar crawling down stairs.”
“Crawling!” repeated his father, “I think it was leaping, bouncing, more like a catamount than a caterpillar.”
“I would be ashamed to be a coward and afraid of ghosts,” exclaimed Mittie, with a scornful flash of her bright, black eyes.
“Miss Thusa didn’t tell about ghosts,” said Helen, bursting into a passion of tears. This was true, in the letter, but not in the spirit—and, young as she was, she knew and felt it, and the wormwood of remorse gave bitterness to her tears. Never had she felt so wretched, so humiliated. She had fallen in her own estimation. Her father, brother and sister had ridiculed her and called her names—a terrible thing for a child. One had called her a caterpillar, another a catamount, and a third a coward. And added to all this was a sudden and unutterable horror of the color of yellow, formerly her favorite hue. She mentally resolved never to wear that horrible yellow night dress, which had drawn upon her so many odious epithets, even though she froze to death without it. She would rather wear her old ones, even if they had ten thousand patches, than that bright, new, golden tinted garment, so late the object of her intense admiration.
“I declare,” cried Louis, unconscious of the Spartan resolution his little sister was forming, and good naturedly seeking to turn her tears into smiles, “I do declare, I thought Helen was a pumpkin, bursting into the room with such a noise, wrapped up in this yellow concern. Mother, what in the name of all that’s tasteful, makes you clothe her by night in Chinese mourning?”
“It was her own choice,” replied Mrs. Gleason, taking the weeping child in her own lap. “She saw a little girl dressed in this style, and thought she would be perfectly happy to be the possessor of such a garment.”
“I never will put it on again as long as I live,” sobbed Helen. “Every body laughs at it.”
“Perhaps somebody else will have a word to say about it,” said her mother, in a grave, gentle voice. “When I have taken so much pains to make it, and bind it with soft, bright ribbon, to please my little girl, it seems to me that it is very ungrateful in her to make such a remark as that.”
“Oh, mother, don’t,” was all Helen could utter; and she made as strong a counter resolve that she would wear the most hideous garment, and brave the ridicule of the whole world, rather than expose herself to the displeasure of a mother so kind and so indulgent.
“You had better put her back in bed,” said Mr. Gleason; “children acquire such bad habits by indulgence.”
Helen trembled and clung close to her mother’s bosom.
“I fear she may again rise in her sleep and fall down stairs,” said the more anxious mother.
“Turn the key on the outside, till we retire ourselves,” observed the father.
To be locked up alone in the darkness! Helen felt as if she had heard her death-warrant, and pale even to blueness, she leaned against her mother, incapable of articulating the prayer that trembled on her ashy lips.
“Give her to me,” said Miss Thusa, “I will take her up stairs and stay with her till you come.”
“Oh, no, there is no fire in the room, and you will be cold. Mr. Gleason, the child is sick and faint. She has scarcely any pulse—and look, what a blue shade round her mouth. Helen, my darling, do tell me what is the matter with you.”
“Her eyes do look very wild,” said her father, catching the infection of his wife’s fears; “and her temples are hot and throbbing. I hope she is not threatened with an inflammation of the brain.”
“Oh! Mr. Gleason, pray don’t suggest such a thought; I cannot bear it,” cried Mrs. Gleason, with quivering accents. They had lost one lovely child, the very counterpart of Helen, by that fearful disease, and she felt as if the gleaming sword of the destroying angel were again waving over her household.
“You had better send for the doctor,” she continued; “just so suddenly was our lost darling attacked.”
Mr. Gleason started up and seized his hat, but Louis sprang to the door first.
“Let me go, father—I can run the fastest.”
And those who met the excited boy running through the street, supposed it was a life-errand on which he was dispatched.
The doctor came—not the old family physician, whose age and experience entitled him to the most implicit confidence—but a youthful partner, to whom childhood was a mysterious and somewhat unapproachable thing.
Of what fine, almost imperceptible links is the chain of deception formed! Helen had no intention of acting the part of a dissembler when she formed the desperate resolution of leaving her lonely chamber. She expected to meet reproaches, perhaps punishment, but anything was preferable to the horrors of her own imagination. But when she found herself greeted as a sleep-walker, she had not the moral courage to close, by an avowal of the truth, the door of escape a mother’s gentle hand had unconsciously opened. She did nut mean to dissemble sickness, but when her mother pleaded sickness as a reason for not sending her back to the lone, dark chamber, she yielded to the plea, and really began to think herself very ill. Her head did throb and ache, and her eyes burned, as if hot sand were sprinkled over the balls. She was not afraid of the doctor’s medicine, for the last time he had prescribed for her, he had given her peppermint, dropped on white sugar, which had a very pleasing and palatable taste. She loved the old doctor, with his frosty hair and sunny smile, and lay quietly in her mother’s arms, quite resigned to her fate, surprising as it was. But when she beheld a strange and youthful face bending over her, with a pair of penetrating, dark eyes, that looked as if they could read the deepest secrets of the heart, she shrank back in dismay, assured the mystery of her illness would all be revealed. The next glance reassured her. She was sure he would be kind, and not give her anything nauseous or dreadful. She watched his cheek, as he leaned over her, to feel her pulse, wondering what made such a beautiful color steal over it growing brighter and brighter, till it looked as if the fire had been glowing upon it. She did not know how very young he was, and this was the first time he had ever been called to visit a patient alone, and that she, little child as she was, was a very formidable object to him—considered as a being for whose life he might be in a measure responsible.
“I would give her a composing mixture,” said he, gently releasing the slender wrist of his patient—“her brain seems greatly excited, but I do not apprehend anything like an inflammation need be dreaded. She is very nervous, and must be kept quiet.”
Helen felt such inexpressible relief, that forgetting her character of an invalid, she lifted her head, and gave him such a radiant look of gratitude it quite startled him.
“See!” exclaimed Louis, rubbing his hands, “how bright she looks. The doctor’s coming has made her well.”
“Don’t make such a fuss, brother, I can’t study,” cried Mittie, tossing her hair impatiently from her brow. “I don’t believe she’s any more sick than I am, she just does it to be petted.”
“Mittie!” said her mother, glancing towards the young doctor.
Mittie, with a sudden motion of the head peculiar to herself, brought the hair again over her face, till it touched the leaves of the book, in whose contents she seemed absorbed; but she peeped at the young doctor through her thick, falling locks, and thought if she were sick, she would much rather send for him than old Doctor Sennar.
The next morning Helen was really ill and feverish. The excitement of the previous evening had caused a tension of the brain, which justified the mother’s fears. At night she became delirious, and raved incoherently about the worm-eaten traveler, the spinning-woman, and the grave-house to which they were bound.
Mrs. Gleason sat on one side of her, holding her restless hand in hers, while Miss Thusa applied wet napkins to her burning temples. The mother shuddered as she listened to the child’s wild words, and something of the truth flashed upon her mind.
“I fear,” said she, raising her eyes, and fixing them mildly but reproachfully on Miss Thusa’s face—“you have been exciting my little girl’s imagination in a dangerous manner, by relating tales of dreadful import. I know you have done it in kindness,” added she, fearful of giving pain, “but Helen is different from other children, and cannot bear the least excitement.”
“She’s always asking me to tell her stories,” answered Miss Thusa, “and I love the dear child too well to deny her. There is something very uncommon about her. I never saw a child that would set and listen to old people as she will. I never did think she would live to grow up; she wasn’t well last night, or she wouldn’t have been scared; I noticed that one cheek was red as a cherry, and the other as white as snow—a sign the fever was in her blood.”
Miss Thusa, like many other metaphysicians, mistook the effect for the cause, and thus stilled, with unconscious sophistry, the upbraidings of her conscience.
Helen here tossed upon her feverish couch, and opening her eyes, looked wildly towards the chimney.
“Hark! Miss Thusa,” she exclaimed, “it’s coming. Don’t you hear it clattering down the chimney? Don’t leave me—don’t leave me in the dark—I’m afraid—I’m afraid.”
It was well for Miss Thusa that Mr. Gleason was not present, to hear the ravings of his child, or his doors would hereafter have been barred against her. Mrs. Gleason, while she mourned over the consequences of her admission, would as soon have cut off her own right hand as she would have spoken harshly or unkindly to the poor, lone woman. She warned her, however, from feeding, in this insane manner, the morbid imagination of her child, and gently forbid her ever repeating that awful story, which had made, apparently, so dark and deep an impression.
“Above all things, my dear Miss Thusa,” said she, repressing a little dry, hacking cough, that often interrupted her speech—“never give her any horrible idea of death. I know that such impressions can never be effaced—I know it by my own experience. The grave has ever been to me a gloomy subject of contemplation, though I gaze upon it with the lamp of faith in my hand, and the remembrance that the Son of God made His bed in its darkness, that light might be left there for me and mine.”
Miss Thusa looked at Mrs. Gleason as she uttered these sentiments, and the glance of her solemn eye grew earnest as she gazed. Such was the usual quietness and reserve of the speaker, she was not prepared for so much depth of thought and feeling. As she gazed, too, she remarked an appearance of emaciation and suffering about her face, which had hitherto escaped her observation. She recollected her as she first saw her, a beautiful and blooming woman, and now there was bloom without beauty, and brightness without beauty, for the color on the cheek and the gleam of the eye, made one wish for pallor and dimness, as less painful and less prophetic.
“Yes, Miss Thusa,” resumed Mrs. Gleason, after a long pause, “if my child lives, I wish her guarded most carefully from all gloomy influences. I know that I must soon leave her, for I have an hereditary malady, whose symptoms have lately been much aggravated. I have long since resigned myself to my doom, knowing that my Heavenly Father knows when it is best to call me home. But I cannot bear that my children should shrink from all I shall leave behind, my memory. Louis is a bold and noble boy. I fear not for him. His reason even now has the strength of manhood. Mittie has very little sensibility or imagination; too little of the first I fear to be very lovable. But perhaps it will be better for her in the end. Helen is all sensibility and imagination. I tremble for her. I am haunted by a strange apprehension that my memory will be a ghost that she will seek to shun. Oh! Miss Thusa, you cannot think how painful this idea is to me. I want her to love me when I am gone, to think of me as a guardian angel watching over and blessing her. I want her to think of me as living in Heaven, not mouldering away in the cold ground. Promise me that you will never more give her any terrible idea associated with death and the grave.”
Mrs. Gleason paused, and pressing her handkerchief over her eyes, leaned back in her chair with a deep sigh. Was this the quiet, practical housekeeper, who always went with stilly steps so noiselessly about her daily tasks that no one would think she was doing anything if it were not for the results?
Was she talking of dying, who had never yet omitted one household duty or one neighborly office? Yes! in the stillness of the night, interrupted only by the delirious moanings of the sick child, she laid aside the mantle of reserve that usually enveloped her, and suffered her soul to be visible—for a little while.
“I will try to remember all you’ve said, and abide by it,” said Miss Thusa, who, in her dark gray dress, and black silk handkerchief tied under her chin, looked something like a cowled friar, of “orders gray,” “but when one has a gift it’s hard to keep it back. I don’t always know myself what I’m going to tell, but speak as I’m moved, as the Bible men used to do in old times. Every body has a way and a taste of their own, I know, and some take to one thing, and some to another. Now, I always did take to what some folks thinks dreadful things. Perhaps it’s because I’ve been a lone woman, and led a sort of spiritual life. I never took any pleasure in merry-making and frolicking. I’d rather go to a funeral than a wedding, any day, and I’d rather look at a shrouded corpse, than a bride tricked out in her laces and flowers. I know it’s strange, but it’s true—and there’s no use in going against the natural grain. You can’t do it. If I take up a newspaper, I see the deaths and murders before anything else. They stare one right in the face, and I don’t see anything else.”
“What a very peculiar temperament,” said Mrs. Gleason, thoughtfully. “Were you conscious of the same tastes when a child?”
“I can hardly remember being a child. It seems to me I never was one. I always had such old feelings. My father and mother died when I was a baby. There was nobody left but my brother—and—me. He was the strangest being that ever lived. He locked up his heart and kept the key, so nobody could get a peep inside. I had nobody to love, nobody who loved me, so I got to loving my spinning-wheel and my own thoughts. When brother fell sick and grew nervous and peevish, he didn’t like the hum of the wheel, and I had to spin at night in the chimney corner, by the flash of the embers, and the company I was to myself the Lord only knows. I’ll tell you what, Mrs. Gleason,” added she, taking her spectacles from her forehead, wiping them carefully, and then putting them right on the top of her head, “God didn’t mean every body to be alike. Some look up and some look down, but if they’ve got the right spirit, they’re all looking after God and truth. If I talk of the grave more than common, it’s because I know it’s nothing but an underground passage to eternity.”
“I thank God for teaching me to look upward at last,” cried Mrs. Gleason, and the quick, panting breath of little Helen was heard distinctly in the silence that followed. Her soul reached forward anxiously into futurity. If it were possible to change Miss Thusa’s opinions and peculiarities into something after the similitude of her kind! Change Miss Thusa! As soon might you expect to change the gnarled and rooted oak into the flexible and breeze-bowed willow. Her idiosyncrasy had been so nursed and strengthened by the two great influences, time and solitude, it spread like the banyan tree, making a dark pavilion, where legions of weird spirits gathered and revelled.
Miss Thusa is one instance out of many, of a being with strong mind and warm heart, cheated of objects on which to expend the vigor of the one, or the fervor of the other. The energies of her character, finding no legitimate outlet, beat back upon herself, wearing away by continued friction the fine perception of beauty and susceptibility of true enjoyment. The vine that finds no support for its upward growth, grovels on the earth and covers it with rank, unshapely leaves. The mountain stream, turned back from its course, becomes a dark and stagnant pool. Even if the rank and long-neglected vine is made to twine round some sustaining fabric, it carries with it the dampness and the soil of the earth to which it has been clinging. Its tendrils are heavy, and have a downward tendency.
In a few days the fever-tide subsided in the veins of Helen.
“I will not take it,” said she, when the young doctor gave her some bitter draught to swallow; “it tastes too bad.”
“You will take it,” he replied, calmly, holding the glass in his hand, and fixing on her the serene darkness of his eyes. He did not press it to her lips, or use any coercion. He merely looked steadfastly, yet gently into her face, while the deep color she had noticed the first night she saw him came slowly into his cheeks. He did not say “you must,” but “you will,” and she felt the difference. She felt the singular union of gentleness and power exhibited in his countenance, and was constrained to yield. Without making farther resistance, she put forth her hand, took the glass, and swallowed the potion at one draught.
“It will do you good,” said he, with a grave smile, but he did not praise her.
“Why didn’t you tell me so before?” she asked.
“You must learn to confide in your friends,” he replied, passing his hand gently over the child’s wan brow. “You must trust them, without asking them for reasons for what they do.”
Helen thought she would try to remember this, and it seemed easy to remember what the young doctor said, for the voice of Arthur Hazleton was very sweet and clear, and seemed to vibrate on the ear like a musical instrument.
——“with burnished neck of verdant gold, erect
Amid his circling spires, that on the grass
Floated redundant—she busied heard the sound
Of rustling leaves, but minded not, at first.”—Milton.
Helen recovered, and the agitation caused by her sickness having subsided, everything went on apparently as it did before. While she was sick, Mrs. Gleason resolved that she would keep her as much as possible from Miss Thusa’s influence, and endeavor to counteract it by a closer, more confiding union with herself. But every one knows how quickly the resolutions, formed in the hour of danger, are forgotten in the moment of safety—and how difficult it is to break through daily habits of life. Even when the pulse beats high with health, and the heart glows with conscious energy, it is difficult. How much more so, when the whole head is sick, and the whole spirit is faint—when the lightest duty becomes a burden, and rest, nothing but rest, is the prayer of the weary soul!
The only perceptible change in the family arrangements was, that Miss Thusa carried her wheel at night into the nursery, and installed herself there as the guardian of Helen’s slumbers. The little somnambulist, as she was supposed to be, required a watch, and when Miss Thusa offered to sit by the fire-side till the family retired to rest, Mrs. Gleason could not be so ungrateful as to refuse, though she ventured to reiterate the warning, breathed by the feverish couch of her child. This warning Miss Thusa endeavored to bear in mind, and illumined the gloomy grandeur of her legends by some lambent rays of fancy—but they were lightning flashes playing about ruins, suggesting ideas of desolation and decay.
Let it not be supposed that Helen’s life was all shadow. Oh, no! In proportion as she shuddered at darkness, and trembled before the spectres her own imagination created, she rejoiced in sunshine, and revelled in the bright glories of creation. She was all darkness or all light. There was no twilight about her. Never had a child a more exquisite perception of the beautiful, and as at night she delineated to herself the most awful and appalling images that imagination can conceive, by day she beheld forms more lovely than ever visited the poet’s dream. She could see angels cradled on the glowing bosom of the sunset clouds, angels braiding the rainbow of the sky. Light to her was peopled with angels, as darkness with phantoms. The brilliant-winged butterflies were the angels of the flowers—the gales that fanned her cheeks the invisible angels of the trees. If Helen had lived in a world all of sunshine, she would have been the happiest being in the world. Moonlight, too, she loved—it seemed like a dream of the sun. But it was only in the presence of others she loved it. She feared to be alone in it—it was so still and holy, and then it made such deep shadows where it did not shine! Yes! Helen would have been happy in a world of sunshine—but we are born for the shadow as well as the sunbeam, and they who cannot walk unfearing through the gloom, as well as the brightness, are ill-fitted for the pilgrimage of life.
Childhood is naturally prone to superstition and fear. The intensity of suffering it endures from these sources is beyond description.
We remember, when a child, with what chillness of awe we used to listen to the wind sighing through the long branches of the elm trees, as they trailed against the window panes, for nursery legends had associated the sound with the moaning of ghosts, and the flapping of invisible wings. We remember having strange, indescribable dreams, when the mystery of our young existence seemed to press down upon us with the weight of iron, and fill us with nameless horror. When a something seemed swelling and expanding and rolling in our souls, like an immense, fiery globe within us, and yet we were carried around with it, and we felt it must forever be rolling and enlarging, and we must forever be rolling along with it. We remember having this dream night after night, and when we awakened, the first thought was eternity, and we thought if we went on dreaming, we should find out what eternity meant. We were afraid to tell the dream, from a vague fear that it was wrong, that it might be thought we were trying to pierce into the mystery of God, and it was wicked in a child thus to do.
Helen used to say, whenever she fell asleep in the day-time under a green tree, or on the shady bank of a stream, as she often did, that she had the brightest, most beautiful dreams—and she wished it was the fashion for people to sleep by day instead of night.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly Mrs. Gleason’s strength wasted away. She still kept her place at the family board, and continued her labors of love, but the short, dry, hacking cough assumed a more hollow, deeper sound, and every day the red spot on her cheek grew brighter, as the shades of night came on. Mittie heeded not the change in her mother, but the affectionate heart of Louis felt many a sad foreboding, as his subdued steps and hushed laugh plainly told. He was naturally joyous and gay, even to rudeness, always playing some good-natured but teasing prank on his little sister, and making the house ring with his merriment. Now, whenever that hollow cough rung in his ears, he would start as if a knife pierced him, and it would be a long time before his laugh would be heard again. He redoubled his filial attentions, and scarcely ever entered the house without bringing something which he thought would please her taste, or be grateful to her feelings.
“Mother, see what a nice string of fishes. I am sure you will like these.”
“Oh! mother, here are the sweetest flowers you ever saw. Do smell of them, they are so reviving.”
The tender smile, the fond caress which rewarded these love-offerings were very precious to the warm-hearted boy, though he often ran out of the house to hide the tears they forced into his eyes.
Helen knew that her mother was not well, for she now reclined a great deal on the sofa, and Doctor Sennar came to see her every day, and sometimes the young doctor accompanied him, and when he did, he always took a great deal of notice of her, and said something she could not help remembering. Perhaps it was the peculiar glance of his eye that fixed the impression, as the characters written in indelible ink are pale and illegible till exposed to a slow and gentle fire.
“You ought to do all you can for your mother,” said he, while he held her in his lap, and Doctor Sennar counted her mother’s pulse by the ticking of his large gold watch.
“I am too little to do any good,” answered she, sighing at her own insignificance.
“You can be very still and gentle.”