Puck — November 20, 1878 — page 12: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

| = il PUCK. and she knew she had yet to learn another ¢ of sorrow’s dark-bound book. ravely she tried to master her anguish, to read the poor unsteady words: “Lucy, the time has come to redeem your promise. Do not delay, my darling.” That was all. With horses urged to their ut- most speed, with heart and brain throbbing till it seemed that their pulses must break, she passed through the crowded streets like one entranced, with no feeling of life left in her, save the giant wish to answer his last prayer, to see his face once more. On, on! through ‘the madding crowd,” through the ranks of fashion and pleasure, the carriage stopped noiselessly in a straw- covered street, till the Silence of the sick man’s room told her she was near him at last. Propped up on many pillows, frail and weak as a child, he had yet watched for her. When she entered he stretched forth his arms, and the motion was full of ineffable tenderness, but the silence of the room remained unbroken; they found no words to speak, At such a time as this, when the last hour of hope is at hand, when the end of all has come, when love alone stands firm, and does not faint or die, bringing back all the brightness of other days, even through a mighty shroud of woe— at such a time as this poor human words are pigmies before the monarch Death; their ten- derness grows cold beneath his icy touch. They felt too much for speech, but she saw many silver threads among the blue-black hair; she saw that the strong hand of youth had wasted and grown pale, till it seemed fragile as a woman’s might be. She knew the last ray of his life was fading, and she thanked God that it had shone for her. By and by he raised his head from her bo- som, whispering: “Lucy, through all these years did you ever think of the golden summer long ago? did you ever think of the sweet hope that cheered my weary heart when I bade you farewell? Oh, 1 knew it was not a false dream. I knew I could not die without seeing you once again. It was a presentiment from above; one that could not deceive. 1 can die happy now,” he added, But the bitterness of death came t> her as he spoke. After a little while he began again, with dreamy eyes that seemed to gaze on some far- distant scene: When I left you, I wandered into wild jands—too wild for aught but beasts to live in; but they harmed me not; some even learnt to follow me, as a faithful dog might do, and I learnt to love Nature’s dumb children with a strange love that would have made my wordly brethren smile. When the day changed into night, I would stretch myself beneath some pa- triarchal tree, and dream of the old home far away. Oh, how often have I watched the end- less host of stars till their bright eyes seemed to read into my very heart, and catch the secret hidden there! In’ my loneliness they seemed as friends to me, and I communed with them as if they had been human. Oh, often, often 1 have answered their kindly light in words, and bade them, when they should shine on your dear face, Lucy, to tell you of my love.” She closed her eyes, listening; and it seemed as if tie heavenly spheres had opened, teach- ing new sweetness to the earth. “©Often,” he resumed, ‘through the lonely nights of those distant lands, my brain has pictured into reality the soft shadows of the past. Yes, you have been by my side for hours, Lucy; by my side in great silent plains, where naught but spirits seemed to breathe; in vast shadowy forests, where the whispering of many leaves seemed as the grateful prayer of night to God; near rushing waters, whose roaring torrents stir the soul; everywhere you have an- swered my call! And when you came you smiled on me, Lucy, and we spoke unknown thoughts of dreamland and of love; strong mystic thoughts, so lofty, so gentle, so fair; oh, fairer than manhood's fairest dream! too sensi- tively tender, too delicately beautiful for earthly ears to catch, for earthly lips to tell! And yet, when you left me, when the busy day came back with its commonplace wants and cares, in the midst of it all my brain recalled the fairy web of night; and, though many silken threads were lost, many broken, I tried to mark the haunting dream on paper, and weave the tale you taught me into a song of love. One day I sent my work to you, who were its real maker; to you first, Lucy, and then to the reat world, who called it good, though the uman hand had dimmed’ the spirit light upon it.” The woman he had so loved stood by, gaz- ing into the depths of his fading eyes, and the tenderness of a mute caress was all that she had power to give. “When several years had come and gone,” he said, “I longed, with a passionate longing, for one glimpse of my native land again, for one brief glance at my darling’s face. I could not conquer the intensity of my wish, and for a short space I found myself once more in London's motley crowd —that very crowd which would have made me famous had I wished. But I only wished to see you, Lucy. I found out your usual haunts; I went to the great opera-house, where you would surely be that night, and, lost among the glittering throng, I saw you there. I watched you to the very last, with all the splendor of jewels and lace about you. Your beautiful eyes turned to me once—only once —without seeing; but their look was serene and peaceful, and I thanked God that He had made you happy.” How distinctly she recalled now each trivial deed of that night! He seemed to be growing weaker and weaker as the quick moments fled; yet he whispered softly again: ‘Do you know I often thought, Lucy, that the little bunch of forget-me-nots you gave me long ago must have stretched and changed be- neath some magic spell, till they grew like a tight-fitting garment, that clung about my heart and kept it true for ever.” ‘True heart! true love! bright creating fancy! Oh, could it be that they were doomed to grow senseless and dié—colder than the cold grave, to lie silent for evermore? “I must rest now a little,” he said. ‘Oh, be not afraid!” he added, reading her look of dread aright; “the end has not yet come, But you must watch and pray for me, darling, for the angel of death is nigh.” His head lay on her breast again, and the pallid eyelids closed as he sent her a childlike smile of gentle trust and love. An hour went by, and he did not move. No sign of pain disturbed the chiscled features as he slept; the wild beating of the heart he rested on marked alone the stealthy steps of the cruel | phantom, drawing nearer and nearer, with arms outstretched, to bear him away; and in the depths of that heart a prayer was uttered, fervent beyond words, with immeasurable an- guish. At length, with a great sigh, the trammels of sleep were shaken off, and, looking at her with intense tenderness and compassion, he | drew her lips down to his own, whispering: *©O my love, the time has come!—the time has come!” Hushed and still, they neither spoke nor moved, till his voice rose again, sweet and solemn, saying: “Kneel down and repeat the heavenly prayer for me—the prayer that divine love taught us to utter in our need.” She struggled hard to obey. God, if suffering can bring down compas- sionate mercy from above, if it draws down for us.the “gentle dew from heaven,” the words of that trembling prayer must have been heard and answered! Another short silence in the chamber of death; and then, in a clear steady voice, he said aloud: “T believe in Thee, I hope in Thee, I love Thee, O my God!" And after a few moments had passed away, he bade her come closer to | him—closer, for his eyes were heavy and the day was growing dark. She put her arms about him once more; but the tears she had struggled to conceal could not be hidden now. He saw, he felt them fall- ing; and his poor weak hand tried to wipe the bitter drops away, as he murmured softly in her ear: “Oh, do not weep, my darling! It is such a blessed thing to have you back again at last! I am so happy, Lucy! Do not weep for me. And in years to come, think not of this last hour with grief; remember that you have soft- ened to me the bitterness of Death. He is not cruel—oh, no! He seemeth now a fair and gentle thing; and the end of all is coming, sweet as calm and the peaceful setting of a sum- mer day’s sun.” She kissed the pale brow that was growing cold as snow, and he said again: “Lucy, we must part now, but only for a little while. I shall see you again where all is pure and fair and good, where even the me- mory of pain is not, throughout the endless days and years that we have called eternity.” ‘And the purity and the fairness and the goodness of that eternity came down upon the wings of Death, making the earthly face beau- tiful with the beauty of heaven, and she knew that a spirit too lofty for earth had passed from it for ever. ‘The majesty of death had come, and it was very gracious. The manuscript ended here. The reader bent her head as she had done before, reve- rently kissing the lines her mother’s trembling hand had written, and then putting it away with gentlest touch and care, as if it had been a thing of life, she went down softly and noise- lessly to the room where she knew that sorrow- ing mother would be found. "The dusky night was coming fast, darkening the pretty room, and still the pale and motion- less figure was there, still the sad eyes seemed unconscious of the present. In a moment the girl knelt at her feet, kissing her hands over and over again, “OQ mother, mother!” she cried, “ why did you doubt me? Did you not know how clearly I can read all that relates to you? Or was it to test your child’s clear-sighted love that you | disguised the tale of your own life and sorrow under fictitious names? My darling beautiful mother! Why did you not tell me? Poor lit- tle mother! poor mother!” No answer came; but the mother’s head bent down to hers, wetting the golden hair with tears, even as a weary rose that has out- lived the storm may shed o'er the leaves of the | opening blossom beside it some of the rain- drops that have burdened its own, “Tue police scem to be pretty well “clewed ‘up’ on the Stewart business. ‘This is not in- tended as a grave joke.—New Haven Register. Up in the oil country a man said he had | seen oil on a creek almost half an inch deep. | On investigation it proved to be a joke, and it was generally regarded as a very senile joke | at that.—Litsburgh Telegraph, : i q i comicbooks.com