University of Virginia Library

14. XIV.

“To a certain extent, this stupor brought with it
a desirable insensibility. He trembled no longer.

He was almost reckless. A reaction in his mind
had taken place, and from having been one whom
every thing before, however slight, could startle,
he was now one whom nothing could affect or
move. He rushed through the abbey. He thrust
his fearless head into all its recesses — into tombs
and niches, cells, and ruinous and long untrodden
apartments, with most admirable indiscretion. He
summoned his tormentor from the places in which
he had hidden himself, and defied the presence
which he invoked. But all was silent; and, exhausted
with fatigue, and chafed with his disappointment,
Carl at length departed from the abbey
in hopeless despondency. The next day, even as
the spectre had predicted, he received the fatal intelligence
of the death of Herman. This news
was but too confirmatory of what he had seen and
felt. It gave life and body to his fears. The
grief of Matilda was great, but it would be vain
to undertake to describe that of her husband. To
her, his agony — dearly, as she well knew, he loved
her brother — seemed strange and unaccountable.
She little dreamed of the nightly revelations which
were made to his senses. With a praiseworthy
sense of propriety and a manly tenderness, he had
carefully withheld from her, though still longing
to reveal, the fearful secret which he possessed.
But how could he say to her that he had seen her
brother, or seen him as he was — a thing upon
whom the curse of God had fallen, and who had
been delivered over by his judgment to the awful
ministers of eternal wrath. He felt that he must
keep his secret, and bear with its horrible burden
as best he might. But, as evening drew nigh, the
horrors of his heart grew less and less supportable.
He felt that he must again perform his vigil.
He must again repair to the place of his trial and
his torture; and this, by a secret conviction of his
mind, he felt must be done, until he had courage
to hear, and was willing to believe, all the horrible
intelligence which the spectre might think proper
to convey. He had bound himself solemnly to
the meeting, and he could not shrink from the
terms of his pledge. Yet, where and when was it
to end? This was the dreadful question which his
soul answered in utter hopeless ness.

“`In my death. Yet it will end soon, for I
cannot stand this strife much longer.'

“Such were his thoughts and words; and their
truth would readily be believed by those who were
conscious of the sudden and singular change which
had taken place in his person. All the villagers
remarked it. He was haggard and listless — he

saw and heeded nobody — he moved through the
streets like a ghost, and Matilda — the beloved
wife of his affections — no longer filled his heart,
and commanded the devotion of his eye. She
strove to find out the secret of his sorrows, and to
soothe them. But vainly would the physician seek
to heal, while he remains ignorant of the cause of
the distemper. We must lay bare the wound to
extract the poison; and in the purity of her soul
she did not even imagine the horrible nature of
that secret which was preying upon his. Her efforts
were in vain. Night came on, and though
she strove to keep him at home, the spell was too
powerful to permit her to succeed.

“`Where is it you go, dearest Carl? Why,
night after night, will you go forth in so much sorrow,
and with features so wild, so full of apprehension;
and when you return — so full of horror —
so haggard — so dreadful? Tell me, dear husband,
whither it is you go, and why it is you suffer
in this manner.'

“`Nay, do not heed me, dearest,' said the unhappy
man, with a gentleness of manner which
made his sorrows only the more touching — `do not
trouble yourself about me. I have busy and vexing
thoughts, and shall not look well until they are

digested into form. When I resolve them, then
will I remain with you, and be at peace.'

“`What thoughts are they?' she demanded;
but he smiled, and answered her evasively.

“`Ask me not — not now,' he replied, and resisting
her solicitations to be allowed to go forth
with him, he rushed out of the house. She followed
him to the door, and looked after him in the
street; and her own apprehensions were greatly
increased as she beheld the erratic impulse of his
movement, and the feebleness of his step — the one
betokening the disorder of his mind, the other the
debility of his body. While she looked and trembled,
with the big tear gathering slowly in her eye
and stealing silently to her cheek, the accents of a
mild but strange voice met her ears at a small distance,
and, turning, she beheld an old man standing
before her. He was a stranger to her, and
evidently a stranger in the place, since his air and
costume were very different from any that she had
ever before seen. His beard was long and white
like silver, and hung down neatly smooth and
clean upon his bosom; his hair, equally long, and
not less white, streamed with similar smoothness
down his back and shoulders. It was evident that
he was a person of very great age, yet his skin
was clear, of a pure white and red, and unmarked

by a single wrinkle. His mouth was small, and
wore a sweet expression, and his eyes were full of
benevolence. He carried a little staff, and a bundle
which probably contained a single change of raiment
— it certainly could not have held more; and
he seemed like some venerable traveller, who had
an unconquerable desire for travel, and had learned
to narrow his wants to the smallest possible limits,
consistent with the superior claims of an intellectual
nature.

“`Daughter,' he said, `Peace be with you.
Can you give me shelter and food for the night?
I am a stranger, and would abide with you.'

“The heart of Matilda, like that of Carl, was
open as day, and the stranger most probably had
seen in her countenance that he would not be refused;
for, even as he spoke, he prepared to enter.
He was not deceived in the person he addressed.
With a sweet voice, full of respect — for his venerable
white hairs had impressed Matilda with a
proper and gentle awe — she bade him welcome,
and having closed the door — after giving a long
lingering look to the form of her husband, who
was rapidly passing from her sight — she led the
way for her aged guest, into an inner apartment.
There she spread before him the simple repast
from which the unhappy Carl had fled. The old

man blessed the bread ere he broke it, and blessed
the giver. He then ate heartily, and at intervals
conversed with Matilda, who sat with him at the
table, though she ate nothing. Her heart was too
full of doubt and sorrow to suffer her to eat, and
while her guest spoke, the tears gathered unbidden,
and without her consciousness, to her eyes. He
saw them.

“`Daughter, you weep — you are unhappy.
Why is it — what is your sorrow.'

“`Alas! father, are we not born to sorrows.
Is there one who escapes?'

“`True, my child — sorrow is human, and to
grieve is the attribute of man, and perhaps his
blessing. They are blest who can weep. God
loveth those whom he chasteneth; for it is through
trial only that we gain virtue, and through virtue
only that we gain heaven. The untried are the
unblessed, for then is the work harder for them,
and the prospect of virtue more remote. Such,
my daughter, is not your case. The fire even
now is purifying you, and if you grieve, you do not
murmur. Sorrow, like a goodly medicine that is
to work for our healing, must be submitted to
without murmuring. Whence come your sorrows,
my daughter — let me know them. I have travelled
much among men, and I know many of the

arts of healing. I have some skill which I may
boast, in curing those hurts of the mind which
come from our indiscretions, and are to be healed
by our humility. Let me know what grieves you,
and hear to my counsel.”

“`I grieve not for myself, my father, so much
as for one that I love — my husband.'

“`You are married then?'

“`I am, and to one of the best of men; but he
is thoughtful even to sadness, and I fear that his
thoughts are sometimes too vexing for his mind,
which they very much disorder. Something
troubles him very greatly even now, and before
you came he went forth in deep anxiety, which it
was painful to me to behold. He will be away
until near midnight, or even after; and when he
returns, it will seem that some dreadful strife hath
shaken him — his face will be pale as if with sudden
fright — his eyes wild, staring, almost starting
from their sockets, and his whole appearance that
of a man almost distraught.'

“`And how long hath he been troubled in this
wise, my daughter?' demanded the aged stranger.

“`But a few days,' Matilda readily replied; for
there was something so encouraging in the appearance
of the old man, that, although a woman
rather disposed to reserve in her manners, she felt

that she could have freely told him every secret
of her bosom.

“`But a few days — and before this time, he
hath shown none of these habits?'

“`None, father — none of this wildness and affliction.
He hath been thoughtful ever, and fond
of sad thoughts, — but he hath never been wild
and stern as he is now, and never did he go abroad
in this fashion after the night.'

“`You tell me of one,' said the stranger, after a
brief pause given to thought — `You tell me of
one who hath done a sudden wrong, and whom a
just conscience is smiting sorely; or, one, perchance,
who is fond of his error, or, from a false
and unseemly pride, who persisteth in it.'

“`Oh, no, father — I cannot think it. Carl
would never wrong human being. He is the most
just and honorable of our village — that everybody
says of him.'

“`That may be, my daughter, but is there no
wronging of God and of one's self — which is also
a wronging of God, as it perverts the service of the
creature from the place and power to which it is
due. Can you tell me that Carl Werner has not
done this.'

“Matilda tried to think, before she answered,
whether she had mentioned her husband's name.

She did not recollect having done so, and yet the
old man had pronounced it. Before she could resolve
this thought or reply, the stranger continued:

“`It is always a bad sign to see one, on a sudden,
depart from a good habit, my daughter. You
say that your husband seldom or never went forth
at night, but always preferred to remain at home,
until now.'

“`Yes, father, — but it is with evident reluctance
that he now leaves me. It is like tearing
himself away that he rushes out of the house, soon
after nightfall, and goes off I know not where.'

“`To return miserable,' said the old man. `To
bring him back to an old habit, my daughter, is
probably to give him the peace of mind which you
say he seems to lack. Have you striven to keep
him at home, my daughter, since you have seen
the evil of this habit?'

“`I have, my father, but without success,' was
the reply.

“`You must do it,' said the old man with vehemence
— `you must do it. A good wife, who
loves her husband, and is beloved by him, has a
thousand sweet arts of persuasion which will not
fail to procure from him her wishes. Your husband
loves you.'

“`Of a truth, I think it.'

“`Then, my daughter, if you love him, you
shall not fail to persuade him, if you seek to do it.
You must keep him at home. He must not go
abroad. These nightly wanderings make his infirmity.
They prove that he is subject to some
evil influence, which thus exacts his obedience,
and imposes upon him this form of service. You,
and you alone, can save him; for, as the evil influence
strives through the powers of hate, it can
only be safely contended with by the powers of
love. This is the war which is ever going on between
the two great principles by which the world
is divided. You must prove that the principle of
love in your bosom is stronger than that of hate in
the enemy of your husband. Can you prove this,
my daughter; for, unless you can, Carl Werner is
lost to you forever, as he certainly will soon be lost
to himself.'

“`I can — I will!' cried the devoted wife, with
terror and love both equally mingled in her countenance;
for the words of the venerable old man
had deeply impressed her, and a something in his
air and manner assured her that he was worthy of
all confidence.

“`I can — I will, my father — only tell me
what I shall do — how work — what say.'

“`Love needs no counsellor, my daughter, for

it is God's nature, and is by instinct wise. True
love, I speak of; and not the idle fancies which
the profligate and vain have misnamed love. If
you love Carl Werner with a true wife's love, you
will seek that he should be always with you — you
will seek to make him happy. These are your
present tasks. You must begin by keeping him
from this wandering habit. He must not go forth
again at night — for he flies from the principle of
love, to pay homage to the principle of hate.
Withdraw him from that foul worship, and he is
safe, and you are both happy.'

“It would be needless to dwell upon, or to detail,
the farther dialogue which then took place
between the young wife and her venerable guest.
It is sufficient to say that the longer she listened to
to his counsel, the more she became impressed with
its force, and with the necessity for its adoption.
While she heard him she had no wish for sleep,
and hours seemed to pass away like minutes until
the clock struck the midnight hour, and she then
grew more than ever alarmed at the absence of
her husband. She was desirous of putting into
use and exercise the advice which the old man
had given her, and would have sallied forth, even
then, to look after him, when the stranger dissuaded
her from it

“`Do you remain,' he said, `while I go forth
and seek him.'

“`You!' — she said — `no, father, you are too
old and feeble, and your limbs are weary with the
long day's travel.'

“He rose, as she spoke these words, and as he
moved over the floor, she was answered. Where
had those aged limbs acquired that strength and
elasticity which they now exhibited?

“`But you know not where to seek him, my
father.'

“He smiled; and she did not doubt, when she
beheld that smile, that the aged man knew better
where to find her husband than she did herself.
He paused as he crossed the threshold, and bidding
her be of good cheer, he blessed the house
and departed.