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  CHAPTER XV.

  JOURNAL OF PAOLO LANGHETTI.

  Liverpool, June 2, 1840.--I promised you, my Teresina, to keep a diaryof all my wanderings, and now I begin, not knowing whether it will beworth reading or not, but knowing this: that my corellina will read itall with equal interest, whether it be trivial or important.

  I have taken passage in the ship _Tecumseh_ from Liverpool to Quebec.I have embarked in her for no better reason than this, that she is thefirst that will sail, and I am impatient. The first New York ship doesnot leave for a fortnight. A fortnight in Liverpool! Horror!

  I have been on board to secure my room. I am told that there is a largenumber of emigrants. It is a pity, but it can not be helped. All shipshave emigrants now. Ireland is being evacuated. There will soon be nopeasants to till the soil. What enormous misery must be in that mostwretched of countries! Is Italy worse? Yes, far worse; for Italy has apast to contrast with the present, whereas Ireland has no past.

  At Sea, June 4.--We are many miles out in the Irish Channel. There aresix hundred emigrants on board--men, women, and children. I am told thatmost of these are from Ireland, unhappy Ireland! Some are from England,and are going to seek their fortune in America. As I look on them Ithink, My God! what misery there is in this world! And yet what can I doto alleviate it? I am helpless. Let the world suffer. All will be righthereafter.

  June 10.--Six hundred passengers! They are all crowded together in amanner that is frightful to me. Comfort is out of the question; thedirest distress is every where present; the poor wretches only tryto escape suffering. During storms they are shut in; there is littleventilation; and the horror that reigns in that hold will not let meeither eat or sleep. I have remonstrated with the captain, but withouteffect. He told me that he could do nothing. The owners of the shipput them on board, and he was employed to take them to their properdestination. My God! what will become of them?

  June 15.--There have been a few days of fine weather. The wretchedemigrants have all been on deck. Among them I noticed three who, fromtheir appearance, belonged to a different class. There was a lady witha young man and a young girl, who were evidently her children. The ladyhas once been beautiful, and still bears the traces of that beauty,though her face indicates the extreme of sadness. The son is a man ofmagnificent appearance, though as yet not full-grown. The daughter ismore lovely than any being whom I have ever seen. She is different frommy Bicetta. Bice is Grecian, with a face like that of a marble statue,and a soul of purely classic mould. Bice is serene. She reminds me ofArtemis. Bice is an artist to her inmost heart. Bice I love as Ilove you, my Teresina, and I never expect to meet with one who canso interpret my ideas with so divine a voice. But this girl is morespiritual. Bice is classic, this one is medieval. Bice is a goddess,this one a saint. Bice is Artemis, or one of the Muses; this one is HolyAgnes or Saint Cecilia. There is in that sweet and holy face the samedepth of devotion which our painters portray on the face of theMadonna. This little family group stand amidst all the other passengers,separated by the wide gulf of superior rank, for they are manifestlyfrom among the upper classes, but still more so by the solemn isolationof grief. It is touching to see the love of the mother for her children,and the love of the children for their mother. How can I satisfy thelongings which I feel to express to them my sympathy?

  June 21.--I have at length gained my desire. I have become acquaintedwith that little group. I went up to them this morning in obedience toa resistless impulse, and with the most tender sympathy that I couldexpress; and, with many apologies, offered the young man a bottleof wine for his mother. He took it gratefully and frankly. He met mehalf-way in my advances. The poor lady looked at me with speechlessgratitude, as though kindness and sympathy were unknown to her. "Godwill reward you, Sir," she said, in a tremulous voice, "for yoursympathy with the miserable."

  "Dear Madame," said I, "I wish no other reward than the consciousnessthat I may have alleviated your distress."

  My heart bled for these poor creatures. Cast down from a life which musthave once been one of luxury, they were now in the foulest of places,the hold of an emigrant ship. I went back to the captain to see if Icould not do something in their behalf. I wished to give up my room tothem. He said I could do so if I wished, but that there was no roomleft in the cabin. Had there been I would have hired one and insisted ontheir going there.

  I went to see the lady, and made this proposal as delicately as I could.There were two berths in my room. I urged her and her daughter totake them. At first they both refused most positively, with tears ofgratitude. But I would not be so put off. To the mother I portrayedthe situation of the daughter in that den of horror; to the daughterI pointed out the condition of the mother; to the son I showed theposition of his mother and sister, and thus I worked upon the holiestfeelings of their hearts. For myself I assured them that I could get aplace among the sailors in the forecastle, and that I preferred doingso. By such means as these I moved them to consent. They did so with anexpression of thankfulness that brought tears to my eyes.

  "Dear Madame," said I, "you will break my heart if you talk so. Take theroom and say nothing. I have been a wanderer for years, and can live anywhere."

  It was not till then that I found out their names. I told them mine.They looked at one another in astonishment. "Langhetti?" said themother.

  "Yes."

  "Did you ever live in Holby?"

  "Yes. My father was organist in Trinity Church, and I and my sisterlived there some years. She lives there still."

  "My God!" was her ejaculation.

  "Why?" I asked, with eager curiosity. "What do you know about Holby, andabout Langhetti?"

  She looked at me with solemn earnestness. "I," said she, "am the wife,and these are the children of one who was your father's friend. He whowas my husband, and the father of these children, was Ralph Brandon, ofBrandon Hall."

  I stood for a moment stupefied. Then I burst into tears. Then I embracedthem all, and said I know not what of pity and sympathy and affection.My God! to think of such a fate as this awaiting the family of RalphBrandon. Did you know this, oh, Teresina? If so, why did you keep itsecret? But no--you could not have known it. If you had this would nothave happened.

  They took my room in the cabin--the dear ones--Mrs. Brandon and thesweet Edith. The son Frank and I stay together among the emigrants. HereI am now, and I write this as the sun is getting low, and the uproar ofall these hundreds is sounding in my ears.

  June 30.--There is a panic in the ship. The dread pestilence known as"ship-fever" has appeared. This disease is the terror of emigrant ships.Surely there was never any vessel so well adapted to be the prey of thepestilence as this of ours! I have lived for ten days among the steeragepassengers, and have witnessed their misery. Is God just? Can he lookdown unmoved upon scenes like these? Now that the disease has come,where will it stop?

  July 3.--The disease is spreading. Fifteen are prostrate. Three havedied.

  July 10.--Thirty deaths have occurred, and fifty are sick. I amassisting to nurse them.

  July 15.--Thirty-four deaths since my last. One hundred and thirty aresick. I will labor here if I have to die for it.

  July 18.--If this is my last entry let this diary be sent to Mrs.Thornton, care of William Thornton, Holby, Pembroke, England--(theabove entry was written in English, the remainder was all in Italian,as before). More than two hundred are sick. Frank Brandon is down. I amafraid to let his mother know it. I am working night and day. In threedays there have been forty-seven deaths. The crew are demoralized andpanic-stricken.

  July 23.--Shall I survive these horrors? More than fifty new deaths haveoccurred. The disease has spread among the sailors. Two are dead, andseven are sick. Horror prevails. Frank Brandon is recovering slowly.Mrs. Brandon does not know that he has been sick. We send word that weare afraid to come for fear of communicating the disease to her and toEdith.

  July 27.--More than half of the sailors are sick. Eleven dead.Sixty-seven passengers dead since l
ast report. Frank Brandon almostwell, and helping me in my work.

  July 30.--Nearly all the sailors more or less sick--five new deathsamong them. Ship almost unmanageable. In the Gulf of St. Lawrence. Talkof putting into some port. Seventy passengers dead.

  August 2.--Worse yet. Disease has spread into the cabin. Three cabinpassengers dead. God have mercy upon poor Mrs. Brandon and sweet Edith!All the steerage passengers, with a few exceptions, prostrate. FrankBrandon is weak but helps me. I work night and day. The ship is like afloating pest-house. Forty new deaths since last report.

  August 7.--Drifting along, I know not how, up the St. Lawrence. Theweather calm, and two or three sailors able to manage the ship. Captainand mate both dead. Ten cabin passengers dead. Three more sailors dead.Only thirty-two steerage passengers dead since last report, but nearlyall are sick. Hardly any one to attend to them.

  August 10.--Mrs. Brandon and Edith both sick. Frank prostrate again. Godin heaven, have mercy!

  August 15.--Mrs. Brandon and Edith very low. Frank better.

  August 16.--Quarantine Station, Gosse Island. I feel the fever in myveins. If I die, farewell, sweetest sister.

  December 28, Halifax, Nova Scotia.--More than four months have elapsedsince my last entry, and during the interval marvelous things haveoccurred. These I will now try to recall as I best can.

  My last entry was made on the day of the arrival of the _Tecumseh_ atthe Quarantine Station, Gosse Island, Quebec. We were delayed therefor two days. Every thing was in confusion. A large number of ships hadarrived, and all were filled with sick. The authorities were taken bysurprise; and as no arrangements had ever been made for such a state ofthings the suffering was extreme. The arrival of the _Tecumseh_ withher frightful record of deaths, and with several hundred sick stillon board, completed the confusion. At last the passengers were removedsomehow, I know not how or when, for I myself on the evening of ourarrival was struck down by the fever. I suppose that Frank Brandon mayhave nursed me at first; but of that I am not sure. There was fearfuldisorder. There were few nurses and fewer doctors; and as fast as thesick died they were hurried hastily into shallow graves in the sand. Iwas sick for two or three weeks, and knew nothing of what was going on.The first thing that I saw on coming to my senses was Edith Brandon.

  She was fearfully changed. Unutterable grief dwelt upon her sweet youngface, which also was pale and wan from the sickness through which shehad passed. An awful feeling shot through me. My first question was, "Isyour mother on shore?"

  She looked at me for a moment in solemn silence, and, slowly raising herhand, pointed upward.

  "Your brother?" I gasped.

  She turned her head away. I was silent. They were dead, then. O God!and this child--what had she not been suffering? My mind at once, in itsagony of sympathy with her, burst through the clouds which sickness hadthrown around it. "Poor child!" I said. "And why are you here?"

  "Where else can I go?" she answered, mournfully.

  "At least, you should not wear yourself out by my bedside."

  "You are the only one left whom I know. I owe you far more than thesmall attendance which I have given you."

  "But will you not take some rest?"

  "Hush! Wait till you are stronger. You are too weak now to think ofthese things."

  She laid her thin hand on my forehead gently. I turned my head away, andburst into a flood of tears. Why was it that this child was called uponto endure such agony? Why, in the midst of that agony, did she come tome to save my life? I did not resist her any longer on that day; but thenext day I was stronger, and made her go and repose herself.

  For two successive days she came back. On the third day she did notappear. The fourth day also she was absent. Rude nurses attended to me.They knew nothing of her. My anxiety inspired me with such energy thaton the fourth day I rose from my bed and staggered about to find her ifpossible.

  All was still confusion. Thousands of sick were on the island. Themistake of the first week had not yet been repaired. No one knew anything of Edith. I sought her through all the wards. I went to thesuperintendent, and forced him to make inquiries about her. No one couldtell any thing.

  My despair was terrible. I forced the superintendent to call up all thenurses and doctors, and question them all, one by one. At last anold Irish woman, with an awful look at me, hinted that she could tellsomething about her, and whispered a word or two in the superintendent'sear. He started back, with a fearful glance.

  "What is it? Tell, in God's name!"

  "The dead-house," he murmured.

  "Where is it? Take me there!" I cried to the woman. I clutched her armand staggered after her.

  It was a long, low shed, open on all sides. Twelve bodies lay there. Inthe middle of the row was Edith. She was more beautiful than an angel.A smile wreathed her lips; her eyes looked as though she slumbered.I rushed up to her and caught her in my arms. The next moment I fellsenseless.

  When I revived I was lying in one of the sick-sheds, with a crowd ofsufferers around me. I had only one thought, and that was Edith. I roseat once, weak and trembling, but the resolve of my soul gave strength tomy body. An awful fear had taken possession of me, which was accompaniedby a certain wild hope. I hurried, with staggering feet, to thedead-house.

  All the bodies were gone. New ones had come in.

  "Where is she?" I cried to the old woman who had charge there. She knewto whom I referred.

  "Buried," said she.

  I burst out into a torrent of imprecations. "Where have they buried her?Take me to the place!" I cried, as I flung a piece of gold to the woman.She grasped it eagerly. "Bring a spade, and come quick, for God's sake!_She is not dead!_"

  How did I have such a mad fancy? I will tell you. This ship-fever oftenterminates in a sort of stupor, in which death generally takes place.Sometimes, however, the patient who has fallen into this stupor revivesagain. It is known to the physicians as the "trance state." I had seencases of this at sea. Several times people were thrown overboard when Ithought that they did not have all the signs of death, and at last, intwo cases of which I had charge, I detained the corpses three days, inspite of the remonstrances of the other passengers. _These two revived._By this I knew that some of those who were thrown overboard were notdead. Did I feel horror at this, my Teresa? No. "Pass away," I said,"unhappy ones. You are not dead. You live in a better life than this.What matters it whether you died by the fever or by the sea?"

  But when I saw Edith as she lay there my soul felt assured that shewas not dead, and an unutterable convulsion of sorrow overwhelmed me.Therefore I fainted. The horror of that situation was too much forme. To think of that angelic girl about to be covered up alive in theground; to think of that sweet young life, which had begun so brightly,terminating amidst such black darkness!

  "Now God help me!" I cried, as I hurried on after the woman; "and bringme there in time." There! Where? To the place of the dead. It was therethat I had to seek her.

  "How long had she been in that house before I fainted?" I asked,fearfully.

  "Twenty-four hours."

  "And when did I faint?"

  "Yesterday."

  A pang shot through me. "Tell me," I cried, hoarsely, "when she wasburied."

  "Last night."

  "O God!" I groaned, and I could say no more; but with new strength givento me in that hour of agony I rushed on.

  It was by the eastern shore of the island. A wide flat was there, washedon one side by the river. Here more than a thousand mounds arose. Alas!could I ever hope to find her!

  "Do you know where they have laid her?" I asked, tremblingly.

  "Yes," said the woman, confidently.

  Hope returned faintly. She led the way.

  The moon beamed out brightly from behind a cloud, illumining the wasteof mounds. The river murmured solemnly along the shore. All my senseswere overwhelmed in the madness of that hour. The moon seemed enlargedto the dimensions of a sky; the murmur of the river sounded like acataract, and in the va
st murmur I heard voices which seemed then likethe voices of the dead. But the lustre of that exaggerated glow, and thebooming concord of fancied spirit-voices were all contemned as trifles.I cared for nothing either natural or supernatural. Only one thought waspresent--the place where she was laid.

  We reached it at last. At the end of a row of graves we stopped. "Here,"said the woman, "are twelve graves. These were made last night. Theseare those twelve which you saw."

  "And where--where, O God, is SHE!"

  "There," replied the woman, pointing to one which was the third from theend.

  "Do not deceive me!" I cried, imploringly. "Are you sure? For I willtear up all these till I find her."

  "I am sure, for I was the one who buried her. I and a man--"

  I seized the spade and turned up the soil. I labored incessantly forwhat seemed an endless period. I had thrown out much earth but had notyet reached her. I felt my fitful strength failing me. My mind, too,seemed entering into a state of delirium. At last my knees gave way, andI sank down just as my spade touched something which gave back a hollowsound.

  My knees gave way, and I sank down. But I would not give up. I tore uphandfuls of earth and threw them into the air.

  "Oh, Edith!" I cried, "I am here! I am coming! I am coming!"

  "Come, Sir," said the woman, suddenly, in her strong voice, yetpityingly. "You can do nothing. I will dig her out in a minute."

  "I TOOK HER IN MY ARMS AND BROUGHT HER FORTH FROM THEGRAVE," ETC.]

  "God forever bless you!" I cried, leaping out and giving place to her. Iwatched her as she threw out the earth. Hungrily I gazed, devouring thatdark aperture with my eyes till at last the rough boards appeared.

  Then I leaped down. I put my fingers at the edge and tore at it tillit gave way. The lid was only fastened with a few nails. My bleedingfingers clutched it. It yielded to my frantic exertions.

  O my God! was there ever a sight on earth like that which now met myeyes as I raised the lid and looked below? The moon, which was high inthe sky, streamed down directly into the narrow cell. It showed me theone whom I sought. Its bright beams threw a lustre round that face whichwas upturned toward me. Ah me! how white was that face; like the face ofsome sleeping maiden carved in alabaster. Bathed in the moonbeams it laybefore me, all softened and refined and made pure; a face of unearthlybeauty. The dark hair caught the moon's rays, and encircled the headlike a crown of immortality. Still the eyes were closed as though inslumber; still the lips were fixed into a smile. She lay as one who hadfallen into a deep, sweet sleep--as one who in that sleep has dreams, inwhich are visions of more than earthly beauty, and scenes of more thanmortal happiness.

  Now it was with me as though at that unequaled vision I had drawn intomy inmost being some sudden stimulus--a certain rapture of newbornstrength; strength no longer fitful and spasmodic, but firm, wellfortified and well sustained.

  I took her in my arms and brought her forth from the grave into the lifeof earth.

  Ah me! how light a thing was that frail and slender figure which hadbeen worn down by the unparalleled suffering through which she hadpassed. This thought transfixed me with a pang of anguish--even awed therapture that I felt at clasping her in my arms.

  But now that I had her, where was I to seek for a place of shelter? Iturned to the woman and asked: "Is there any secluded place where shemay sleep undisturbed till she wakes--"

  "No, there is none but what is crowded with the sick and dying in allthis island."

  "I must have some place."

  "There is only one spot that is quiet."

  "What one?"

  "The dead-house."

  I shuddered. "No, not there. See," said I, and I handed her a piece ofgold. "Find me some place and you shall have still more."

  "Well," she said, hesitatingly, "I have the room where me and my manlive. I suppose we could give up that."

  "Take me there, then."

  "Shall I help you carry her?"

  "No," I answered, drawing back my pure Edith from her outstretchedhands. "No, I will carry her."

  The woman went on without a word. She led the way back to the low anddismal sheds which lay there like a vast charnel-house, and thence to alow hut some distance away from all, where she opened a door. She spokea few words to a man, who finally withdrew. A light was burning. A rudecot was there. Here I laid the one whom I carried.

  "Come here," said I, "three times a day. I will pay you well for this."

  The woman left. All night long I watched. She lay unmoved and unchanged.Where was her spirit wandering? Soared it among the splendors of somefar-off world? Lingered it amidst the sunshine of heavenly glory? Didher seraphic soul move amidst her peers in the assemblage of the holy?Was she straying amidst the trackless paths of ether with those whom shehad loved in life, and who had gone before?

  All night long I watched her as she lay with her marble face and herchangeless smile. There seemed to be communicated to me an influencefrom her which opened the eyes of my spiritual sense; and my spiritsought to force itself upon her far-off perceptions, that so it mightcatch her notice and bring her back to earth.

  The morning dawned. There was no change. Mid-day came, and still therewas no change. I know not how it was, but the superintendent had heardabout the grave being opened, and found me in the hut. He tried toinduce me to give back to the grave the one whom I had rescued.The horror of that request was so tremendous that it force me intopassionless calm. When I refused he threatened. At his menace I rejoinedin such language that he turned pale.

  "Murderer!" said I, sternly, "is it not enough that you have sent to thegrave many wretches who were not dead? Do you seek to send back to deaththis single one whom I have rescued? Do you want all Canada and all theworld to ring with the account of the horrors done here, where peopleare buried alive? See, she is not dead. She is only sleeping. And yetyou put her in the grave."

  "She is dead!" he cried, in mingled fear and anger--"and she must beburied."

  "She is not dead," said I, sternly, as I glared on him out of myintensity of anguish--"she is not dead: and if you try to send her todeath again you must first send me. She shall not pass to the graveexcept over my corpse, and over the corpse of the first murderer thatdares to lay hands on her."

  He started back--he and those who were with him. "The man is mad," theysaid.

  They left me in peace. I grow excited as I write. My hand trembles. Letme be calm.

  She awoke that night. It was midnight, and all was still. She openedher eyes suddenly, and looked full at me with an earnest and steadfaststare. At last a long, deep-drawn sigh broke the stillness of that lonechamber.

  "Back again"--she murmured, in a scarce audible voice--"among men, andto earth. O friends of the Realm of Light, must I be severed from yourlofty communion!"

  As she spoke thus the anguish which I had felt at the grave was renewed."You have brought me back," said she, mournfully.

  "No," I returned, sadly--"not I. It was not God's will that you shouldleave this life. He did not send death to you. You were sleeping, and Ibrought you to this place."

  "I know all," she murmured, closing her eyes. "I heard all while myspirit was away. I know where you found me."

  "I am weary," she said, after a silence. Her eyes closed again. Butthis time the trance was broken. She slept with long, deep breathing,interrupted by frequent sighs. I watched her through the long night.At first fever came. Then it passed. Her sleep became calm, and sheslumbered like a weary child.

  Early in the morning the superintendent came, followed by a dozen armedmen. He entered with a frown. I met him with my hand upraised to hushhim, and led him gently to the bedside.

  "See," I whispered--"but for me she would have been BURIED ALIVE!"

  The man seemed frozen into dumbness. He stood ghastly white with horror,thick drops started from his forehead, his teeth chattered, he staggeredaway. He looked at me with a haunted face, such as belongs to one whothinks he has seen a spirit.

  "Sp
are me," he faltered; "do not ruin me. God knows I have tried to domy best!"

  I waved him off. "Leave me. You have nothing to fear." He turned awaywith his white face, and departed in silence with his men.

  After a long sleep Edith waked again. She said nothing. I did notwish her to speak. She lay awake, yet with closed eyes, thinking suchthoughts as belong to one, and to one alone, who had known what she hadknown.

  I did not speak to her, for she was to me a holy being, not to beaddressed lightly. Yet she did not refuse nourishment, and grewstronger, until at last I was able to have her moved to Quebec. There Iobtained proper accommodations for her and good nurses.

  I have told you what she was before this. Subsequently there came achange. The nurses and the doctors called it a stupor.

  There was something in her face which inspired awe among all who sawher. If it is the soul of man that gives expression to the features,then her soul must have been familiar with things unknown to us. Howoften have I seen her in walking across the room stop suddenly and standfixed on the spot, musing and sad! She commonly moved about as thoughshe saw nothing, as though she walked in a dream, with eyes half closed,and sometimes murmuring inaudible words. The nurses half loved and halffeared her. Yet there were some little children in the house who feltall love and no fear, for I have seen her smiling on them with a smileso sweet that it seemed to me as if they stood in the presence of theirguardian angel. Strange, sad spirit, what thoughts, what memories arethese which make her life one long reverie, and have taken from herall power to enjoy the beautiful that dwells on earth! She fills all mythoughts with her loneliness, her tears, and her spiritual face, bearingthe marks of scenes that can never be forgotten. She lives and movesamidst her recollections. What is it that so overwhelms all herthoughts? That face of hers appears as though it had bathed itself inthe atmosphere of some diviner world than this: and her eyes seem as ifthey may have gazed upon the Infinite Mystery.

  Now from the few words which she has casually dropped I gather this tobe her own belief. That when she fell into the state of trance her soulwas parted from her body, though still by an inexplicable sympathy shewas aware of what was passing around her lifeless form. Yet her soulhad gone forth into that spiritual world toward which we look from thisearth with such eager wonder. It had mingled there with the soulsof others. It had put forth new powers, and learned the use of newfaculties. Then that soul was called back to its body.

  This maiden--this wonder among mortals--is not a mortal, she is anexiled soul. I have seen her sit with tears streaming down her face,tears such as men shed in exile. For she is like a banished man who hasonly one feeling, a longing, yearning homesickness. She has been oncein that radiant world for a time which we call three days in ourhuman calculations, but which to her seems indefinite; for as she oncesaid--and it is a pregnant thought, full of meaning--there is no timethere, all is infinite duration. The soul has illimitable powers; in aninstant it can live years, and she in those three days had the life ofages. Her former life on earth has now but a faint hold upon her memoryin comparison with that life among the stars. The sorrow that her lovedones endured has become eclipsed by the knowledge of the blessedness inwhich she found them.

  Alas! it is a blessing to die, and it is only a curse to rise from thedead. And now she endures this exile with an aching heart, with memoriesthat are irrepressible, with longings unutterable, and yearnings thatcannot be expressed for that starry world and that bright companionshipfrom which she has been recalled. So she sometimes speaks. And littleelse can she say amidst her tears. Oh, sublime and mysterious exile,could I but know what you know, and have but a small part of that secretwhich you can not explain!

  For she can not tell what she witnessed _there_. She sometimes wishes todo so, but can not. When asked directly, she sinks into herself and islost in thought. She finds no words. It is as when we try to explain toa man who has been always blind the scenes before our eyes. We can notexplain them to such a man. And so with her. She finds in her memorythings which no human language has been made to express. These languageswere made for the earth, not for heaven. In order to tell me what sheknows, she would need the language of that world, and then she could notexplain it, for I could not understand it.

  Only once I saw her smile, and that was when one of the nurses casuallymentioned, with horror, the death of some acquaintance. "Death!" shemurmured, and her eyes lighted up with a kind of ecstasy. "Oh, that Imight die!" She knows no blessing on earth except that which weconsider a curse, and to her the object of all her wishes is this onething--Death. I shall not soon forget that smile. It seemed of itself togive a new meaning to death.

  Do I believe this, so wild a theory, the very mention of which hascarried me beyond myself? I do not know. All my reason rebels. It scoutsthe monstrous idea. But here she stands before me, with her memoriesand thoughts, and her wonderful words, few, but full of deepestmeaning--words which I shall never forget--and I recognize somethingbefore which Reason falters. Whence this deep longing of hers? Why whenshe thinks of death does her face grow thus radiant, and her eyes kindlewith hope? Why does she so pine and grow sick with desire? Why doesher heart thus ache as day succeeds to day, and she finds herself stillunder the sunlight, with the landscapes and the music of this fair earthstill around her?

  Once, in some speculations of mine, which I think I mentioned to you,Teresina, I thought that if a man could reach that spiritual world hewould look with contempt upon the highest charms that belong to this.Here is one who believes that she has gone through this experience, andall this earth, with all its beauty, is now an object of indifference toher. Perhaps you may ask, Is she sane? Yes, dear, as sane as I am, butwith a profounder experience and a diviner knowledge.

  After I had been in Quebec about a month I learned that one of theregiments stationed here was commanded by Colonel Henry Despard. Icalled on him, and he received me with unbounded delight. He made metell him all about myself, and I imparted to him as much of the eventsof the voyage and quarantine as was advisable. I did not go intoparticulars to any extent, of course. I mentioned nothing about _thegrave_. That, dearest sister, is a secret between you, and me, andher. For if it should be possible that she should ever be restored toordinary human sympathy and feeling, it will not be well that all theworld should know what has happened to her.

  His regiment was ordered to Halifax, and I concluded to comply with hisurgent solicitations and accompany him. It is better for _her_ at anyrate that there should be more friends than one to protect her. Despard,like the doctors, supposes that she is in a stupor.

  The journey here exercised a favorable influence over her. Her strengthincreased to a marked degree, and she has once or twice spoken about thepast. She told me that her father wrote to his son Louis in Australiasome weeks before his death, and urged him to come home. She thinks thathe is on his way to England. The Colonel and I at once thought that heought to be sought after without delay, and he promised to write tohis nephew, your old playmate, who, he tells me, is to be a neighbor ofyours.

  If he is still the one whom I remember--intellectual yet spiritual, withsound reason, yet a strong heart, if he is still the Courtenay Despardwho, when a boy, seemed to me to look out upon the world before him withsuch lofty poetic enthusiasm--then, Teresella, you should show him thisdiary, for it will cause him to understand things which he ought toknow. I suppose it would be unintelligible to Mr. Thornton, who is amost estimable man, but who, from the nature of his mind, if he readthis, would only conclude that the writer was insane.

  At any rate, Mr. Thornton should be informed of the leading facts, sothat he may see if something can be done to alleviate the distress, orto avenge the wrongs of one whose father was the earliest benefactor ofhis family.