Tales of the Wonder Club, Volume I

Tales of the Wonder Club, Volume I Page 3

by M. Y. Halidom

  CHAPTER II.

  THE SPIRIT LOVERS.--THE DOCTOR'S STORY.

  I am about to relate, gentlemen, a curious incident in my medicalexperience, many years ago.

  When I was yet a young practitioner I had already a numerous circle ofpatients, out of which it will be only necessary for me to bring twocases before you this evening. The first was that of a young man ofabout four-and-twenty, whom I shall call Charles. He was of good family,and his parents were moderately well off. I was called to his bedside,the former doctor having been dismissed. I had had some conversationwith the parents of the young man before I was ushered into hispresence. They informed me that my predecessor had pronounced hisdisease "a rapid decline" and as incurable. But the case had otherpeculiarities which puzzled him. The brain, he said, was much affected.

  The patient ate little, unlike other consumptive subjects, whoseappetites are usually enormous. He slept much, and talked much in hissleep, but in his waking moments he was irritable and restless, andpreferred being left alone all day. He could not even bear the sight ofhis own parents in his room. He had his regular hours of sleep, andalways seemed to look forward to his hours of rest, especially to hisnightly hours.

  I questioned the parents as to how long he had been in this state. Theytold me more than a year. I inquired if any member of their family hadever died of consumption. They replied that not one, either on thefather's side or the mother's, bore the slightest trace of that malady,and that for many generations back the members of both families hadlived to a good old age. Neither of the parents could give the slightestaccount of how the disease originated.

  Their son had been sent to the university two or three years before,where he had studied hard, but without having made up his mind to followany particular profession. They suggested that possibly over-study hadsewn the seeds of the disease. He was not, as they assured me, given todissipation.

  Having ascertained these particulars, I expressed a desire to see thepatient, and was shewn into the sick-room. The parents told me toprepare for a cool reception, as their son was not over partial tovisitors, and especially doctors. They then retired, leaving me alonewith the patient, as I had previously requested them; for it has alwaysbeen my policy to work myself as much as possible into the confidence ofmy patients, in order to obtain more minute particulars of their casewhich otherwise they might be reserved upon. For this a _tete-a-tete_ isabsolutely necessary, as there are patients who are reserved even inthe presence of their nearest relatives and friends.

  The young man, as I entered, was seated in bed, propped up by cushions.He was in a thoughtful attitude, and for some moments seemed unconsciousof my presence. At length, hearing my footsteps, he started, glaredwildly at me, and turned his face to the wall.

  "Come," I said, soothingly, "don't be frightened; I am only the newdoctor. I have come to see if I can't make something out of your case.Come, turn round. I daresay we shall be better friends before long. Whatis this?" I asked, as I laid my hand upon a volume hidden under theclothes, and examined it. "Ah, Shakespeare!"

  "Don't touch it," cried the young man, starting up with sudden energy."I never allow my Shakespeare to be polluted by strange hands."

  I was rather startled at this sudden burst of irritability from my newpatient, especially in the exhausted state in which I found him, and nota little amused at the oddity of his caprice.

  "You are a great admirer of Shakespeare?" I observed, after a pause.

  He did not deign a reply, but fell back languidly on his cushions andclosed his eyes.

  "A great poet," I continued. "What insight into character! Whatknowledge of mankind! What a versatile genius! With what truth andexquisite feeling he portrays both the king and the peasant, thecourtier and the jester! How truly he seizes the leading characteristicsof the Jew and the Christian in his 'Merchant of Venice,' to say nothingof his sublime imagination in the 'Midsummer Night's Dream,' and in 'TheTempest'; the exquisite humours, too, of his 'Merry Wives of Windsor,'and then there is his----"

  At this juncture my patient opened his eyes, and gave me a look thatseemed to say, "Have you done yet?" and, after a pause, said aloud, "Ithought you were the doctor."

  "Ah! truly," said I, blushing slightly; "I am afraid, I weary you.Pardon me if my enthusiasm for your great poet has carried me away frommy professional duties. But, to business. How do you feel at present?"

  He eyed me with a peculiar expression, and said, "Do you really want toknow?"

  "To be sure I do; haven't I come----"

  "You have heard that I have been given over as incurable. The lastdoctor was an older man than you. What do you hope to effect?"

  "To effect a cure; _I_ do not give you up. I do _not_ think your diseaseis consumption. I hope in time to----"

  "To what?" he asked, nervously.

  "Well, to be able to serve you."

  "No," he cried, "not to _serve_ me, but to _cure_ me."

  "In curing you, shall I not serve you?"

  "No. I do not want to be cured. Leave me to die, if you want to serveme."

  "Oh, my dear young man," I cried, "don't talk like that. Your malady isnot of the sort that you need fear death so soon."

  "Fear death!" he exclaimed. "On the contrary, I seek death. I desire todie."

  "What! you desire to die? A young man like you, in the pride of youryouth, with the whole world before you. What can make you so tired ofyour life?"

  "Because my life's a burden to me."

  "Poor young man," I said, "can you have suffered so much! Ah," Imuttered, half to myself, "youth has its sufferings as well as age."

  I was young myself then, and I had suffered. I felt the deepest sympathyfor my patient.

  "If," I resumed, "in curing you I could make life cease to be aburden----"

  "I would not accept the offer," he replied. "What should I gain by it?The grosser material part of my nature would be rendered more gross,more material; capable only of those delights that the grossest mindsrevel in, to the utter exclusion of those sublime visions andinspirations which visit the soul when least clogged with matter. Itwould be to exchange a paradise for a pandemonium; high, exaltedthoughts and feelings for low and grovelling ones. No," he said; "hewho, like me, has tasted both lives will hardly throw away the higherfor the lower."

  I was puzzled by this last speech of his. Was the brain really affected?Had I to do with a case of insanity? I studied his physiognomy for sometime in silence. He would have been called decidedly handsome; and yetthat is not the word. I should rather say beautiful, but the complexionwas pallid and the face dreadfully emaciated. The forehead was ample,but half-eclipsed by a mass of rich, chestnut hair that hung over hishead in disordered waves. The nose was Grecian; the mouth and chinclassic; the eyes were large, dark, and lustrous, with an expressionmost unusual and indescribable.

  If I may use the expression, he seemed to look through you and beyondyou into space. The expression was quite unlike the vacant stare of themaniac, for the look abounded with superior intelligence, but yet it wasnot that sort of intelligence which men get by mixing in the world. Hislook had something _unearthly_ in it--something of another world. Icould not altogether bring myself to believe that he was mad. He wouldcertainly have been called so by the world at large, which callseverything madness that does not come within its own narrow circle. Hismadness was that his faculties were too acute, his nervous system toosensitive. When he looked at me he seemed to read my inmost thoughts andanswer them all with his eyes before I had time to open my mouth to giveutterance to them.

  I tried to reason with him, tried to show him that very good health wascompatible with the most exalted thoughts, etc. But he always had ananswer ready, and that, too, before the words were half out of my mouth.He was a perfect study, and I took immense interest in him. He, in turn,grew more docile and confiding, and after some five or six visits wewere the best of friends.

  I have said that he slept much and was given much to talking in hissleep. It was on my third
visit that I had some experience of this. Wewere in the midst of an animated discussion, when he suddenly went offinto a most profound slumber; more suddenly than I had ever before knownanyone to fall asleep, and so resembling death that for some time Ithought him dead. At length his lips began to move, and for more than anhour he kept up a conversation with someone in his dream, part of whichconversation I committed to paper.

  "What!" he exclaimed, "this is the spot appointed, and no one near. Thisis the trysting tree, yonder the blue mountains, here the rocks. It ispast the hour. Oh, where is she? Will she not come? Must I return tothat darkness mortals call life without seeing her, without hearing oneword? Oh, Edith! shake off these bonds of flesh but for one hour, if,indeed, you also have a life of clay like me, and are not all spirit.Can you not spare me _one_ hour? Ah! footsteps! A bush crackles. Edith,Edith! how glad I am you have come at last. I was afraid you had beenprevented. Why are you so late? What do I see--tears? Tell me what hashappened. Does your father know of our meetings? But how should he? Arewe not in the spirit? Come, tell me all."

  Here a pause ensued, as if the lady he was addressing was speaking,during which time the expression of his face changed several times;first from one of deep tenderness, next, to that of profound melancholy.He sighed, then again a bright smile illumined his countenance.Occasionally a slight frown would cloud his brow for an instant, and hiscountenance bore a look of determination. At length he spoke again inearnest tones.

  "Come what may, I will never leave you. Have I not sworn? Are you notmine to all eternity? We may never meet in the flesh; but what of that.Are we not happier thus? Unshackled from that fearful darkness that warsagainst our spirits? Oh, that we may ever live thus! Would that we couldbecome all spirit."

  Another pause ensued, and after some minutes he resumed.

  "And how can your father's paltry caprices affect us--whilst we are inthe spirit, how can the weapons of the flesh attack us?"

  A pause, and then he said, "True, as you say, we are not always in thespirit, and then of course we must be subject to---- But what is it youfear, Edith?"

  Again a pause.

  "Do you know," he began again, "that that is the very thought that hasbeen passing through my mind for some time past. Oh, horrible! If one ofus or both should get entirely cured, so that the doors of the fleshshould close upon us for ever, our spiritual life desert us, withouteven the prospect of meeting in the flesh!" Here he groaned deeply. "Howlong will this last, this dream of bliss? It began but a year ago. If wecould only escape altogether from our earthly bodies! but I feel that isimpossible as yet; while I speak I feel attracted again towards clay. Iam unable to resist; I feel myself torn away. I am going--going.Farewell, Edith."

  The next moment he awoke. I folded up the paper on which I had beenwriting and placed it in my pocket; then turned to my patient. I havenot given here one half of the conversation, I was unable to follow himwith my pen the greater part of the time, for at times he would speakvery rapidly, at other times sink his voice so low that I could notcatch all he uttered.

  "I am here again, then," he muttered to himself, with a groan. "Whenwill this end?"

  "You have had pleasant dreams, I hope," said I with a smile.

  He looked at me suspiciously, and said, "You have heard me? Then youknow all!"

  "What?" I asked.

  "Why, all about that----"

  "I know nothing," I replied. "It is true you talked in your sleep; youhave been dreaming."

  "Call it a dream, if you like," he said. "I exist but in such dreams,and my waking life is to me but a nightmare."

  "Pooh! pooh!" I said. "You must not take such a morbid view of things.Your brain at present is in a state of fever. We cannot expect always tobe well. I'll give you a composing draught, and in time I hope----"

  "Throw physic to the dogs," he replied, quoting from his favouriteauthor. "Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased?"

  "Perhaps," said I, "I might manage to do that as well, if you will bideby my instructions."

  "Look here, doctor," he said, at length, "I shall be very happy to seeyou whenever you come, to talk with you as a friend, as long as I remainupon earth, but I refuse point blank to take any of your medicine, so Idon't deceive you."

  I tried to expostulate; but how can one reason with a man who wants todie, and try to persuade him to take physic, itself nauseous, but tobring him back to the life which he despises? My task was a difficultone, but I bethought me of a plan. I pretended to humour him, and tookmy leave, saying I would call again shortly.

  On leaving the sick-room I entered the parlour, where the parents of theinvalid awaited me, to hear my opinion of the case. I told them that thepatient's nerves were in a most sensitive state; I had heard him talkmuch in his sleep; that the brain wanted repose. I told them that he hadrefused to take any of my medicine because he was tired of his life anddid not wish to prolong it.

  I then wrote out a prescription, which I told them to get made up at thechemist's. It was a composing draught which I desired them to administerin a tumbler of water, likewise pouring in some sweet syrup to hide thenauseous taste. Whenever he complained of thirst this medicine was to begiven him. In this manner he would be forced to take my medicines, andmight recover in spite of himself.

  Before leaving the house I inquired of Charles' mother if she were awareof any love affair of her son's that might have sown the first seeds ofthis illness. She replied in the negative, but that she was aware thathe often mentioned a lady's name in his sleep--the name "Edith."

  She assured me that there was not a single young lady of heracquaintance who bore that name; that she was at a loss to conceive howhe could have made the acquaintance of any lady for the last two yearswithout her knowing it, as he had led such a very retired life since hehad left the university. Truly, he might have made her acquaintancewhilst at Oxford, but, then, he had never shown any symptoms of hispresent malady for long after.

  I left the house, giving them all the hope I could, and promised to callagain on the morrow. The morrow arrived, and I called again. My draughthad been administered, and I thought that my patient was a degree lessnervous. Whether it was my fancy or what, I know not, but it seemed tome that the invalid suspected I had been tampering with him. He saidnothing, but I thought I read it in his eyes.

  "How did you sleep last night?" I asked.

  "Well," he replied; "but somehow I fancy that my dreams last night wereless vivid."

  "Not a bad sign," I observed. "Dreaming is a bad thing--sign of adisordered stomach."

  "Some dreams--not all," he replied.

  "No, not all; but those very vivid dreams that you allude to all proceedfrom a bad digestion or over-heated brain."

  "Then, you set down all dreams to some physical cause?"

  "Certainly," said I; "though the character of the dream will be shapedaccording to our waking thoughts."

  "Well, yes," he replied, "generally it is so. I myself once used to havethose sort of dreams. But have you never met with a patient who livedtwo separate existences, whose spirit during sleep wandered into thoserealms allotted to it; returning upon waking to the body, there to dragout a wretched existence in the world, among the hum of men, and passhis melancholy hours longing for the night, when his spirit would beagain set free from its prison, to wander unrestrained through thoserealms of space untrodden by mortal foot?"

  "Never," I replied; "and if I were to meet with a man who imagined hepassed two different existences, what proof have I that his dreams arenothing more than imagination? What proof have I that he _really does_live two separate lives?"

  "Proof such as you would desire to have I admit is difficult; but let ussuppose a case. What would you say if, in the course of a life-time'sexperience, you were to find some few, very rare, cases of men as Idescribe, who believe, as you would say, that their spirit during sleepleaves the body and revels in a world of its own. That you were to readof some few other cases of the same sort that have occurred now and the
nat rare intervals since the world began, and that the writtendescription of that abode unknown to mortal tread, were to tally inevery particular with the descriptions you yourself received from someof your patients?"

  "Well," I replied, "I should say, either that my patients had beenreading these old legends until their brains were turned, or that it wasa malady, and, like all other maladies, was manifested by certainspecial symptoms. Hence the similarity of the descriptions."

  "I knew that would be your reply," he observed. "Doctor, doctor," hecontinued, shaking his head, "you have a great deal to learn."

  "Have you, then," I enquired, "ever met with a man of that sort?"

  "I know _one_. What should you say, doctor, if I myself was one of thosemen?"

  "You! I should say that your imagination deluded you, that your presentill state of health is sufficient to account for any freak of the brain,however eccentric."

  "Deluded mortal," he muttered. "Alas! by what circuitous paths do menpersistently seek for error, when the high road of Truth lies everbefore their eyes."

  We discoursed upon various other topics, and I took my leave of Charles,leaving instructions with his parents concerning the treatment of theirson, as I should not be able to call again for some days. I had toattend a young lady in the country, the adopted daughter of a very oldfriend of mine. I could not refuse to go, so I started next day by themail.

  Charles' conversation had impressed me deeply, and I meditated upon itas I sat perched up outside the stage-coach. I was sorry to leave him,for I had already felt quite an affection for him, independently of theinterest I took in his case.

  And who was this young lady that I was called upon to visit in such ahurry? I had never seen her, but for the sake of my friend who hadbenefited me in so many ways in the commencement of my career, I couldnot do otherwise than leave town for a short time.

  I tried to picture to myself my new patient--some bread-and-butter girlwith the mumps, hysteria, whooping-cough, or chicken-pox. The picture Imentally drew of my lady patient was not sentimental; but, the factwas, I was irritated at being obliged to leave such an interesting caseas that in which I was engaged. During the course of my drive I enteredinto conversation with the driver. I asked him if he knew Squire L----.He replied in the affirmative.

  "Let me see," said I, pretending not to know the squire over well, inorder to draw him out, "the squire has no family, I think?"

  "None of his own, sir. He has one adopted daughter, a foundling, foundsomewhere near Stratford-on-Avon. The squire has adopted her ever since,and----"

  "What age is the young lady?"

  "Well, sir, she must now be hard upon four-and-twenty, though she didnot look it last time I saw her."

  "As old as that!" I exclaimed. "Then she will be getting married soon, Isuppose?"

  "Not she, sir."

  "Why not?" I asked. "Isn't she personally attractive?"

  "Oh, I believe you, sir," said the coachman, enthusiastically, andturning up his eyes. "There is not a face in the whole place for milesround that can hold a candle to her."

  "Indeed!" I exclaimed. "The squire is rich, too, as I hear, and Isuppose she will be his heiress. What is your reason for believing thatshe will not marry?"

  "Why, sir, she has such ill health; she never leaves the house. Folkssay as how she will never recover."

  "Indeed, and how long has she been thus?"

  "About a year ago she was first seized; since then I have not seen her.When I last saw her wasn't she a beauty, neither!"

  "I suppose this illness will have pulled her down a little. By the by,what is the nature of her complaint?"

  "Well, I hardly know, sir, and that's the truth, what it is that do ailher. Some folks call it consumption, others call it something else."

  "Who is her medical attendant?" I asked.

  "Doctor W----, sir; lives down yonder."

  "What does he say it is?"

  "'Pon my word, sir, I don't think he knows more about it than otherfolks. Them doctors, when they once gets into a house, there's nogetting them out again; and as for the good they do, they dose you, theybleed you--ay, bleed you in both senses of the word! Ha! ha! You knowwhat I mean, sir."

  I was disgusted at the vulgar contempt of this man for the nobleprofession of which I myself was a member, and was determined not tolaugh at his low wit. I passed over his execrable joke with gravity, soas not to appear to see it.

  "If the doctor knows so little about it," I said, at length, "what dothe people say it is? What is the popular opinion of the young lady'smalady? What are the symptoms?"

  I saw by the coachman's countenance that he was rather surprised at theinterest I took in the health of the young lady, and I fancy hesuspected that I was a doctor.

  "Symptoms, sir!" he cried. "Oh, sir, very strange ones, they say."

  "How strange?" I asked.

  "Well, sir, there be a good many strange reports about the squire'sadopted daughter. I b'ain't a-goin' to give credit to everything I hear,but folks _do_ say----" here he lowered his voice almost to a whisperand looked mysteriously, first over one shoulder, then over the other.

  "Well," said I, "Folks say----"

  "Yes, sir, folks _do_ say that the young lady, leastways, the squire'sadopted daughter, is--is----" (here he put his finger to his lips andlooked still more mysterious).

  "Well?" said I, impatiently.

  "That the poor young lady is under some evil spell--that she is_bewitched_."

  "Dear me! you don't say so," I exclaimed, with well-feignedastonishment.

  "Yes, sir," he replied; "leastways, so folks say about here."

  "How very dreadful! Poor young lady! Perhaps she is in love. Love is theonly witchcraft that ever came in the way of my experience," I remarked.

  "And sure, sir, you're not far out there neither; for if there's onething more like witchcraft than another, it is that same _love_. Lor',bless yer, sir, don't I remember when I was courtin' my Poll, how I'dstand under her winder of a rainy night for hours, just to get a peep ather shadow on the winder blind, and how I'd go for days without my beer,till folks didn't know what to make of me? Ah! but I got over it,though, in time. I got cured, but" (here he gave me a knowing look) "itwasn't by a _doctor_. No, sir, it wasn't by a _doctor_," he said, with acontemptuous emphasis on the last word.

  "Now, who do you think it was by, sir, that I got cured?" he asked.

  "I haven't the slightest idea," I replied, dryly, disgusted at the man'smanner.

  "Why, the _Parson_! to be sure," he exclaimed. "Ha, ha!" giving me a digin the ribs with his undeveloped thumb. "Yes, sir, the parson beat thedoctor out and out in that ere business. He, he!"

  I dare say the joke was very witty, but I was in no humour for laughingjust then; yet, after all, he did not know I was a doctor, so Icondescended to give a grin, a spasmodic grin like that a corpse may besupposed to give when the risible muscles are set in motion by the wiresof a galvanic battery.

  He then began to relate to me some of the many superstitions afloatconcerning the above-mentioned lady, till I grew curious to make theacquaintance of my new patient. In the middle of one of his longstories, he pointed out to me the house of my friend Squire L----, so Idescended and walked up the hill leading to his house.

  Arrived there, I rang, and was shown into the parlour, and upon givingmy name, was soon cordially received by my old friend. We had not metfor years. He had much to tell me, and seemed very much concerned aboutthe health of his adopted daughter, whom he loved as if she had been hisown flesh and blood.

  His wife soon entered, and having expressed much pleasure at seeing meafter so long, began giving me the peculiar symptoms of the lady's case.

  "I do not know what to make of her, my dear doctor," she said; "for awhole year past she has not been the same girl. She will not eat, norsee anyone; seems quite estranged towards us, gets nervous and irritableif anyone approaches her; sleeps much and talks much during her sleep,and frequently imagines in her dream that sh
e is holding conversationwith a young man whom she addresses as Charles."

  I started. The lady and her husband both noticed my emotion, andinquired into its cause. I told them that the case of their adopteddaughter so nearly resembled the case of a young man in London whom Iwas still in the habit of attending, that the similarity of the symptomsstruck me with no little surprise.

  "Indeed, doctor," said the lady. "Is it possible that there can be twosuch extraordinary cases in the world?"

  I mused a little, and then observed, "You do not think, do you, that thefirst cause of this strange malady was some little affair of theheart?"

  "Oh, dear no, doctor," she replied. "I am certain of it. The girl hasnever had the opportunity of forming the acquaintance of any young men.She has never left this village in her life, though she has often beggedme to take her to London; but somehow I----"

  "What! you say she has never been to London--not even for a day?"

  "Never," she replied.

  I began musing to myself, when I was interrupted from my train ofthought by the voice of the patient calling out, in agonising tones,"Charles! Charles!"

  "Edith, my love! what _is_ the matter?" cried Mrs. L----, rising andleaving the room.

  "Edith!" I muttered to myself. "How strange! What a strange link betweenthe two cases." I did not know what to make of it all. However, I keptthe particulars of Charles' case to myself for the present, anddetermined to investigate the matter closely.

  "Can I see the patient?" I asked of my old friend.

  "Certainly; we will go together," he said.

  "Thank you, but I should prefer a private interview with her, ifpossible. Patients sometimes will not be communicative to the doctor inpresence of others, even though they be their own relations. It isalways my plan to----"

  "Ah, exactly, doctor," he replied; "but I am afraid she will not giveyou a very warm reception."

  "Oh," I replied, "as to that, I am accustomed to the very worst ofreceptions from some of my patients."

  My friend led me to the chamber of the young lady, whom I discovered inbed, propped up by cushions, talking to Mrs. L----.

  "This is Dr. Bleedem, my love," said the squire. "Now, don't be shy, buttell him all that you feel the matter with you. I shall leave him alonewith you. Don't be nervous; he is a very old friend of mine."

  Then, beckoning to his wife, he drew her away, and left me alone with mypatient.

  The first thing that struck me upon entering the chamber was theremarkable likeness my new patient bore to Charles. They might well havebeen brother and sister, though the hair of Edith was dark and her eyesa deep grey. The features were wonderfully alike, and the eyes had thatsame strange unearthly expression I have already described as belongingto Charles. Contrary to my expectations, she received me most civilly;very differently to the manner in which I was treated by Charles on ourfirst interview. I was at a loss to account for this, as my friend hadwarned me not to hope for a very warm reception.

  "Oh, doctor!" she exclaimed, "I am so glad you have come. Your presencebrings me relief. You are the only person whose sight I have been ableto tolerate for this last year and more."

  I was thunderstruck. What could she mean? "Some caprice, I suppose.Perhaps my old friend has been putting in a good word for me."

  "No, doctor," she said, answering to my thoughts in a manner thatperfectly amazed me; "no; it is not as you think. The squire never toldme until this moment that you were an old friend of his. It is not forthat that I feel myself drawn towards you by some almost unaccountablesympathy; but, to tell you the truth, doctor, I have long felt the wantof someone to confide in, and you are just the one; you must forgive myboldness, if it offends you, whom I should like to make my fatherconfessor."

  I smiled at the innocent want of restraint with which she uttered thesewords, and said I should be most happy to fulfil the office.

  "Should you, doctor?" she replied. "Well, I shall be most unreservedtowards you, and I hope you will return the compliment, and tell me allit is in your power to communicate."

  I looked surprised, and asked, "Of what--of whom would you hear?"

  "Doctor," she said, fixing upon me those deep grey orbs, with a glancethat seemed to read my inmost soul, "do not deceive me; you _know_ thatyou have been with _him_."

  "Who can she mean?" I mentally asked. "Can she mean Charles?"

  "Yes," she answered to my thought, "with _him_--with _Charles_. Hidenothing from me, doctor. I see you look surprised that I should knowwhere you come from; but my senses are too keen, too abnormally acute,not to perceive that you carry about you _the particles of his being_as unmistakably as if you had been amongst roses or honeysuckles. Can Ibe deceived when you come to me directly from the chamber of the onlyman I ever loved in my life, with the atoms of his nature clinging toyou? Think you that I know aught of your doings? That I have beeninformed as to where _he_ lives? I tell you, No; I know nothing but whatmy senses tell me. I feel you have been with him, and whatever you mighttell me to the contrary would not make me believe otherwise."

  "Well," I said smiling, "I don't deny that I _have_ just come from apatient in London, whose name is Charles; but London is large, and thereare many Charleses."

  "I do not care _where_ your patient is--whether at London or the NorthPole, I shall probably never come across him; in fact, I don't see thatit would aid matters much if I were to. I have never seen him--that isto say, with these eyes--and probably never may," she said, with a deepsigh.

  "Do I understand you to say that you have never seen this young man youtalk about, and yet you take so much interest in him?"

  "Never with the eyes of the body," she replied.

  "How, then?" I asked.

  "With the eyes of the spirit."

  "That is to say," I resumed, "that this young man named Charles is but acreature of the imagination--that he has no real existence."

  "Oh, pardon me," she replied; "decidedly he has an existence--a doubleone. A bodily one, of which I know nothing; and a spiritual one, ofwhich I know more."

  "How?" I asked. "You have never seen him in the flesh, but are yetacquainted with his spirit. Does the spirit leave his body and appear toyou?"

  "Precisely so."

  "Oh! but these are hallucinations, my dear young lady," I said, "thatpatients in your state of health are frequently subject to."

  "No, doctor; say not so," she answered. "It is now more than a yearsince, that in my dream, as I was walking alone in a beautiful garden, Imet a young man, also quite alone and reading. He was of extraordinarypersonal beauty. He looked at me a moment and passed by. The very nextevening I had the same dream--there he was again. The dream was so veryvivid, that I could not believe it to be one of those ordinary dreams socommon to persons suffering from indigestion. There was such a realityabout the whole--the garden, the terraces, the old house--altogether hadtoo much truth about it to have been a dream."

  "And what do you think it was, if not a dream?" I asked, smiling.

  "Nothing less," she replied "than a glimpse into that world so zealouslyguarded from our mortal eyes as to make us doubt of its existence, or,at least, to hold it as something so ethereal and visionary that wetremble even to speculate on it; but which, nevertheless, exists, hasexisted, and will exist to all eternity in form as palpable as the earthwe this day inhabit."

  I mused a little, then said, "Dreams are often very vivid; I know thatby experience, but upon waking I have always been able to account forthem in some way or other."

  "Don't call this a dream of mine, doctor," she said. "In everything itis most unlike the dreams of your experience. Those you allude to arevivid only for one night, and disperse into air on waking. Such is notthe case with my dreams. The dream of each night to me is thecontinuation of the dream of the preceding night, and this has beenregularly going on for more than a year, each dream being crowded with aseries of events such as would be sufficient to fill up a lifetime; andso vivid, indeed, is the colouring of everything in these
visions, thatI no more doubt in a double existence than that I am talking to you atthe present moment. In awaking, too, I find, that instead of vanishinglike an ordinary dream, I bear ever afterwards the strongestrecollection of everything that has happened during my period of sleep."

  "Indeed!" I exclaimed. "It is very strange. I am just attending a youngman in London who shares your complaint. The case is a rare one; I nevercame across one before at all like it. The coincidence about the wholeaffair is so strange, too. His name happens to be Charles, and whilsttalking in his sleep as they tell me you do, I have heard him mentionthe name Edith. Your name, is it not?"

  "'Tis he! 'Tis he!" exclaimed my patient, enthusiastically, throwing upher arms and clasping her hands above her head. "I knew it, I knew it!But tell me more about him, doctor! I did not see him last night, and Iwas so unhappy. The night before he appeared to me less distinct than hehad ever done before. Oh, doctor," she cried, in an agonising tone, "youare _curing_ him, you are _curing_ him!" much in the same way as shemight have called out, "You are _killing_ him!"

  "Yes, I hope to some day. There is no great harm in that, I suppose?" Iremarked.

  "Oh, yes, indeed!" she cried; "you are imprisoning his spirit within hisbody, and I shall never see him again."

  "Well," I thought to myself, "this is about the oddest courtship _I_ever heard of; but," I continued, aloud, "supposing I could cure youboth; then, afterwards, you might meet in the flesh; and how much betterthat would be. You would preserve your health and----"

  "No, no," she cried. "Do you think our joys could be half so intense, soethereal, in a fleshly life as when walking in the spirit? No, doctor,have mercy upon both of us, and leave us to die; we shall then be allspirit."

  "Charles' sentiments exactly," I muttered.

  "Are they not?" she said, brightening up. "He, then, has let you intothe secret of this phenomenon of his being! Oh, doctor," she exclaimed,"don't, don't, _cure him_!"

  She spoke with such agony of feeling, that I could not help feeling thedeepest sympathy for her, and I actually for a moment began to waver inmy duties as a medical man. I began to think that, if, as it nowappears, two human beings, having never met in the body, arenevertheless by some occult law of nature, permitted to hold communionwith each other in the spirit as lovers, what cruelty in me to try andcut short their happy time of courtship! Would it not be kinder in me(seeing that the order of their beings differs so from that of the restof the herd) to go against the common duties of my profession, andinstead of trying to remedy the malady, to accelerate it, till itresulted in death.

  "But no," I said to myself, immediately; "my reputation, my conscience.What! _I_ a poisoner! No," I said; "we must all die some day, and my twolover patients must hold out in this life a little longer. Death comessoon enough for all, and then, if their spirit love was as lasting as itappeared to be intense, they might resume their amours after this mortalcoil was doffed. What are a few paltry years compared with theimmeasurable gulf of eternity?" Thus I mused, but suddenly I said, "Youwill not mind taking a little light physic, will you?"

  "What! to make me well!" she exclaimed. "To imprison my spirit withinmy body, as you have done Charles'. But stay, if I take your physic, itwill not be yet. I will wait to see if Charles is really lost to me forever. If he does not appear again all this week, then his spirit has nolonger power to wander from the body, and if he is lost to me, whyshould I wander about in the spirit seeking him in vain? I might just aswell be cured as not."

  "Very well," I said; "then, for the present it is needless to administerany medicine?"

  "Not at present, doctor," she said.

  I took up my hat to go, and said that I would call again soon and wouldbring her tidings of Charles; that I was going there straight from her.

  "Stay, stay," she said. "You have told me nothing about him as yet."

  "Well, my dear young lady," I said, "I really do not know what to tellyou about him. Like yourself, he refused to take my medicine, and----"

  "What, he refused! Then how is it that he is getting well? That he doesnot appear to me now? Doctor, you have had something administered on thesly. I know it. I see it in your face;" and the look that she gave mewas so penetrating, that I quite quailed under it, and was obliged toadmit that I had.

  "And you are going to try the same trick with me. Oh! oh!"

  Here she groaned, and threw herself forward on the bed in agony.

  "My dear Miss Edith," I said, compassionately, "calm yourself; prayreflect. I can't, I daren't leave you to die. Be persuaded, and takeonly a little harmless, quieting medicine, not nauseous to the taste,and which may not have the effect of making you cease to dream."

  But my fair patient was not to be persuaded, so, with hat in hand, Imade another step towards the door.

  "Stay, doctor," she said; "whatever you do, keep our conversation secretfrom the people of the house."

  "Certainly," said I. "Has it not been under the 'seal of confession!'"

  "True, true," she said; "and, doctor--would you mind--if you are reallygoing to call upon--Charles, to--to--take a relic to him of me?"

  "Not at all," I said. "On the contrary, I should be most happy; but--" Isaid, after a moment's reflection, "but--your parents--would theyobject, do you think?"

  "Oh, don't be afraid, doctor," she replied. "I am very independent, andas for yourself, your name needn't get mixed up in the transaction."

  Here she reached a pair of scissors, and severed one of her long ebonytresses, which she handed to me with these words:

  "Take this," she said, "to my spirit lover, and tell him Edith sends himthis in the flesh, and hopes to see him again in the spirit."

  I promised I would do as she desired, and shaking hands with her, I leftthe apartment.

  My friend and his wife awaited me in the parlour, and asked me myopinion of their daughter's case. I gave them hope of her recovery; buttold them that she had positively refused to take any of my medicines,and I therefore adopted the same man[oe]uvre that I had adopted withCharles, and was forced to leave the medicine to be administeredclandestinely. I wrote out a prescription and left the house, saying Iwould call again in a day or two. I took the mail that evening, andstarted for London. Finding myself at length arrived in the greatmetropolis, my first thought was to call upon Charles.

  As I entered his chamber the expression on my patient's countenance wasone of deepest melancholy. When he first caught sight of me I thought helooked suspicious, and was going to turn away, but as I approached himhis countenance altogether changed, and grew so bright and radiant, thathe did not look the same man. He had never welcomed me before in thisway, and his manner puzzled me.

  "Oh, doctor," he cried, in tones of the greatest joy, "is it possibleyou have seen her? I know you have; I can't be mistaken."

  "Seen who?" I asked, smiling.

  "Come, doctor," he said "you know all about it; don't pretend toignore----"

  "Ignore what?" I enquired, with provoking pertinacity.

  "Oh, doctor, doctor! you'll drive me mad," exclaimed my patient. "Tellme all about her at once, and keep me no longer in suspense. Oh, Edith!Edith! I feel your presence. Come, doctor, tell me about _Edith_."

  "What Edith?" I exclaimed. "Are there not many of that name? It is trueI _do_ come from a young lady patient whose name _happens_ to be Edith.What then?"

  "The same! I knew it, I knew it," he cried. "Tell me all about her,doctor; you have seen her, and spoken to her. Oh! we may yet meet in theflesh, even if she be denied me in the spirit. Did you tell her of mycase, doctor?"

  I nodded my head.

  "I told her," said I, "that I was attending a young man whose symptomsvery much resembled her own. Oh! I had a long talk with her, I assureyou; and what do you think she wants of me?" I asked. "Why, she wasactually unfeeling enough to ask me not to cure you; she was, indeed."

  "My own dear Edith!" he exclaimed. "Of course she doesn't want me cured;and, doctor, if you would do both her and me a kindness,
don't--oh,don't--cure her."

  "Well, you're an amiable couple, I'm fancying," said I. "I wonderwhether there are many more such loving couples in the world as youtwo."

  "Well, doctor," he said, smiling, "have you any more news for me?"

  "Perhaps I may have," I answered, mysteriously. "What should you say ifshe entrusted me with a present to you?"

  "A present from _her_! Oh, doctor, don't trifle with me. Is it reallyso?"

  Hereupon I thrust my hand into my pocket, and produced the lock of hair,wrapped up in a piece of tissue paper. He made a snatch at it with hislong lean fingers, and tearing it open, exclaimed, "_Her_ hair! I couldswear to it anywhere. What did she say, doctor, when she gave this intoyour hands?"

  "She said," said I, "'Take this to my spirit lover, and tell him Edithsends him this in the flesh, and hopes to see him again in the spirit.'"

  "Bless her! bless her!" he cried, enthusiastically kissing the relicrepeatedly and pressing it to his heart.

  I allowed this transport to pass well over before I spoke again. Atlength I enquired how he had passed the night.

  "Badly," he replied, sulkily.

  "What! have you not felt quieter, more composed?"

  "Oh, yes," he answered; "you don't suppose that I am ignorant that youhave been drugging me?" he said, casting at me a look of reproach.

  "Drugging you?" I exclaimed.

  "Yes; did you think I couldn't taste that stuff that you got my parentsto give me through all its disguise? Do you think I did not feel itsinfluence?"

  "A salutary influence only, I hope," I answered, being forced at lengthto admit the stratagem that I had felt it my duty to adopt.

  "What you would call a salutary influence," he retorted. "But do youknow," he added, almost fiercely, "that you have robbed me of thosedreams that constituted the better part of my life? In fact, my _real_,my _only_ life."

  "I am sorry for that," I remarked. "Do you then not dream at all now?"

  "If I dream, I do _but_ dream--like all ordinary mortals, but my secondexistence is closed, I fear, for ever. I will tell you what I dreamtlast night. I walked towards the entrance of a beautiful garden where Ihad often been in the habit of meeting Edith, and I found the gateclosed. I shook it, and tried to open it by main force, when I noticedsomething written over the gate. I read these words, 'This is the abodeof spirits untrammelled by the flesh.'

  "I did not know other than that I was as much in the spirit as on any ofthe preceding nights, so I tried the gate again, only to meet with thesame success; but this time I heard a voice calling out, 'Thy flesh hathgrown upon thy spirit--the doors of thy soul are closed--hence! back toearth!' I made one more desperate effort, and called out, 'Edith!Edith!' but my voice went forth from me weak, like a voice in thedistance. Nevertheless, my cry was answered. I heard Edith's voicewithin the garden calling out my name, but in very feeble tones. My earswere too grossly clogged with flesh to hear distinctly spiritualsounds. I was aware of Edith's presence. She shook the garden gate withher hands and spoke to me through the bars, but I saw no form. I heardonly her voice.

  "'Come to me,' she said, in what appeared a suppressed whisper. 'Oh,what is this, Charles? Why cannot you come?'

  "Then the same unknown voice that had addressed me before spoke again,'Spirit to spirit--flesh to flesh!' and I felt myself whirled back fromthe garden gate as by a whirlwind, and I awoke."

  "The dream is strange," I observed. "Have you many such dreams?" Iasked.

  "Up to the present time, thank goodness, no; but who knows if to-night Ishall be able to dream at all?"

  "You will sleep all the sounder if you don't. Dreams always come whenthe sleep is disturbed," said I.

  "Doctor, would you rob me of all I have to live for by your drugs?" heexclaimed.

  "I should be sorry," I replied, "if my drugs have the unfortunate effectof robbing you of pleasant dreams; but it is my first duty as a medicalman to remedy the physical ills of my patients."

  "Well, no more drugs for me, that's all," he said, positively. "The nextarticle of food I take that tastes in the slightest degree of physic Ishall certainly throw away."

  "In that case," I replied, "if there is no way of administeringmedicine to you, this must be my last visit. It is useless calling on apatient who refuses to be cured."

  "Well, doctor," he said, "I shall be sorry to lose you, as yourconversation serves to cheer my waking death. Of course, I can't expectyou to put yourself out of the way to come here for nothing; but if atany time you are not better employed, just drop in as a friend."

  "Well," I said, "I should not like to drop an acquaintance sointeresting. But, the subject of medicine apart, you really must take alittle more nutriment than you do."

  This was what was really the matter with him. The body was worn awaythrough insufficient diet, till the patient was in a state bordering onstarvation; and this had been for a long time persisted in, as theinvalid found a morbid delight in those vivid dreams peculiar to allpeople who practise long fasting; and so loth was he to give up hisbeloved dreamland, that he was ready to sacrifice life itself.

  We chatted together for some time longer, and he related to me many ofhis dreams, which were all of a most extraordinary character. At lengthI got up to go, saying I would call on the morrow, and entered theparlour where the parents of the young man were seated. They asked mehow my patient progressed. I told them he wanted plenty of nutriment,and, without ordering further medicine, I told them to give him plentyof mutton broth, beef tea, and other nutritious things, and to put themas close to his bed as possible, that the smell of the savoury foodmight awaken his appetite.

  They promised to comply with my request, and I quitted the house. I hadone or two other cases to attend to after that, which interested me in amuch less degree, after which I returned home, and committed to paperthe leading peculiarities of the cases of Charles and Edith.

  In the course of the morrow I called again upon Charles. I thought helooked better. There was certainly a change in him since my first visit.

  "Well," I asked, "and how did you sleep last night?"

  "Oh, doctor!" he answered, "such a dream!"

  "Well, come, what was it?"

  "I thought," he began, "that I was again in search of that garden gatethat I have before alluded to, but when I came in sight of it it was nolonger distinct and tangible as on the preceding night, but misty inoutline, and as I approached it seemed to recede and grew more misty, asif I saw it through a fog. The fog grew more and more dense, like animmense black cloud, and I saw nothing. Then the cloud seemed tosolidify, and it turned to a solid wall of stone, and I found myselfsuddenly enclosed within what looked like the courtyard of a prison. Ilooked out for some loophole, but all attempt at escape appearedimpossible. My eye soon caught an inscription on the wall, which ranthus, 'The boundary of the body.'

  "'What,' I said, within myself, 'can my spirit no longer soar into thoseblissful realms it was wont formerly to revel in? Must I tamely submitto this imprisonment without one effort? No,' I said; 'never will Ibasely give in thus.' And, noticing a wide chink between the stones, Iplaced the tip of my foot in. I soon found another notch for my fingers.There was no one near, so, finding higher up another chink, I put theother foot in that, and after considerable difficulty and danger,succeeded in reaching the top of the wall. I found that the prison wasbuilt on a high rock in the middle of the sea, and guarded by demonsentinels.

  "I looked out into the distance. There was nothing but sea and sky, andthat, too, seemed so blended together as to appear all one element. Inwhatever direction I chanced to gaze, all was vast, infinite,indefinable.

  "'Yonder must be the realms of the spirit,' I muttered to myself, as Ilolled upon the summit of the prison wall. The words I uttered fell uponthe ear of a demon sentinel below, armed with a long halberd. He raisedthe alarm, and I was forced to descend from my perch. Finding myselfonce more in the prison yard, I heard rapid footsteps behind me, and thejingling of keys. I turned round sud
denly and beheld the jailor.

  "'What is this place?' I asked, somewhat sternly, 'and why am I here?'

  "'This building,' answered the jailor, 'is called _the prison-house offlesh_, and the reason you are here is that you belong to "our sort."'

  "I groaned, and followed the jailor, who led me below into some horridcell, where the daylight scarce entered. He turned the key upon me and Iawoke."

  "Dear me," said I, "that was a very disagreeable dream. There wasnothing about Miss Edith in that," I said, smiling wickedly.

  "No," he said, savagely, "and whose face do you think the jailor's wasin my dream?"

  "I have no idea," I replied.

  "Why, _yours_, doctor!" said the young man, suddenly starting up withextreme energy, and darting a look of ferocity towards me.

  "Yes, doctor, you are my jailor; it is you who have closed my spirit upin its prison-house of flesh, so that it can no longer soar together inthe company of the higher intelligences. It is you who have driven meback again to earth and made me an equal of such minds as your own._You_ have robbed me of the only woman I ever loved in my life,_you_----"

  "Stay, young man, one moment," I said, "and calm yourself. Is this yourgratitude for the relic I brought you yesterday? If I, as you say, haverobbed you of one of your lives, don't I offer you another which to ayoung man of your age and position is a state of existence that I can'tsay how many would _envy_, and which, after all, is doing nothing morethan my duty as a medical man. Then, as to robbing you of the lady youlove, haven't I the power of making you acquainted with her some day inthe flesh, if all goes well, and I succeeded in curing you both?"

  "If such a meeting should take place, do you think," he said, "that weshould experience in the same intense degree those chaste joys of love,as if we were in the spirit, when our souls, unfettered from anyparticle of clay, are raised to that sublime pitch that we are enabledto understand the profound and lofty discourse of angels and becomeourselves for the time a part of the heavenly bodies?"

  "My dear young man," I observed, "life is short. If the paradise you arein the habit of entering in your dreams be indeed that place where allgood souls hope to go after death, you have but to wait for a fewyears----"

  "Wait a few years!" he exclaimed, impatiently, "when every minute spentaway from _her_ appears a century! It's very plain _you_ are not inlove."

  "In the meantime," I said, "content yourself with a life of flesh likeany other rational mortal."

  He began to reflect upon my words, so I thought I would improve theopportunity, and, if possible, try and make him turn human, so Iobserved,

  "I shall not be here to-morrow; I am going to visit Miss Edith. Shall Itake her any message?"

  "Oh, yes, doctor, certainly, by all means; that is, I'll write. Give mesome paper, pen and ink."

  Having handed him these materials, he sat up in bed and penned anepistle to his lady-love in the flesh, which he sealed and handed to me.

  I assured him of its safety in my hands, and took my leave of him forsome days, hoping to find him more reconciled to humanity on my return.

  Having given the parents of Charles further instructions with regard totheir son, I took my departure, and shortly afterwards taking the stage,was _en route_ for my friend's country seat, where I arrived early thenext morning.

  "And how is our patient?" I asked, as I shook hands with my friend atthe threshold.

  "I fancy she sleeps sounder, doctor," he replied. "We are not so oftendisturbed by her talking in her sleep."

  "Good," said I; "her nerves will be getting a little stronger. Can I seeher?"

  "Oh, yes; walk straight to her room."

  As I entered, my patient was sitting up in bed, reading.

  "Ah!" said I, after the customary salutations, "we are better thismorning, eh?"

  "Oh, doctor, is that you? I am glad you have come."

  "What book is that?" I asked, at the same time looking at the title."Ah! Shakespeare. That is Charles' favourite author."

  "I know it, doctor. Oh, how often have we read it together; but now,alas!"

  "Why alas?" asked I.

  "Ah, doctor," she replied, shaking her head slowly, "I never see himnow. You are curing him, and me, too. Of what value to me is a body inperfect health, when it imprisons within it a wounded soul?"

  "Come, let me see if I can't bring some balm to the wounded soul," Isaid, producing from my pocket Charles' letter.

  "From him?" she exclaimed. "Oh, doctor, I shall be for ever grateful toyou. I dreamt I received a letter from him last night. How ishe--better? Stay, let me read."

  She tore open the letter and read in an undertone, just loud enough forme to hear:

  "Angel of my dreams--Charles in the flesh pens thee these poor lines,greeting. How art thou, now shut from me! The doors of the body haveclosed upon my spirit, and I feel that I no more belong to the sameorder of beings as a few nights ago. For me now thou may'st wait in vainin the garden, by the trysting tree, in the wild forest, by the seashore, in the desert, by the foaming cataract, on the bleak mountaintop, or by moonlight on the crags of the wild glacier, wherever thewings of thy spirit may carry thee. I cannot follow thee. I linger inchains of clay, and languish from day to day in my prison-house offlesh, whilst thou---- But, stay, perhaps the lot I bear may be thy own;perhaps the doors of the flesh may have closed upon _thy_ spirit also.Oh, if it be that our souls are for ever banished from that Paradisewhich they have so often revelled in together! What have we further tolook forward to but those earthly joys known to the most grovellingmortal? This is a melancholy prospect, my Edith, for us who remember(however, indistinctly--from the growth of that clay--over _thy_ spiritperchance, as well as my own) those divine joys we experienced togetherwhen our spirits walked untrammelled from our bonds of clay and oursouls melted into the harmony of those spheres which are their properelement. How the weight of this mortal coil oppresses me as I write! Ican think of nothing that is untainted with the gross material naturethat surrounds me. My dreams of late confirm my horrible suspicions.When, the other night, I sought thee at the garden gate, where enteronly spirits untrammelled by the flesh, didst thou hear that voice thatturned me away, and bid me return to earth? Oh! Edith, let us both makeanother effort before it is too late. Perhaps even now----"

  Here the patient dropped her voice, and her eye scanned the paper insilence, from which I inferred that there was something about myself init that she did not wish me to know; but I had heard enough. Charleswanted to persuade his lady-love to battle against all my efforts tobring her round to a proper state of health, and intended doing the samehimself. Here was a regular conspiracy--two patients already all but onthe point of death, had leagued together to starve themselves outright,and so baffle all the doctor's efforts to save them. Oh, it wasdownright suicide. I did not know exactly what to do.

  "This is the last time I'll act as Mercury between two lovers," thoughtI.

  I had a momentary thought of watching for an opportunity to get theletter into my hands, unobserved by my patient after she had finishedreading it, and then of crumpling it up abstractedly, and throwing itinto the fire, as it was winter and a large fire was made up in thepatient's room, thinking that the impression might wear off her mindafter having read the letter only once; but how might not her lover'swords influence her if she were allowed to read and re-read his letterwhen left alone? No opportunity, however, presented itself, for aftershe had finished reading it she kissed it fervently and placed it in herbosom and held it there, glancing at me rather suspiciously, as Ithought, as if she read my intentions in my face; but this might havebeen fancy.

  However, I tried what I could do in the way of argument, to show theadvantage of keeping a sound mind in a sound body, besides pointing outthe probability of her some day--perhaps before long--meeting her loverin the flesh, and that there was no reason why they need not eventuallybe happy. I talked to her much of Charles, and hoped to see her againsoon, though I should not call so very often now, as my
visits would notbe necessary. I left her, giving instructions to her parents toadminister to her all sorts of nutritious food, as I had done to theparents of Charles concerning their son.

  I let some little time pass over before I called upon either of mylover-patients again. I at length called upon Charles, and found him allbut recovered. Though still weak, his face had filled out considerably,and his nerves were no longer so morbidly acute, and his countenance hadlost to a great extent that supernatural look that characterised it onmy first visit; still, it was far from being the face of a man in robusthealth. I thought him silent and reserved towards me, but when I toldhim I had delivered his letter, and talked to him of his lady-love, hebrightened up a little. I told him I should take the stage on the morrowto visit Edith.

  He wanted me to take another letter, but I pleaded great hurry andescaped from the house. When I saw Edith again, she also had improved inhealth immensely, thanks to the careful watching of my friend's wife,who was like a real mother to her, and would _not_ allow her to starveherself. Seeing her so nearly recovered, I recommended a little changeof air as soon as convenient.

  Upon my departure Edith managed to slip a _billet-doux_ into my hand,directed to Charles; that is to say, without address, for I had not toldher where he lived. We were not left alone on this interview, the wifeof my friend being present all the while, so the note had to be passedinto my hand clandestinely. There was no getting out of it, and I had todeliver it to Charles as soon as I arrived in town. His eyes sparkledwhen he saw her writing.

  "Look here, what Edith says about you!" said he, somewhat bitterly. Heread as follows:

  "DEAREST CHARLES,--Your own true Edith writes to you in the flesh by ourcommon but well-meaning enemy, Dr. Bleedem."

  "There!" he said, "that's what she thinks of you."

  "Enemy!" I cried, in astonishment.

  "Yes, enemy; but well-meaning, you see, she says," he continued, in asoftened tone.

  He then continued to read:

  "The poor man thinks, no doubt, that he has achieved a great thing inbringing us privileged seers into the world of spirits back into thismundane sphere, fit only for beings of his order. Of course, what elsecould be expected of him? The nature of his profession, the grossness ofhis being, compel him to think and act in the way of grovelling mortals;but let us not be too hard upon him; he is a good man, and means well."

  "There!" he observed, "you see, she is charitably disposed towards you.I don't know that I feel disposed to be so lenient."

  At this odd beginning of a love-letter, and still odder allusion tomyself, I fairly burst out laughing.

  "Oh! laugh away," he said; "it is a fine triumph to rob two beings ofthe very essence of their happiness."

  I had not done laughing, and he was nearly catching the infection. Heobserved in the words of his favourite poet, that, my lungs did crowlike chanticleer, and I did laugh _sans_ intermission.

  He took up the letter again, and read a great portion to himself, orhalf aloud. I caught the following passage:

  "Do you remember, Charles, when, in the early days of our courtship, youused nightly to serenade me under my window in the enchanted castle, andhow long it was before you knew that I, like yourself, had an earthlybody that had an existence of its own? And when I told you that myparents--or rather, my adopted parents--were not in the land of spirits,but that they inhabited the same world in which, in the daytime, weourselves were forced to vegetate; and when you thereupon asked me withwhom I shared the castle, do you remember the horror, the rage, andindignation you felt when you heard that I was held captive within thatenchanted castle by a horrible wizard, who tortured me and tried all hisbase arts to make me yield to his love? Oh! Charles, I often look backto that time. I can see the bold outline of that rude, massive buildingon a rock frowning on the lake below. I feel myself yet at my casement,gazing out in search of your bark, which passed nightly close to mywindow, and I fancy I hear your touch upon the lute reverberatingthrough the night air.

  "With what horror I remember being torn from my window on that night bymy captor, as I was waving my handkerchief to you on the lake. Oh! thetorture I underwent within those unhallowed walls after you left me; thescenes I was compelled to witness, the oaths I was forced to hear; andthen the infernal hideousness of the countenance of my demon captor!

  "Oh! Charles, shall I ever forget the night on which you rode up to thewizard's castle on a spirit charger, habited as a cavalier, and bearinga ladder of ropes under your mantle which you reached up to me on thepoint of your lance; how I descended, and you placed me behind you onyour steed and galloped away; how, ere we were far from the castle, myflight was discovered, and the wizard and all his demon host mountedtheir demon chargers and started in pursuit of us; how they gained onus; how we avoided them for miles by hardly half-a-horse's length, untilwe arrived at a bridge across a river of fire, over which none but thepure in love can pass? Dost remember, Charles, how bravely thy spiritcharger bore us over in safety, and how, when the fell magicianendeavoured to follow us with his evil crew, how the bridge tumbled toatoms, and the demon host was swallowed up in the fiery waves? Then how,when our charger was spent, we turned him out to graze, the sun havingrisen; and how, having arrived at the sea shore, we found a boat, whichwe entered, and steered onward in search of further adventure. Howswiftly, how gallantly we sailed, as if borne on by the good spirits,until we reached an island, where the inhabitants welcomed us andclaimed us as their king and queen. Charles! do you remember all this?But why call up all these reminiscences? They are over now, and passedas a dream, and this hence-forward must be our life. I know nothing ofyour life in the flesh, my spirit lover, or what may be your socialposition in this world. No matter, whatever it be, and in spite ofwhatever obstacles may raise themselves to our happiness in this vale oftears, remember that I am ever thine in the spirit,

  "EDITH L----."

  Having concluded, he folded up the letter, kissed it, and pressed it tohis heart.

  "And do you remember all the details of that strange adventure alludedto by Miss Edith, as having happened to you both? Do you remember reallyhaving taken part in this strange romance in another phase ofexistence?" I asked.

  "Certainly I do," he replied; "every particular of it."

  "Strange!" I muttered, to myself. "Then these _dreams_, as we ordinarymortals would say, are really to such beings as yourself _facts_--phasesof another existence," I remarked.

  "Precisely so," said he.

  "Then your being king of an island was no mere phantasy," said I; "butas much a fact----"

  "As much a fact as that while in the flesh I am a poor devil," hereplied.

  "Well, I never thought I should have a royal patient," I observed,smiling.

  "Ah!" he said, "now do you see the extent of the wrong that you havedone me? You have robbed me of a kingdom in bringing me back to health."

  "Many a sick monarch would be glad to exchange his kingdom for goodhealth," I retorted.

  This was almost my last visit to Charles. I _did_ call again, but it waslong after he had completely recovered.

  Months passed away, when one day I casually met Charles in the streets.He had quite recovered, and was looking very well. He had much to tellme, so, as I had a little spare time on hand, we strolled into the park,and being a hot day, we sat down together beneath the shade of a tree ina solitary spot. He seemed to have grown more reconciled to humanity,having now only a dim recollection of the intensity of the joys he usedto experience in his dreams. I touched upon the subject nearest hisheart, and he commenced a recital of all that had happened to him sincewe last met. I shall endeavour to give his own words as nearly aspossible.

  "You will remember, doctor," he began, "that you left me without givingme the address of Miss L----" (Edith took the surname of my friend thesquire, as if she were his own daughter, her real name being unknown)."I called upon you afterwards on purpose to inquire, and was informedtha
t you were out of town. I had no one now to apply to for information,and was in despair. I did not know what to do with myself in town duringthe summer, so I thought I would try a little country air. I loiteredabout first in one country place, then in another, without any fixedpurpose. I had been reading Shakespeare one day, and upon closing thebook, I resolved I would take a pilgrimage to the birth place of thegreat Swan of Avon.

  "I had never yet visited this retreat, so I started at once, anddetermined to put up in the village for some time. With what a thrill ofdelight, awe, and enthusiasm I crossed the threshold of that humbledomicile! _His_ foot had once crossed that same spot! Here was thewindow that _he_ used to look out of. The identical glass, too, allcarefully preserved by a network of wire. _His_ table and _his_ chair!There was something magical to me in that low-roofed chamber, with itsold-fashioned beams.

  "This, then, was the birthplace of that giant brain destined to illuminethe world with the rays of his genius! Who knows how many plays had beenconceived and worked out within those four walls? To me, the spot washallowed ground. _I_ could not inscribe my name on those sacred panels.It seemed almost sacrilege for me to sit down in his chair, but I didso; and begged to be left alone for a time, that I might meditate on thelife and genius of the greatest of poets.

  "It was not without a feeling of regret that I tore myself away fromthis hallowed shrine. I wandered through the almost deserted streets,and read the names over the village shops. 'William Shakespeare' herecaught my eye; 'John Shakespeare' there; descendants, no doubt, of thegreat poet. Shakespeare seemed a common name here. I wondered whetherany of them inherited his genius. No matter, it would be something tosay that one was descended from so great a man, without possessing anyfurther recommendation. I called upon a certain William Shakespeare, andinquired into his pedigree. He seemed a very ordinary sort of personage.He did not appear to know, nor yet to care much, if he were reallydescended from the bard or no. There was no genius about _him_. I calledupon another, and then another, bearing the name of the poet, but couldnot discover the slightest spark of the fire that kindled the soul ofthe great dramatist in any one of them. I strolled on to the church, andvisited the tomb. A sensation of awe crept over me as I read the simplecouplet engraved over the vault containing the ashes of the bard:

  Blessed be he who spares these stones, And cursed be he who moves my bones.

  "I shuddered to think of the awful consequences that might ensue to thesacrilegious hand that should dare move his honoured dust. There was hiseffigy placed within a niche in the wall of the church, high up abovethe heads of the congregation, and gave the idea of being placed in asort of pulpit. The bust was but a rude work of art, but it had thereputation of being the only authentic likeness of the poet; and,therefore, it was with intense interest that I scanned the features. Ifancied that I could descry, in spite of the rude workmanship of thestonemason, certain lines about the mouth and eyes that indicated thatdroll humour displayed in his comedies. I stood rooted to the spot.

  "Around me were the tombs of the Lucy family; close to the poet's owndust the graves of his wife and daughter. But let me hasten to the moreimportant point in my narrative.

  "After I left the church I was shown the dead of the Lucy family, andobtained permission to wander over the grounds. 'In that house,' I saidto myself, 'lives the lineal descendant of that squire before whom thebard was brought for poaching, and whom afterwards he is supposed tohave caricatured under the title of "Justice Shallow."'

  "I wandered alone through the forest of Arden, and seemed to imbibeinspiration from the surrounding scenery. I called up scenes from 'Asyou like it,' and other plays. I sat down on the grass in a wooded spot,and watched the deer.

  "'Here,' I thought, to myself, 'must be the spot where the melancholyJacques moralised on the wounded deer. Yonder, perhaps, where he met thefool in the forest.' I mused awhile, and then opened my Shakespeare atthe scene of Rosalind and Celia, followed by Touchstone, and becamedeeply engrossed.

  "I might have been half-an-hour poring over this scene, when I lifted myeyes from my book and beheld coming towards me in the distance the slimand graceful form of a lady, reading a book which was bound in the samefashion as the book I was reading, and which, therefore, I concludedmust be a Shakespeare. She approached with her eyes still fixed on thebook. At length, as I gazed on her she closed the book, and her eyes metmine.

  "'Edith!' I cried, 'do I dream still, or is it indeed yourself in theflesh?'

  "She was no less surprised than myself.

  "'Charles!' she exclaimed, 'how have you tracked me hither? Did you knowof----'

  "'Tracked you, Edith!' I exclaimed. 'I knew nothing of your whereabouts.This is the hand of Fate.'

  "'Oh, Charles, is it possible!' she cried. 'To think that we should liveto meet in the flesh.'

  "We embraced, and strolled under the trees together.

  "'Shall I awake from this,' I kept saying to myself, 'and find it also adream?'

  "We both of us began to doubt whether we were sleeping or waking. Sheinformed me that her adopted parents, for she was a foundling, as Ilearnt, had taken her with them, away from home for the summer forchange of air; and, as she had often expressed a wish to visit the spotwhere she had been first picked up by her present parents when a baby ofa week old, she begged Squire and Mrs. L---- to take her toStratford-on-Avon, a place of double interest to her.

  "She invited me to her house, and introduced me to the squire and hislady, who both remarked how much we resembled each other in feature. Ifrequented the house much, and Edith and I were in the habit of takinglong walks together. It is hardly necessary to say that I was notintroduced as the young man Edith used to meet in her dreams. The talewould have been too startling, and would not have been credited; and yetEdith had been so entirely under the surveillance of her parents, thatit was impossible for her to have formed an acquaintance with anyonewithout their knowledge, so I had to trump up some story--indeed, Iscarce know what--about rescuing her from a bull, just to account forour acquaintance.

  "We were left much alone. Little did the parents think what an oldattachment ours was; and for a long time I thought the squire lookedfavourably on my suit, but when matters were advanced so far that Idemanded her in marriage, he drew up stiffly, and inquired into thestate of my finances. I boasted of my family, but was obliged to ownthat as far as money-matters went, I was afraid that by my own fortune Icould hardly hope to keep his adopted daughter in that style to whichshe had been accustomed.

  "He hummed and hawed; but Edith broke in, begged and wept, saying shehad never loved before, and vowed that she never would love another. Atlength the squire, with some reluctance, gave his consent, but said thatI must find something to get my own living, and I am consequentlylooking out for some mercantile employment.

  "'To such base uses must we come at last,'" he quoted, with a sigh.

  "Yes," said I, "rather a come-down from a king; but, never mind what itis, as long as it pays well."

  I saw him wince at this speech of mine; his romantic nature revoltedagainst all thoughts of making money, however pressing his needs mightbe.

  We parted, and I called upon him about a week after, when I found he wasmaking grand preparations for his marriage. He informed me that he hadgot his eye upon some appointment, but that he should have to wait.There was a certain air of sadness about his face still. He did not looklike a man about to be married.

  "Doctor," said he, "do you know what I have been thinking of late?"

  "No," I replied.

  "I have been thinking that this marriage of mine will never come off,"he said.

  "Why?" I asked. "Have you had some lovers' quarrel?"

  "No," he replied.

  "Why, then? Has the squire changed his mind, after having given hisconsent?" I demanded.

  "No; nor that either," he replied. "I cannot myself give you my reasonfor the fancy--it is a presentiment. You know, 'the course of true lovenever _did_ run smooth.'"

&nb
sp; "Oh!" said I, soothingly, "that is your fancy; you are nervous andimpatient--it is natural."

  "No, no!" he said; "I am sure of it--I feel it."

  "What! Have you been dreaming that it would not?"

  "No; I never dream now," he replied.

  "I am glad to hear it," I observed; "it is a good sign. When does thewedding take place?"

  "To-morrow was the day appointed, but it won't take place, I say. Markmy word."

  "So soon! But what can have put it into your head that it will not takeplace to-morrow? Do you know of any impediment likely to occur betweenthis and then?"

  "No," he replied; "none for certain, but I tell you, once for all, itwill not take place."

  I did not know exactly what to make of this strange monomania. Mysuspicions were again aroused as to the brain being affected. I did notsee what could happen to hinder the marriage, so I left him, aftercheering him as much as I possibly could, determining within myself tocall upon him as soon after his marriage as was convenient, to triumphover him and laugh at his presentiments; but this was the last time Iever saw Charles.

  Shortly after this, my last, visit I was glancing rapidly over the paperat breakfast when I was shocked to see among the list of deaths the nameof Charles ----, aged twenty-four. Strange enough; I had been dreamingof him much the night previous. What was my surprise and dismay when,looking lower down the column, I saw also the death of Edith L----. Ilooked at the date of both deaths. To my still further surprise, bothlovers had departed this life at exactly the same hour--at midnight,October 12th, 17--.

  "What a strange coincidence," I thought. "What strange beings both ofthem were! They did not appear either to belong to or to be fitted forthis world. They were evidently never destined for an earthly lottogether."

  "The hand of providence is in this," I muttered.

  I grieved much for the loss of my two patients, for I had conceivedquite a fatherly affection for them both. As soon as decency wouldpermit, I called upon the parents of Charles. The account they gave ofthe reason of his death caused me no little surprise. It appeared thaton the eve of his marriage his mother received a badly-written andill-spelt letter from a person who professed to have known the family along time, begging her to call upon the writer, who was then in a dyingstate, and had an important communication to make.

  Mrs. ----, curious to know who the writer could be, called at theaddress given in the letter, which proved to be a miserable hovel in oneof the back slums of London. There, stretched upon a wretched pallet,lay the squalid and emaciated form of an old woman, whom, after somedifficulty, Mrs. ---- recognised as the monthly nurse who attended herfour and twenty years ago, during her confinement.

  "Who are you?" asked Mrs. ----.

  "Look at me. Do you recollect me now?" inquired the hag.

  "How should I? I never saw you before. Stay, your features seem to growmore familiar to me, now my eyes get accustomed to the light. Is itpossible you can be Sarah Maclean, the midwife who----"

  "The same," responded the hag.

  "What would you of me?" inquired Mrs. ----.

  "I have a communication to make before I die," said the old woman."Listen."

  And she began her confession in feeble tones, thus:

  "You were not aware, ma'am, that the day before your son was born, Imyself was confined with twins--a boy and a girl. Being called upon thenext day to attend upon you, I waited to see if your child were a malechild or a female. Finding that it was a man-child, I took advantage ofthe agony I saw you were in, deeming that my act would never bediscovered. I managed to conceal my own child under my shawl, and socontrived to substitute my child for your own."

  "Wretch!" cried Mrs. ----, gasping.

  "Stay; hear me out. I've got more to tell," continued the hag. "Your ownson died shortly after you had given him birth, through my neglect--Iadmit it."

  "Murderess!" screamed Mrs. ----.

  "Bear with me yet awhile," said the midwife, "while I have still breathleft to confess all. I wished that one of my children should do well inthe world, and I adopted the stratagem I have just confessed to you.

  "As for my other child, being a girl, I was anxious to get her off myhands as soon as possible, so I left her at the foot of a tree nearStratford-on-Avon, where I myself was born."

  "What have I to do with all your other crimes, wicked woman?" exclaimedMrs. ----. "They rest between yourself and your Maker. Spare me furtherconfession."

  "Stay awhile yet," said the old woman, in still feebler tones. "Mysecond crime concerns you perhaps in scarce a less degree than my first.My daughter, as I heard afterwards, was picked up by a certain SquireL----, and, having no children of his own, it is likely he will make herhis heiress."

  "What!" cried Mrs. ----; "then Miss L----, who is engaged to my son--atleast to--to is, in fact, your--your daughter? Then they are twinbrother and sister!" and Mrs. ---- fell back in hysterics.

  "Wretch! Infamous woman!" cried Mrs. ----, scarcely recovered from herfit. But when she gazed again at the withered form before her, beholdthe evil spirit had left its tenement. Sarah Maclean was no more.

  When Mrs. ---- returned home, she communicated the mournful tidings toCharles and Edith, who were together at the time--tidings which, ofcourse, put a stop to their union.

  They both received the news in a state of stupefaction. Neither wept.Their grief was too deeply seated to give vent to itself in tears. Theycould not, after having loved each other as they had loved, look uponeach other in the light of brother and sister, and as their union wasimpossible, they agreed that it would be better to part at once and forever. They embraced and parted, each vowing never to love again. Thatnight both were stricken with a violent fever, and on the night ofOctober 12th, at the midnight hour, the spirits of both lovers werereleased from their mortal tenements. Let us hope that they are now atrest!

  * * * * *

  Two years after the death of Charles and Edith, finding myself in theneighbourhood of my old friend Squire L----, I called at the house. Hewas glad to see me, as usual; but I thought he looked very much aged.The death of his adopted daughter, whom he loved tenderly, had been agreat blow to him. I should not have liked to touch upon a subject sopainful, had he not broached the matter first himself, and asked me if Ihad heard of the circumstances that led to the death of Edith and herlover. I replied that I had heard all from Charles' mother.

  "And who do you think that Edith and Charles turned out to be?" heasked. "Why, lineal descendants of the great bard of Avon," he said.

  "Is it indeed so?" said I.

  "Yes," he replied; "after the death of my poor Edith I was curious toknow something about her real mother. I made inquiries into herpedigree, and the report I heard from more than one quarter was--well,it is a long story; and, at some future time, when we are not likely tobe interrupted, I may relate it to you. Suffice it to say, that thedescent of Charles and Edith may be distinctly traced from our greatBard, William Shakespeare."

  "Strange," I observed. "It is not impossible that some of the greatpoet's genius might have run in the veins of Charles. He alwaysimpressed me as a young man of great intellect. He might have beensomething had he lived."

  "Oh, yes," replied my friend; "I am certain of it. He was a verypromising young man; and there was Edith, as full of genius as she couldbe, poor child. I tell you, doctor, it was marvellous what that girl hadin her."

  "Oh, I believe it," I said. "There was something extremely intelligentin her expression, if I may use the word; perhaps I ought to say,intellectual and poetical. Well, genius, though seldom inherited fromfather to son, rarely dies out of the family altogether, but often,after lying dormant for generations, breaks out again in some form oranother, like certain diseases."

  "Yes, doctor," said my friend; "I have observed the fact myself, and howseldom do we find genius unaccompanied with disease. Do you know,doctor, I often thank Heaven that I am no genius?"

 

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