Tales of the Wonder Club Volume I Part 35

"Why, Maud, to be sure."

"Bah! I'll tell you what it is, young man, you want bleeding."

Pulling out his lancet, he wanted to bleed me on the spot, but I refused to be bled.

"Nonsense, doctor," said I; "I haven't any more blood than I know what to do with. I tell you I saw _her_ as distinctly as I see you now. She was in the box opposite yours where those two gentlemen were, but she did not seem to belong to them."

"Well," said he, "I saw those two gentlemen in the box opposite mine, and I can take my oath there was no one else there."

"Mark my word," said I, "when you return to ---- and call on that family, you will be informed that Maud has had another fit. This is the 15th. Mark the day and the hour, and if she has not, I will lose my right hand, or I will give you permission to bleed me."

"What connection is there between her having a fit and your imagining that you saw her at the theatre? If she was at the theatre, I must have seen her as well as you, and if she were in a fit this evening, how could she be at the theatre?"

I pretended to be convinced by his arguments, but forbore to explain myself further, merely adding:

"Well, we shall see--if you hear Maud has had a fit on the evening of the 15th, at about the same hour as the last one, you will let me know, will you not?"

"Oh, certainly."

At this moment the waiter returned with my supper, and the conversation took a different turn; but after we had finished and were returning home, he urged me again to be bled or to try a little change of air, as he observed that my nerves were evidently out of order. Having arrived at the corner of a street, I shook hands with my friend, and we parted.

It was about a week after our parting, on returning from a walk I found a letter on my table. My servant told me that an elderly gentleman had called and enquired if I were at home, and receiving an answer in the negative, he had asked for pen, ink, and paper, and left me the following lines:--

MY DEAR SIR--Since I saw you last I have received a letter from Mrs.

---- begging me to return as soon as I conveniently could, as Maud had had another fit on the evening of the 15th, between nine and half-past--the very day and hour, you will remember, you fancied you saw her in the box opposite mine. I am not a believer in spiritual apparitions, and therefore cannot set this down to anything more than a very strange coincidence. I called at the house of Mrs. ---- and saw the whole family. When the lady of the house had told me about Maud's fit, I afterwards related to her, in the presence of the young lady herself, the curious circ.u.mstance of her fancied appearance to you in the stage box. Maud listened with great attention, and seemed to take more interest in my recital than the rest did, for afterwards, taking me apart, she asked me many questions about you; when I had seen you last, how you were, etc., etc. I returned to town yesterday, and as you asked me to let you know if your prophecy came true, I have left you this note. Till we meet again,--Yours very truly,

JOHN MERRIVALE.

How I triumphed inwardly on the perusal of this letter! I placed it in my pocket, and taking my hat and cane, I left my lodgings and walked about the streets with a buoyant step, hoping to meet Merrivale, just to crow over him for disbelieving my vision. I would have called upon him, had I known his address, but I saw no more of my friend--at least, for some time afterwards. It happened that on that very evening a piece was being performed at our theatre in which I did not act, and I thought I would be a spectator for once in a way, so, from caprice, I took the very box in which I had seen Maud. On entering the box I experienced all the awe and veneration of a pious devotee when he kneels at some holy shrine.

"This place has been visited by Maud's spirit," said I to myself, as I shut myself in. "This is the very chair she used."

I seated myself, and the curtain drew up. It was a melodrama, if I remember rightly, which was acted that night, but I was so occupied with my thoughts about Maud, that I really cannot say with certainty what piece it was. The audience applauded every now and then, so I suppose it took well. As for myself, I had fallen into a reverie of which Maud was the subject.

That stage box had for me a certain sanct.i.ty and purity since the first time I had seen her there. Whether it was that on this evening I had not my part to think of and so felt my mind open to other thoughts than those connected with my profession, or whether this hallowed spot awoke in my breast certain feelings, I know not, but certain it was that never had Maud so thoroughly taken possession of my thoughts as on that evening.

I attempted to a.n.a.lyse my thoughts. What was it that I felt for Maud?

What was it that made me think more of her than of other girls? And why did I think more and more about her every day? I hardly knew myself how to answer these questions. Was it--could it be--no--_love_, that I felt for her? No! it was not that; at least, if it was, it was not like other men's love. It was a feeling far purer, far loftier than falls to the lot of ordinary men's experience. I thought that the world did not--never did, nor ever could contain another Maud. She was different to the rest of her kind. _Her_ beauty, _her_ talents, _her_ beautiful nature, could never excite in me such a vulgar pa.s.sion as that which the world calls love. The thought never entered my head to make her my own, and I was content to wors.h.i.+p her at a distance.

I began to wonder to myself if Maud could be aware of the strong impression she had made upon me. I even dared to hope, though humbly, very humbly, she might not _quite_ have forgotten _me_; that there was still a spare corner in her memory--I had nearly said _heart_--left vacant in which I might crave a home.

Did she, perhaps--here an electric shock ran through me at the very thought--did she feel for me _exactly_ in the same way as I felt for her? Oh, rapture! and I tried to persuade myself that she did, for the thought comforted me.

"Ah, Maud, Maud," I muttered to myself, in the midst of my reverie.

At that moment I heard the door handle move.

"Confound that box-keeper," muttered I. "What can he want, coming to disturb my meditation?"

The door opened, and I turned my head to see who it was. Gentlemen, will you believe it? It was Maud, again dressed exactly the same as before. I started, and my blood ran cold, my hair stood on end, my teeth chattered, and my knees knocked together. I essayed to speak, but my tongue refused to give utterance to what I wished to say. I was then in the presence, nay close to, a supernatural essence bearing the lineaments of Maud, whose body I knew for certain to be at her country seat, nearly a hundred miles away.

The figure gave me a friendly look of recognition, and seated itself. I fancied it offered me its hand, but I was too dumbfounded to accept it, and remained stupefied. At length this excessive feeling of terror began to wear off, and I ventured to say, in a low tone, broken with emotion, "Maud, is it really you? Speak."

"William," said a voice proceeding from the lips of the figure, but which sounded as if it came from a long way off, "William!"

And there was the deepest pathos in the tone. It was the first time I had been called thus by Maud. When she was in the body she always called me Mr. Blackdeed. I waited for some moments to hear if the voice would say more.

After a long pause it spoke again, and said, "You called me. Wherefore?"

"Called you, Maud!" said I. "I called you not."

"The concentration of your thoughts has had the power to command my spirit from afar," said the figure.

"Is it so?" said I. "And can you not battle against such commands?"

The figure replied not, save by a look, which seemed to say, "When you command, no."

I understood the look, and felt flattered by its meaning, but knew not how to respond, so I was silent for some moments.

At length I said, "Maud--if I may call you Maud--tell me, do you suffer much when withdrawn from the body?"

"Less out of it than in it," was the reply.

"How so?" I asked.

"You know how I stand with my family," she said.

"True, true," I observed; "and this must cause you great pain. However, I hope in time----"

"Never, never," she replied with a sigh.

"Oh, why not? Do you not wish to live happily with them?"

"Oh, how willingly!"

"Then let me see if I cannot make matters a little smooth for you.

Perhaps----"

She shook her head doubtfully, and said, "I feel as if I did not belong to them nor they to me; in fact, I feel as if I never belonged to anybody, nor ever should."

"And never should!" exclaimed I. "Why, you do not mean to say that--that--you never intend to marry?"

"I fear I should make but an indifferent wife."

"Why so? I am sure you possess qualities that many married ladies might envy. Of course, you would require a husband who understood you and was able to appreciate your virtues."

"You flatter me," she said. "Nevertheless, you will see that I shall never marry. Mark my words. I was not born for it. Do you know," she said, lowering her voice, and speaking in a solemn tone, "that of late I have had a strange presentiment that my end is not far off."

"Now, really, Maud," said I, "pray do not talk like that, for I sincerely hope that nothing more serious than a little temporary indisposition has given rise to such a presentiment."