Date: 1891-10-01T05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy; Ghosts; The Supernatural
Description: This small collection gathers the ghost stories of Hildegarde Hawthorne. The folks in these tales are going about their ordinary daily lives, when of a sudden — they are gently touched by visitors from beyond the veil. ------------ This American poet and author was the granddaughter of Nathaniel Hawthorne and the daughter of Julian Hawthorne. A prolific writer, she produced more than two dozen books: biographies, travel narratives, and fiction; and dozens of short pieces. She considered her chief work to be her books for children. She is perhaps best known for her biography of Nathaniel Hawtho
Publisher: MobileRead.com
Rights: This book is in public domain where copyright is “Life+70” or less, and in the USA.

GHOSTLY TALES

HILDEGARDE HAWTHORNE
(1871 – 1952)

MobileRead Edition
2025

This small collection gathers the ghost stories of Hildegarde Hawthorne. The folks in these tales are going about their ordinary daily lives, when of a sudden — they are gently touched by visitors from beyond the veil..

This American poet and author was the granddaughter of Nathaniel Hawthorne and the daughter of Julian Hawthorne. A prolific writer, she produced more than two dozen books: biographies, travel narratives, and fiction; and dozens of short pieces. She considered her chief work to be her books for children. She is perhaps best known for her biography of Nathaniel Hawthorne, Romantic Rebel (1932).

Texts were retrieved from magazine archives.
Contents were originally published 1891 ~ 1908. This book is in the public domain where copyright is “Life+70” or less, and in the USA.

CONTENTS:

- A Legend of Sonora
- Perdita
- There Shall Be No Misunderstanding
- The Miniature
- Unawares

GHOSTLY TALES

A LEGEND OF SONORA

Two persons, a man and a woman, faced each other under a clump of live-oaks. Hard by were visible the walls of an adobe house crumbling with age. The sun was setting; a slight breeze stirred in the dark branches of the trees, which all through the hot Mexican day had been motionless. The woman was dark and small, with large eyes and a graceful body; the man, a swarthy vaquero, in serape and sombrero.

“And you heard him say — that?” said she.

“Yes, señorita. He said, ‘I love you! I love you!’ twice, like that. And then he kissed her.”

“Ah! he kissed her. Anything else?”

“This!” He handed her a slip of folded paper. It contained a woman’s name, a few words of passion, and a signature. As the señorita’s eyes perused it, they contracted, and she drew in a long breath. The vaquero watched her keenly. “I found it in the arbor after they had gone,” said he.

She looked away dreamily. “Thank you, thank you, Mazeppa,” she muttered. “It is late. I must go in now. Adios, Mazeppa!” She turned, and, moving slowly, vanished behind a corner of the adobe house.

The vaquero remained motionless until she was out of sight. Then he pressed his hands to his lips, and flung them out towards her with a passionate gesture. The next moment he had mounted his horse and was gone.

An hour passed. Again the sound of hoofs. A handsome young señor, jauntily attired, galloped up to the door of the house, and springing from the saddle, hitched his rein over a large hook projecting from the wall. “Hola! Maria, little one!” he called out, in a rich, joyous voice. “Where is my little Maria?”

The señorita appeared, smiling. She was in white, with a rebozo drawn around her delicate face. She bore a two-handled silver cup, curiously chased. “See,” she said, “I have brought you some wine. Such a long ride, just to see me!” She was holding out the cup towards him; but, as he was about to receive it, she drew it back suddenly. She was pale; her eyes glittered. “I too am thirsty,” she said. She lifted the cup to her lips and took a deep draught. “Now, you shall finish it,” she added, handing it to him.

He nodded to her laughingly. “To our love!” he said, and drained it. “But how strangely you look at me, little one!” he exclaimed, as he set the cup down and caught his breath. “Is anything wrong?”

“All is well,” she answered. “I am happy. Are you happy?”

“I? I am with you, am I not?”

She put her hand in his. “Let us never be parted any more,” she said. “Come; we’ll walk to the hilltop and see the moon rise.”

Hand in hand, they sauntered along the path up the bare hillside. On and on they walked, slowly, slowly. Maria gave a little gasp, and glanced with dilated eyes at her lover. He smiled faintly, and tried to draw her towards him, but, somehow, did not; and still they moved slowly on their way. The hilltop seemed strangely far off. Maria pressed forward, grasping her lover’s hand. What made the distance seem so long? Surely it was but a stroll of ten minutes; yet it was as though they had been walking an hour — a year — many years!

Down the hillside path came a horseman, riding quietly and humming a love song. He was close upon the two figures before he appeared to be aware
of them. They half stopped, as if to speak to him. The horse shivered and plunged. The rider stared at the couple but an instant, then, driving home his spurs, sprang past them.

“Mother of God!” he faltered, crossing himself as he threw a backward glance up the path, on which nothing was now visible, “the ghosts! The little girl who, they say down below, poisoned herself and her lover fifty years ago!”

“Harper’s New Monthly Magazine”, Oct. 1891

PERDITA

I
ALFALFA RANCH

Alfalfa Ranch, low, wide, with spreading verandas all overgrown by roses and woodbine, and commanding on all sides a wide view of the rolling alfalfa-fields, was a most bewitching place for a young couple to spend the first few months of their married life. So Jack and I were naturally much delighted when Aunt Agnes asked us to consider it our own for as long as we chose. The ranch, in spite of its distance from the nearest town, surrounded as it was by the prairies, and without a neighbor within a three-mile radius, was yet luxuriously fitted with all the modern conveniences. Aunt Agnes was a rich young widow, and had built the place after her husband’s death, intending to live there with her child, to whom she transferred all the wealth of devotion she had lavished on her husband. The child, however, had died when only three years old, and Aunt Agnes, as soon as she recovered sufficient strength, had left Alfalfa Ranch, intending never to visit the place again. All this had happened nearly ten years ago, and the widow, relinquishing all the advantages her youth and beauty, quite as much as her wealth, could give her, had devoted herself to work amid the poor of New York.

At my wedding, which she heartily approved, and where to a greater extent than ever before she cast off the almost morbid quietness which had grown habitual with her, she seemed particularly anxious that Jack and I should accept the loan of Alfalfa Ranch, apparently having an old idea that the power of our happiness would somehow lift the cloud of sorrow which, in her mind, brooded over the place. I had not been strong, and Jack was overjoyed at such an opportunity of taking me into the country. High as our expectations were, the beauty of the place far exceeded them all. What color! What glorious sunsets! And the long rides we took, seeming to be utterly tireless in that fresh sweet air!

One afternoon I sat on the veranda at the western wing of the house. The veranda here was broader than elsewhere, and it was reached only by a flight of steps leading up from the lawn on one side, and by a door opposite these steps that opened into Jack’s study. The rest of this veranda was enclosed by a high railing, and by wire nettings so thickly overgrown with vines that the place was always very shady. I sat near the steps, where I could watch the sweep of the great shadows thrown by the clouds that were sailing before the west wind. Jack was inside, writing, and now and then he would say something to me through the open window. As I sat, lost in delight at the beauty of the view and the sweetness of the flower-scented air, I marveled that Aunt Agnes could ever have left so charming a spot. “She must still love it,” I thought, getting up to move my chair to where I might see still further over the prairies, “and sometime she will come back—” At this moment I happened to glance to the further end of the veranda, and there I saw, to my amazement, a little child seated on the floor, playing with the shifting shadows of the tangled creepers. It was a little girl in a daintily embroidered white dress, with golden curls around her baby head. As I still gazed, she suddenly turned, with a roguish toss of the yellow hair, and fixed her serious blue eyes on me.

“Baby!” I cried. “Where did you come from? Where’s your mamma, darling?” And I took a step towards her.

“What’s that, Silvia?” called Jack from within. I turned my head and saw him sitting at his desk.

“Come quick, Jack; there’s the loveliest baby — ” I turned back to the child, looked, blinked, and at this moment Jack stepped out beside me.

“Baby?” he inquired. “What on earth are you talking about, Silvia dearest?”

“Why, but — ” I exclaimed. “There was one! How did she get away? She was sitting right there when I called.”

“A baby!” repeated my husband. “My dear, babies don’t appear and disappear like East-Indian magicians. You have been napping, and are trying to conceal the shameful fact.”

“Jack,” I said, decisively, “don’t you suppose I know a baby when I see one? She was sitting right there, playing with the shadows, and I — It’s certainly very queer!”

Jack grinned. “Go and put on your habit,” he replied; “the horses will be here in ten minutes. And remember that when you have accounted for her disappearance, her presence still remains to be explained. Or perhaps you think Wah Sing produced her from his sleeve?”

I laughed. Wah Sing was our Chinese cook, and more apt, I thought, to put something up his sleeve than to take anything out.

“I suppose I was dreaming,” I said, “though I could almost as well believe I had only dreamed our marriage.”

“Or rather,” observed Jack, “that our marriage had only dreamed us.”

II
SHADOWS

About a week later I received a letter from Aunt Agnes. Among other things, chiefly relating to New York’s slums, she said:

“I am in need of rest, and if you and Jack could put up with me for a few days, I believe I should like to get back to the old place. As you know, I have always dreaded a return there, but lately I seem somehow to have lost that dread. I feel that the time has come for me to be there again, and I am sure you will not mind me.”

Most assuredly we would not mind her. We sat in the moonlight that night on the veranda, Jack swinging my hammock slowly, and talked of Aunt Agnes. The moon silvered the waving alfalfa, and sifted through the twisted vines that fenced us in, throwing intricate and ever-changing patterns on the smooth flooring. There was a hum of insects in the air, and the soft wind ever and anon blew a fleecy cloud over the moon, dimming for a moment her serene splendor.

“Who knows?” said Jack, lighting another cigar. “This may be a turning-point in Aunt Agnes’s life, and she may once more be something like the sunny, happy girl your mother describes. She is beautiful, and she is yet young. It may mean the beginning of a new life for her.”

“Yes,” I answered. “It isn’t right that her life should always be shadowed by that early sorrow. She is so lovely, and could be so happy. Now that she has taken the first step, there is no reason why she shouldn’t go on.”

“We’ll do what we can to help her,” responded my husband. “Let me fix your cushions, darling; they have slipped.” He rose to do so, and suddenly stood still, facing the further end of the veranda. His expression was so peculiar that I turned, following the direction of his eyes, even before his smothered exclamation of “Silvia, look there!” reached me.

Standing in the fluttering moonlight and shadows was the same little girl I had seen already. She still wore white, and her tangled curls floated shining around her head. She seemed to be smiling, and slightly shook her head at us.

“What does it mean, Jack?” I whispered, slipping out of the hammock.

“How did she get there? Come!” said he, and we walked hastily towards the little thing, who again shook her head. Just at this moment another cloud obscured the moon for a few seconds, and though in the uncertain twilight I fancied I still saw her, yet when the cloud passed she was not to be found.

III
PERDITA

Aunt Agnes certainly did look as though she needed rest. She seemed very frail, and the color had entirely left her face. But her curling hair was as golden as ever, and her figure as girlish and graceful. She kissed me tenderly, and kept my hand in hers as she wandered over the house and took long looks across the prairie.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” she asked, softly. “Just the place to be happy in! I’ve always had a strange fancy that I should be happy here again someday, and now I feel as though that day had almost come. You are happy, aren’t you, dear?”

I looked at Jack, and felt the tears coming to my eyes. “Yes, I am happy. I did not know one could be so happy,” I answered, after a moment.

Aunt Agnes smiled her sweet smile and kissed me again. “God bless you and your Jack! You almost make me feel young again.”

“As though you could possibly feel anything else,” I retorted, laughing. “You little humbug, to pretend you are old!” and slipping my arm round her waist, for we had always been dear friends, I walked off to chat with her in her room.

We took a ride that afternoon, for Aunt Agnes wanted another gallop over that glorious prairie. The exercise and the perfect afternoon brought back the color to her cheeks.

“I think I shall be much better tomorrow,” she observed, as we trotted home. “What a country this is, and what horses!” slipping her hand down her mount’s glossy neck. “I did right to come back here. I do not believe I will go away again.” And she smiled on Jack and me, who laughed, and said she would find it a difficult thing to attempt.

We all three came out on the veranda to see the sunset. It was always a glorious sight, but this evening it was more than usually magnificent. Immense rays of pale blue and pink spread over the sky, and the clouds, which stretched in horizontal masses, glowed rose and golden. The whole sky was luminous and tender, and seemed to tremble with light.

We sat silent, looking at the sky and at the shadowy grass that seemed to meet it. Slowly the color deepened and faded.

“There can never be a lovelier evening,” said Aunt Agnes, with a sigh.

“Don’t say that,” replied Jack. “It is only the beginning of even more perfect ones.”

Aunt Agnes rose with a slight shiver, “It grows chilly when the sun goes,” she murmured, and turned lingeringly to enter the house. Suddenly she gave a startled exclamation. Jack and I jumped up and looked at her. She stood with both hands pressed to her heart, looking —

“The child again,” said Jack, in a low voice, laying his hand on my arm.

He was right. There in the gathering shadow stood the little girl in the white dress. Her hands were stretched towards us, and her lips parted in a smile. A belated gleam of sunlight seemed to linger in her hair.

“Perdita!” cried Aunt Agnes, in a voice that shook with a kind of terrible joy. Then, with a stifled sob, she ran forward and sank before the baby, throwing her arms about her. The little girl leaned back her golden head and looked at Aunt Agnes with her great, serious eyes. Then she flung both baby arms round her neck, and lifted her sweet mouth —

Jack and I turned away, looking at each other with tears in our eyes. A slight sound made us turn back. Aunt Agnes had fallen forward to the floor, and the child was nowhere to be seen.

We rushed up, and Jack raised my aunt in his arms and carried her into the house. But she was quite dead. The little child we never saw again.

“Harper’s New Monthly Magazine”, Mar. 1897

THERE SHALL BE NO MISUNDERSTANDING

“Nonsense, Archie! Why won’t you look at it from my point of view? There’s no need of getting angry about the matter. It’s simply—”

“My dear girl, I see your point of view without any trouble at all. Of course you’ve a perfect right to any opinion you choose to hold. I don’t pretend to flatter myself that I should have any influence in getting you to change it.”

“Archie!”

“Well?”

“You are absurd! Just because I don’t agree with you I’m to be accused of selfishness and obstinacy. If anyone is obstinate, it certainly isn’t I.”

“Very likely. Perhaps we’d better not talk of the matter any more.”

The two young people were seated on the veranda of a country house, charmingly embowered in creeping vines and commanding a wide view of the Hudson and the mighty hills through which it winds. The summer air was full of the fragrance of new-mown hay, and the drowsy murmur of insects lulled the ear, while ever and anon a thrush by the brook rippled into mellow song.

Everything spoke of peace except the two in whose hearts, by right, the perfecting glory of love should have given the culminating touch, for the two were engaged. Yet it so happened that a dispute, trifling in itself, had become magnified and embittered, after the sad human way, until both the man and the girl were in a state where any moment might bring forth some act or word which the rest of their lives would be spent regretting.

After Archie’s last remark there was silence for several minutes. He leaned back in his chair and looked grimly down at the river, while Aileen, having turned from him with a swift movement, stared nervously across the hills and blinked the tears from her eyes. When she spoke it was with a measured coldness which hid the hurried beating of her heart.

“If we have only been engaged a week, and have already found a topic on which we must be silent for fear of quarreling, I think there must be something wrong.”

“If you can say such a thing as that, Aileen, there surely is,” replied her lover, hoarsely.

“Then — then — there’s nothing to do but—” She stopped abruptly and glanced at Archie. But he still stared at the river, and scarcely seemed to have heard her. She sprang to her feet, and the angry color dyed her cheeks.

“I’m sorry I’ve been so slow to understand you, Archie,” she exclaimed. “It’s evident we are not suited to each other. The best we can do is — is to forget we’ve ever been engaged.”

Archie stood up and looked at her, pale as she was flushed.

“Do you mean our engagement is broken?” he asked.

“Here is your ring,” and she tore it off and handed it to him.

“If your love for me cannot stand a disagreement, Aileen, doubtless you are right.” He looked at the ring, and then put it slowly into his pocket. Aileen turned away and began to arrange the magazines on a table. A moment or two passed. Then Archie, without another word, strode down the veranda steps, and mounting his horse, which stood hitched at the foot, galloped off.

Aileen listened to the beat of the hoofs until they died away. Then she went slowly into the house and up to her room. She felt as though she were carrying a great weight, and almost staggered as she reached her door. Tears blinded her as she entered. The perfume of the roses he had brought her that morning sweetened the air. There stood his photograph, manly, handsome, with the smile in his eyes which she knew so well.

“Archie, Archie, Archie!” she sobbed, and threw herself on the bed in a passion of tears. “How can it have happened? What was the matter with us? You know I love you, Archie — yes, and I know you love me. And yet — if we had hated each other we couldn’t have been more cruel. Can’t a love like ours cast out misunderstanding and vanity and selfishness? I would die gladly if my death could save him from any pain. And yet I cannot yield a worthless point to him to him, who is worth more than the whole world to me. We didn’t mean what we said it wasn’t we who were talking and yet we have given each other a deadly wound — have insulted our love have trampled a holy thing in the dust.”

The hours slipped by, and at last Aileen roused herself. She sat up, feeling absently at the fourth finger of her left hand. She started as she realized what she was looking for.

“Even my finger misses him,” she whispered, with a pitiful smile.

Behind the house a narrow, winding path made its way between the apple-trees and past a yellow field of rye, through a green wood, and over a brook by a pretty rustic bridge. Beyond that point it wandered on, with many a lovely turn, giving now and again an enchanting glimpse of the great river, until, a mile or more farther, it joined the highway.

It had been the custom of the lovers to meet at the little bridge every evening, and then to saunter together along the path, and home by a shortcut across the golf links. Aileen knew that the hour when she generally started for the trysting-place was at hand. Knew, hesitated, and suddenly arose.

“He won’t be there tonight, and I think my heart will break; but I will go — I cannot stay away.”

The shadows were long under the apple-trees as she walked out, and the robins fluted joyously. The evening seemed too lovely to belong to earth. Meant for heaven, it had somehow lost its way, and dropped, by a fortunate chance, on our world. As Aileen moved slowly along the fragrant path, seeing in the sky the wonderful, ever-changing shades of rose and green and purple, hearing music from a hundred happy birds, breathing the balmy air, an indescribable peace came into her troubled heart. What though anger and misunderstanding lay behind? She knew it was all right now. Archie would be waiting for her, waiting with a look of perfect comprehension, and she would not even need to speak. But speak she would, and as she never had before — to tell him how deep, how great her love was, and that never more should a shadow darken it. Never, never!

The birds sang always more sweetly, and the wind among the branches made tender harmonies that chimed with the love in her heart.

And now she passed the yellow grain, and now entered the woods, and there, indeed, midway on the bridge, where the sun sent a mellow gleam through the overarching branches, stood her lover awaiting her.

A wave of happiness surged over her, taking her breath for an instant. She stopped, and then ran forward with hands outstretched, calling in a voice low but of piercing tenderness:

“My dearest, I knew that I should find you — I knew you would be here. If you had not, I think I should have died.”

In a moment they were in each other’s arms, and at his kiss the last faint doubt or lingering veil of bitterness, if any there was, passed utterly out of Aileen’s heart, and it seemed to her that in that moment for the first time she knew happiness — supreme, divine.

“Have you waited long?”

“Not long, love.”

“Archie, you forgive me?”

“I understand you, beloved. And what is real beside our love?”

With their arms about each other they sauntered on down the path. The dying radiance of the sun made a glory about them, the trees whispered and swayed over their heads, and it seemed to Aileen as though she scarcely touched the ground. What indeed was real beside their love? These lovely things about her — these singing birds and fragrant flowers and murmuring leaves — they were only a sort of picture, a reflection, of the happiness in her heart. As long as this beautiful happiness lasted — and well she knew that it could never end — so long, too, would this delightful, blossoming world surround them. It must always be glorious summer where they two were.

“My beloved,” said Archie, looking down at her with shining eyes, “is not such union worth a sacrifice?”

“It would be worth any sacrifice.”

He drew her closer. They had reached an open glade where a clear spring bubbled up inside a circle of rocks, and trickled off in a series of tiny pools and streamlets, where birds bathed and fluttered. Moved by the same impulse, the lovers seated themselves on the grass beside this spring, and remained awhile in silence, looking into the crystal depth of the water. Each saw therein the reflection of the other, and to Aileen it seemed that never before had she seen a loftier beauty than was now expressed by her lover’s face. He seemed almost to emit light, and half startled, half smiling, she turned towards him.

“Archie,” she cried, catching his hand in hers, “let me feel you. I want to be sure you are real. In the pool there you hardly seem to belong to this world.”

Archie smiled and threw his arm about her.

“There is only one real world,” he replied, “and we both belong to that. But give me your hand; there is something missing from it that should be there.”

Aileen flushed and paled, holding out her left hand with a gesture almost tragic.

“Yes; put it back,” she whispered. “The best part of myself is lacking when that is not there.”

He slipped the ring back and kissed he slender fingers.

“Never let it come off again. The circle is the symbol of our perfect union, and that stone the shining sign of its immortality.”

“I shall wear it always,” said Aileen, solemnly, as though she were pronouncing a vow.

“Come, then, my beloved, the time approaches,” said Archie, with a deep tenderness.

“The time?” asked Aileen, dreamily, as they rose. Glancing again into the pool, she caught a last wavering reflection of her lover’s features; surely there was a starry gleam about his brows.

They moved on together to what seemed like rhythmic harmony, albeit soundless as a dream.

“The time, Archie? What time?”

“You will know soon now. member, my darling, nothing can really part us. You know that.”

“I know it.”

They were nearing the end of the path, and only a short way beyond lay the highroad. Suddenly a great dread was born in Aileen’s heart. She clung trembling to her lover.

“Don’t go on, Archie. I am afraid. Don’t go on! It is so perfect here — like heaven. I cannot bear to leave it.”

Archie smiled, and the smile held so much of joy, and yet withal so tender a pity, that tears filled Aileen’s eyes even as she leaned against him with a sigh of perfect happiness.

“It is indeed like heaven, little love,” he said, in a voice as deep and musical as the murmur of great pines. “ But we must go on — do you not understand?”

Aileen lifted her head slowly and looked into her lover’s eyes. Long they gazed at each other, hand clasped in hand, heart against heart.

“You see,” said Archie at last.

Aileen turned pale and paler, and her eyes grew dark with dread.

“Not that, my love, not that,” she whispered. “I cannot bear that — I cannot lose you now.”

“We belong to each other forever. But for a little while — It is the sacrifice!”

“It is the sacrifice.”

•   •   •   •   •

The men stumbled along awkwardly with their load, breathing heavily. Suddenly they saw a girl step out into the dusty highway. They halted abruptly, looking one at the other with white faces, and trying as best they might to hide from her eyes the nature of their burden.

She came steadily towards them, however, and seeing this, they laid what they were carrying by the roadside, and one of them came towards the girl hastily.

“Don’t come any farther,” he exclaimed. “There’s — there’s been an accident — and — ”

“I know,” she answered, quietly, and stopped. Even in the fading light he could see she was deadly pale. Then she came on. “He is dead — I know. I must see him.”

They drew aside, one of them muttering as she passed:

“It was his horse. It fell with him.”

“Harper’s Monthly Magazine”, Apr. 1901

THE MINIATURE

Oswald saw it glittering on the pavement and picked it up; a little oval of gold set with rubies and pearls in an intricate monogram. He studied this for a moment without making it out, and then, pushing the ruby which loosened the catch, opened the case of what proved to be a miniature.

A lovely young girl looked out at him from the setting of pearls that framed her face. Oswald stared, fascinated by the great violet eyes that met his. Hair of palest gold, though the straight brows and long lashes were dark; a delicate mouth, with a certain wistful droop that went straight to the young man’s heart; the whole face a perfect oval and faintly flushed like the wild arbutus. Wonderfully lovely, and yet with an indefinable air of sadness about it that made Oswald murmur — he being not averse from poetry — “Beauty and anguish walking hand in hand—” He did not finish the quotation, but suddenly continued his way up the avenue, conscious that he made rather an odd figure, standing there in the middle of the block staring at his find.

“I wonder who dropped it — perhaps she herself — and I might—”

He stopped, then went on. The miniature had made a deep impression on him. Lovely faces had a way of doing so, to be sure! But certainly this face was — words failed his mental grasp.

“Of course I must advertise,” he mused. “If it was lost by her I think it far too valuable to be entrusted to the mails. I must take it in person—” a slight smile lighted his eyes. “I wonder what her voice is like — and is she tall or short — and her hands.”

He tucked the little portrait away in an inside pocket and hurried on to the office. His article on the last Philharmonic was only half done, and must be finished before evening, for it was Opera night, with a tenor who had not sung here for five years, making his new début, whom he must criticise for a waiting world.

•   •   •   •   •

He entered the auditorium late, and was guided through the darkness to his accustomed seat by an usher who gleamed ahead of him with his tiny lamp like a will-o’-the-wisp. Oswald listened dreamily to the mighty music of Siegmund’s love song. It chimed with his heart, that beat rather hurriedly under the gold and jewels of the miniature frame. The violet eyes haunted him, the pale-gold hair waved in misty beauty before his eyes, dazzling his vision — what a face — and why so sad?

On the stage the walls of the hut fell away, and through the opening shone moonlight, waved mysterious trees. The music swelled to glory, the lovers stood clasped in each other’s arms. Oswald leaned back, with an unconscious sigh.

“What is she called?” he thought. “What name could be lovely enough for such a woman — such a child?”

The curtain being down, the audience turned itself to its social duties. Laughter and chat, the rustle of silk and satin, the shuffle of many feet, superseded Wagner. Oswald remained sunk in meditation, until a clear, thin voice, speaking at his elbow, remarked:

“Mr. Oswald, won’t you notice me? Are you bent on cutting old friends?”

He started and rose. “Mrs. Kendike! What a pleasure. Back from—” his voice grew vague.

“Yes, just back, and of course here at once. I never miss any of the Ring, you know. Perhaps you know—”

Oswald had raised his eyes during these communications, and suddenly stiffened.

“Who is that in the box there?” he ruthlessly interrupted. “There, in white — do you know her?”

“Where? Who? There are fifty women in white!”

“There, in the second tier — I must meet her; I have something of hers—”

“I’m sure I don’t see anyone remarkable. I don’t suppose you mean the fat old lady in gray and purple beside the empty box?”

“Fat — purple!”

“There, they’re going to begin — I must go. Be sure and come to my Thursdays. And I hope you’ll find your lady in white, Mr. Oswald.”

The auditorium sank into renewed obscurity and silence, while on the stage gods and goddesses sang and quarreled. But Oswald heard them, saw them not. He tried instead to detect again the white figure in the box up there, but in vain. Beyond a doubt it was she — the Lady of the Miniature! If only Mrs. Kendike hadn’t come just then, he might have got up before the curtain rose. During the next intermission, anyhow, no one should prevent him. should prevent him. No sooner indeed did the curtain fall than Oswald was on his feet. He glanced toward the box where he had seen her — only to find that she had gone. The box was deserted; empty as this tiresome life, thought the young fellow. Hoping to catch the lady on the stairs or in the vestibule, however, he hurried out. Here, there, among the rustling, glittering crowd he looked; friends striving now and then to stop him, but to no purpose. Nowhere was that golden head and white-clothed figure to be found, even though Oswald went to the box — which was already closed and locked, rather to his surprise. He lingered at the door, hoping against hope for her return, and then, after the curtain had risen on the last act, departed with vicious energy, striding off down Broadway. He almost knocked a man over as he shouldered his way along, murmuring to himself:

“Of course she just came to hear the new tenor, and after he’d been potted she left. Dash Mrs. Kendike, anyhow!”

“What in blazes are you trying to do, Oswald?”

“Beg your pardon, old man. Never saw you. I was thinking-”

“Well, don’t try it again. It evidently don’t agree with you. Come along to the club. I was just going in there for a bite, and I believe in having company when you feed. Even a musical critic is better than nothing.”

“Come to think of it, I don’t remember eating any dinner. I’ll go with you, if you’ll give me enough.”

“Been to hear the new Siegmund, I suppose,” observed Blakely, as the two friends watched their waiter approaching with the cocktails. “Here’s luck!”

“Luck! Yes, and he’s good, I think.”

“Ever hear that story about him when he was here last?”

“One of your own stories?”

“They know how to make a cocktail here, don’t they? It’s really the only reason there is for belonging to the place. No, it’s a true story, this time. He’s very handsome, you know, and of course all the girls went wild over him. Letters craving interviews and flowers and all that sort of thing. He wasn’t like the rest, however, and cared for nothing but his art — not a bit of a big head. Well, there was one girl — and she was a beauty, by Jove! There was one, I say, who was carried off her feet with the rest. Only this was the real thing — no tomfool frou-frou business, but Love, you know, the capital letter kind. Spirite ( for that was her name ) was the sort of girl you run across once or twice perhaps in a lifetime — if you’re fortunate the kind who gives every bit of herself when she gives at all. Nothing left of her that isn’t yours; or, as is generally the case, his. For you usually find you’re the looker-on in this sort of thing. Well, Spirite fell in love with the tenor. Did it at once and entirely. She wasn’t the sort of girl to write letters and hang around stage doors. Of course not. But she went to hear him every time he sang, pouring out her soul in love as he did his in music. And at last, one day, carried outside of herself, she did write to him. I don’t know all she said, but I do know — I knew her very well — that she told him her box, and what she should wear, and asked him, if there were any chance of his returning her love, to pick up the bunch of red roses she would throw him after the second act. The opera was to be Siegfried.

“She went alone that night. I sat opposite, and watched her. She was dressed all in white, and held a loose bunch of crimson roses to her heart. She sat motionless all the time he was on. After the first curtain I went round to her for a moment. She was very pale and her eyes shone, but she hardly spoke. She had told me what she meant to do. I knew she wanted to be alone, and so I left before the second act began. I will never forget the clasp of the hand she gave me, nor the look in her great eyes as she whispered:

“‘It’s life or death, Harry, life or death!’

“Well, so it was. The act finished amid an uproar of applause. He came out and stood there, bowing. I saw her rise, lean far over, and throw her Jacks at his very feet. At the same instant another woman, in the box next hers, threw a great handful of white roses that dropped beside them. The tenor bent down, hesitated an instant, and then, lifting up the white flowers, he pressed them to his lips.

“For a moment I didn’t look. There was another burst of applause at what the audience thought a pretty little act of courtesy, then he was off and the lights were turned up. I glanced over — Spirite seemed to be leaning on the edge of the box. Her head had fallen forward on her arms, and she lay there — like a little snowdrift. I was over in a moment — but it was too late. They said it was heart failure — that the stairs must have been too much for her I don’t know what all. But I knew what had killed her, and I made up my mind he should know, too.

“So I went to see him. Sent in my card and said I had business that must be attended to. After some trouble I got admitted, and finally he came in. I really didn’t know just what to say at first — he looked expectant and attentive and so absolutely removed from any such business as I came on. But presently I plunged in. ‘Do you remember a young girl’s dying a few days ago in a box while you sang Siegfried?’ I said, still standing opposite him.

“He turned as white as a sheet.

“‘Yes,’ he answered.

“We looked at each other a moment, and then he stepped close, his eyes flamed, he bent down to me.

“‘You know?’ he went on. ‘Tell me, for Heaven’s sake! Why is she dead? — how dared she die — just then?’

“You killed her. Of course you couldn’t help not loving her, but the brutal cruelty of your act was too much for such a soul as hers. You killed her.’

“He sank down, looking at me. Dark lines grew around his eyes, his mouth was drawn, harsh.

““I might kill you,’ he said, in a low, hoarse voice. ‘But — why should my kiss bring death to the woman who loved me?’

“I didn’t know what he meant. I felt helpless and vague. We stayed looking at each other, and then I said, feeling more annoyed at his stupidity than anything else:

“‘It killed her to see you kiss that other woman’s flowers — that’s all.’

“I never knew till then what the power of words — just a few simple words — is. And yet the man scarcely moved. But as I looked at him I saw his soul shrink and wither. Saw immortal sorrow form in his eyes, though he hardly knew it himself yet. I understood that there had been a hideous mistake.

“‘She threw you red roses, and you picked up the white ones thrown by another!’

“‘Red roses — red roses — red roses,’ he whispered to himself. Then suddenly he turned on me with a shout — ‘White roses, she wrote me! What do you mean?’

“And so she had, Oswald. Written him she would throw white roses, with red ones in her mind all the time. And he loved her — worshiped her. Told me how he had seen her time after time like a Spirit of Beauty in the box. How he had sung always to her to her alone. How his soul had brimmed with love of her, hopeless, he had always thought. She seemed of another world. And then came the letter. Even now I remember the tones of his voice when he spoke of that advent. And then the night, and his Siegfried, and the glory of young, immortal love. He had clasped those roses with a passion of joy and wonder — and killed her in the kiss that surrendered himself to her.

“Well, he broke his engagement and left, as you know, and hasn’t been here since. Five years now. I suppose he’s forgotten — and yet, I don’t know.”

Blakely sipped his glass, shaking his head. Then he looked up at his friend with a curious glimmer in his eyes. “She wasn’t the sort of woman one forgets,” he concluded.

•   •   •   •   •

The night after, Siegfried was to be given with the great tenor once more in the part. The occasion was important in the musical world, and a tremendous audience awaited the rise of the curtain. Oswald was there early. He had a hope that the Miniature — as he called his unknown — might be once more in her box. She had not, however, made her appearance when the orchestra began to play and the light was lowered. Oswald felt a sinking of the heart.

“I shall have to advertise if I don’t see her tonight,” he thought. Up to this time he had somehow shrunk from doing so. But he realized that the miniature was too valuable to remain in his possession without at least an effort to find the owner.

As the great tenor sang the part of the young god, moving about the stage the very incarnation of immortal youth and beauty, fresh and strong as a mountain breeze, Oswald thought of the sad story he had heard, and of how death had followed so closely on his last performance here of that fair type of joyous youth. What a pitiful tale it was; his heart ached for that girl, now five years dead.

He looked toward the box as the curtain fell, but it stood empty — no one leaned from it, applauding the great singer. And yet Oswald, glancing at him, thought that he directed a long gaze at the empty box.

“Perhaps,” thought Oswald whimsically, “it is the box where she died — and he remembers.”

He drifted out into the corridor and sauntered with the rest, getting back to his seat just before the curtain rose. Instinctively he looked at the box, and gave a little gasp — she was there. Dressed all in white, she sat, leaning an arm on the edge, looking toward the stage. Oswald rose, meaning to get there, somehow. But just then the act began, and he sank back. This time, surely, she would not vanish after the fall of the curtain.

The wood voices, the singing birds, the storm and stress of the second act passed before Oswald like a phantasmagoria. He saw and heard as if in a dream, and always the slender white figure interposed, the pale-gold head leaning on the slim hand, the graceful sweep of neck and arm, as he had seen it for that instant. No sooner had the curtain fallen than he rose, not waiting to join in the storm of bravos that swept the house, and made his way up the aisle. As he reached the exit he stopped and looked to see if she were there. Across the sea of people he saw her, and as he looked she turned her head and it seemed to him that their eyes met. Beyond a doubt, she lifted her hand and beckoned.

With his heart knocking against his ribs, and the miniature clasped in his hand, Oswald approached her box. The door was ajar, he pushed it open and entered. She stood at the entrance to the outer portion, and bent her head with a little gesture of welcome as he advanced toward her.

“I must apologize for this rather informal way of coming,” began Oswald, “but I have found something of yours which cannot but be valuable, and I know of no other way in which I could as speedily give it back to you.”

He tendered her the miniature with these words, and was about to explain how he had found it, when, with a smile, and in a voice like the flow of silver fountains, she replied:

“I know. Keep it for awhile. I want you to do something for me. Not much, just a little service. It will make me happy if you can do it — sit down there,” and she waved him to a seat, sinking back herself into the position in which Oswald had first descried her.

“Thank you. And if there is really anything I could do — it will seem too good to be true, that’s all.”

She smiled again. Lovely as the miniature was, it could not vie with the original an instant. The soft fire of those violet eyes, the changing color in her face, the mobile mouth, full of tenderest expression, that slight and exquisite figure, looking almost ethereal in its white draperies, the rounded arms, the proud poise of the head — Oswald groaned in spirit. Her beauty was too much to bear — it hurt you with the rare pain of a perfect day in June, when Nature is too spiritually lovely for our mortal senses to sustain.

“What is it I am to do for you?” Oswald asked. “You have only to tell me.”

“The miniature. It must go to him for whom it was meant. Will you give it to him?”

Ah! he might have known it. Of course there would be someone. He bowed his head — he could not trust himself to speak.

“You are asleep now,” went on the silver voice. “Your time for awakening will come — for happiness — for — love. Now you are dreaming. But promise me.”

Oswald rose. His eyes were full of tears as he stood before her, looking into those violet eyes, filled with strange lights and shadows.

“I do promise,” he said.

She smiled and nodded, at the same time motioning him toward the door. Almost unconsciously he went out, and it clicked behind him. Suddenly he remembered that he did not even know to whom he was to return the miniature. He came back and tried the door, but it seemed to be locked. So he knocked, at first softly, then louder. But there was no response.

“What do you want, sir?” asked the usher, coming up at the moment.

“To speak a moment to the lady in here.”

The usher looked at him. “There’s no one in the box, sir. It isn’t occupied tonight.”

“Nonsense! I’ve only this minute come out.”

“Impossible, sir. It hasn’t been open tonight.” Oswald made an impatient gesture.

“Very well, sir,” said the usher, in a superior tone. He unlocked the door and flung it open. The box was undeniably empty.

Utterly amazed, Oswald made his way downstairs. The curtain had risen on the third act, and at the entrance to the auditorium Oswald descried Blakely, leaning against the wall.

“What’s the matter, old man? You look as if you had seen a ghost.”

“I don’t know,” returned Oswald slowly. Then he suddenly thrust the open miniature into Blakely’s hand.

“Look at that! ” he exclaimed.

Blakely looked and then:

“Where did you get this?” he asked, excitedly.

“Who is it?”

“Who is it? Good God, man, it’s Spirite!”

“The Bohemian”, Mar. 1906

UNAWARES

“It’s going to be a real, old-fashioned Christmas eve, Selina,” said her husband, looking out into the gray afternoon, fluttering with snowflakes. “It makes me think of the days when I used to drag you about in the little red sled with black horses painted on it — it’s up in the garret now, Selina, isn’t it? Well, well, that was a long while ago.”

“A long while ago,” answered the little white-haired lady, knitting by the wood fire. “A long while ago, Silas. The years between have been happy — and have been sad, too! But I’d willingly live them all over again, if it weren’t for just one thing.” And she gave a sigh, quickly followed by a smile as her husband turned towards her.

“Yes, dear?” he said, half inquiringly, half wistfully.

“If we’d had the little child, Silas. A child to cherish, to guide, to — Oh, Silas, a little one to play about us, to love us, to grow up and have a little one of its own, that should gleam about our old age as the sunlight flickers and glows about the old oaks at our door. What a Christmas Eve we should have, getting the pretty toys and candy, lighting the tree, seeing the big blue eyes dance with happiness, hearing the sweet voice crying joyfully, Grandpapa, grandmamma.’ ” She stopped, with a sudden movement of her hands to her throat. “Silas, dearie, don’t mind me—” she turned away to hide the tears in her eyes.

But Silas understood, and sitting beside her, drew her close, their white hair mingling together, while the firelight shone in kindly wise on their sweet old faces, wrinkled and worn, perhaps, but expressing in every line their gentle natures.

“We have had much, dear,” he whispered. “What a life, what a world would this have been for me without you — without you? Why, it is inconceivable!”

She laughed a tearful laugh and patted his hand.

“I couldn’t realize life without you any more than I could realize not being born at all,” she murmured.

For a while they sat silent, looking at the fire that danced and played on the hearth, even as the child they desired might have danced and played about the chamber.

“I knew I wanted too much for earth,” went on Selina, presently, “but I have longed, dear, yes, and wept. You never knew, I would not tell even you. I know it is wrong, when the Lord has given me such happiness, such peace. But I — oh, just to clasp it close, just once to make a Christmas for it. First it was our own little child, now it is our own little grandchild I want — I wanted.”

“I knew, beloved wife. I knew. I too have not spoken, not told even you. I too have longed to see you as a mother — to bless our child.”

They drew closer, with a sigh at once sad and happy. Selina looked up at last.

“I am content, dear,” she said,“ we have had much — more than many, than most. We are old — perhaps this is our last Christmas Eve. Give me a kiss, dear husband. The Lord knows best, and I am content.”

They kissed each other, solemnly, smilingly.

“Isn’t someone knocking?” asked Selina, suddenly.

“I did think I heard a tap,” replied Silas, going towards the door. Just as he reached it a decided knock made him throw it open, crying, “Come in, neighbor,” in his hearty old voice, full of friendly welcome.

On the threshold, blown by the wind, powdered by the snow, stood a little girl, smiling out of big blue eyes, her cheeks rosy as the dawn, her hair yellow as the ripened wheat.

“Why, come in, darling,” said the old man, drawing her inside and closing the door. “Whose little girl are you, out in such a stormy afternoon?”

The child shook off the snow laughingly, clasping one of his fingers in her little hand.

“Where’s your mother? asked Silas, and then — “Look here, Selina, here’s a little girl come to see us.”

The laughing child ran eagerly across the room, throwing herself into Selina’s lap and putting up her rosy face for a kiss. “Kiss me, G’anmamma,” she cried, “kiss little Désirée.”

Selina turned pale and clasped the little one close — close.

“Little Désirée,” she whispered. “Little Désirée. But I’m not your grandmamma, dearie. Who are you? Where do you belong?”

The baby drew back, shaking her head and smiling.

“Is it nearly Ch’istmas?” she asked, eagerly. “Shall I soon have my sled and my dollie and my candles dear g’anpapa, is it nearly Ch’istmas?”

Silas and Selina exchanged a look.

“She’s not one of the neighbor’s children, Silas,” said the old lady, presently, her eyes following the child, that had now seated itself on the hearthrug, and was holding out its little hands to the blaze. “I never saw her before — it is very strange.”

“Someone visiting over Christmas,” replied Silas. “I will go around among the neighbors presently and inquire. But in the mean time let us make the little creature at home she shall have a Christmas here, too, Selina. I will get the little sled out of the garret—” Silas’s eyes lighted up, and he smiled eagerly at his wife — “and perhaps they will let us keep her a while she came here so—” he stopped, and bending over the little head, kissed the clustering hair. “So like an angel,” he ended.

“Dear g’anpapa,” murmured the child, putting up a hand to stroke his cheek.

“Take off Désirée’s coat,” she added, struggling up.

Selina began slipping off her things. Such a pretty fur-trimmed coat, so white and warm and soft.

“You look like a transfigured snowflake yourself, pet,” she said, as the child, freed from her outer garments, danced in the flickering shadows thrown by the leaping flames. leaping flames. Her dress was as white and soft as her coat, and she fluttered back and forth like a bird, too light and free to stay on the dull earth while such a medium of pure air existed to float or fly in.

“Ch’istmas is coming, Ch’istmas is coming,” she chanted, and suddenly clambered to Selina’s lap. “Tell me a story,” she implored, snuggling down and laying her sweet face against Selina’s gentle breast. “Tell me a story, ga’nmamma.”

Silas stood looking at the group a moment, and then, with a smile like the singing of birds in spring, sat down beside them,

“A story, precious? G’anmother hasn’t told many stories to little girls, but perhaps — perhaps — ” she paused, looking dreamily into the fire.

The child lay warm against her, its fair curls spread over her arm, its soft breathing perceptible to her ear, its clasping hands on her wrists. So holding it, her mind drifted back to the golden days of her young womanhood, her young wifehood. The dreams, the fancies, the hope — never alas, fulfilled — of that time transmuted themselves into words, and fell quietly, gently, on the listening ears of the two. As Selina sat there, talking out the long-hidden desire of her heart, her husband occasionally whispered a word of love. She seemed not to hear him. Her words came with a sort of rhythm, it was as though they moved to unheard music. All the pent-up mother love of her heart expressed itself nobly, exquisitely, self forgetting, earth forgetting, inspired by the heavenly regions of her soul. Finally she stopped, still looking at the fire, now fallen into a smoldering glow, still clasping the child to her heart. Then she bent and kissed her,

“Precious darling,” she murmured, “mother’s own dearest.”

The child threw its little arms about her neck, in a quick, enchanting embrace. Then, slipping to the floor—

“See, mamma, papa has a sled for me,” she cried, clapping her hands. “A red sled for little Désirée.”

Selina laughed gaily, and presently Silas joined in, and soon the three of them were shouting together, while the rafters of the unaccustomed room fairly quivered in sympathy.

“How young you look, dear Silas,” observed his wife, smiling at him rather roguishly. “And why don’t you bring little Désirée the pretty dolly we have for her, and the Christmas candies?”

“If I look young, you look beautiful, Selina,” replied Silas, with his gentle smile. “Doesn’t mother look beautiful?” he asked the baby, laughingly, catching her up in his arms. “Come, kiss papa for the red sled and the Christmas candies, that are hidden there in the cupboard all ready for our little Désirée.”

And Désirée kissed him and kissed Selina, and crowed over the candy. Then Selina brought out a doll with rosy cheeks and golden hair, even like Désirée’s own. And they threw fresh wood on the fire, and put apples to roast. And Désirée played on the hearthrug, while the couple sat hand in hand, smiling and watching her.

“Isn’t she pretty?” said Selina. “See, she seems to throw a light of her own as she moves. Silas dear, how absurd we’ve been, thinking we were old and worn out. You old, beloved!” she laid her hand over his, gazing up at him. “I never saw you look so well before.”

“Old, sweetheart? The child would be enough to keep us young, even without our immortal love to safeguard us.”

Again the child, tired of play, climbed into Selina’s lap. The light faded outdoors, the snow still fell, whitening all the land. Inside the room the long shadows drew together, but the fire still leaped about the huge logs, cheery as a laugh.

“You must go to bed soon, baby,” said Selina. “Soon mother must tuck you in, to wake up and play with your red sled in the snow on Christmas Day.”

“Let her stay with us a little longer, sweetheart,” pleaded Silas. “Christmas Eve comes so seldom, and we are so happy, we three.”

“So happy,” murmured his wife, leaning towards him, gathering the sleeping child close. “So happy.”

•   •   •   •   •

Hold the horse a moment, Sally,” said her lover, “and I’ll just run in with the basket and wish Silas and Selina a Merry Christmas Merry Christmas — dear old people.” He vanished within the house, but the next moment came back again.

“Sally,” he called, gravely, “come here — something has happened.”

Before the cold hearth the old couple were sitting, hand in hand, their white heads close together, a tender smile on their faces.

For a little while Sally regarded them, the tears filling her eyes, then turning to her lover, she whispered, “It must have been a happy death. See, dear, how beautiful they look.”

“The New England Magazine”, Dec. 1908