CHAPTER VIII.

THE PHANTOM’S WARNING.

“Let me gaze for a moment that e’er I die I may read thee, lady, a prophecy, That brow may beam in glory awhile, That cheek may bloom and that lip may smile, But clouds shall darken that brow of snow, And sorrow blight that bosom’s glow.” MISS L. DAVIDSON.

Scarcely was the school dismissed the next evening, before the carriage of Mrs. Gardiner Green drew up before the door. The liveried footman of Mrs. Gardiner Green descended from behind and opened the door and let down the steps, and Mrs. Gardiner Green hereby alighted and entered the hall. Sophie received the pompous lady at the door; Mrs. Gardiner Green took the poor girl in her arms and kissed her, then _conducted_ rather than followed her into the parlor. They sat down. After a little preliminary conversation the lady began:

“My dearest Miss Churchill, I have come at the suggestion of our mutual friend and reverend pastor, Mr. Withers, to offer you any aid or advice that the present crisis of your circumstances may demand. Now no blushing, my dear Miss Churchill; look upon me as a mother—as a sister,” said the lady, quickly correcting herself. “In short, Miss Churchill, I have come to propose that you be married from our house.”

Now this was said so coolly, taking the premises so much as a matter of course, that Sophie, poor cowardly Sophie, had nothing at first to say.

The lady went on with her proposals, entering into all the details of wedding dresses, bridesmaids, brides-cake, and a vast deal of matronly information and advice. At last Sophie could bear it no longer; she arose nervously from her seat and turned to the window, every limb trembling, and her voice faltering as she said—

“I am not going to be married to Mr. Withers, Mrs. Green—I am very sorry everybody seems to think so—it is not true—will you do me the favor to contradict it wherever you may hear it?” And now she turned towards her. Mrs. Gardiner Green looked perfectly aghast; she evidently knew her part.

“Then, Miss Churchill, as your mother’s oldest friend, may I ask,—_what_ is the meaning of the minister’s nightly visits to you?—for know, Miss Churchill, that unless they portend marriage, not even his sacred cloth will _prevent_, but rather _augment_ the scandal that will ensue. Miss Churchill, I would not for the world that any thoughtless or malicious person should hear you say what you have just said; but, Miss Churchill, again I ask you—why have you permitted his nightly visits for three months past?”

“I could not help it—_how_ could I help it?—should I have thought of telling our minister to keep away? I thought whatever our minister said or did was right, and could not be misconstrued, or I am afraid, I am _sure_, that until now, I never thought about it.”

“No, Sophie, that is it—_you never thought about it_—your thoughtlessness in permitting the visits of gentlemen in your unprotected condition had already nearly mined you, when the kindness and candor of Mr. Withers rescued you from the neglect and obscurity into which you had fallen; and now his very kindness will through your thoughtlessness be converted into a greater misfortune to you and himself, that is, if you do not marry him; but of course you will do so, Sophie.”

Sophie Churchill was sitting before her; the palms of her hands pressed together; her eyes raised imploringly to the countenance of the lady.

Sophie was utterly unconscious of this attitude of supplication. It was the involuntary appeal of a weak will to a stronger one.

“Oh! I never can—I _never can_ marry that man—death—_death_ would be better.”

“Yet, Miss Churchill, you have seemed to speak sometimes as if you took pleasure in his society.”

“When he reads or converses I like to hear, or _have_ liked—I shall never like it again; but if his eye runs from his book and fixes on my face—I—oh!—I can’t tell you, but at the very idea of marrying him I grow deadly sick and faint.”

Mrs. Gardiner Green, with her obtuse sensibilities, did not understand this, but she answered coldly—

“There is no one to compel you to do justice to Mr. Withers, Miss Churchill—no one to force your inclinations in any way; still, as your mother’s friend, I must advise you to bring no reproach upon her memory by your lightness of conduct; as your brother’s friend I must entreat you not to injure the prospects of his young daughter by your selfishness; and as the friend of Mr. Withers, I must conjure you not to destroy his usefulness by your fickleness and unfaithfulness.”

She continued to talk, using all the arguments of a hard woman of the world, with a nervous, sensitive, and somewhat visionary girl, and at the end of two hours more, left Sophie very well prepared to receive, or _rather_, very incapable of resisting her destiny and her master. It was near sunset when the lady’s carriage rolled away from the door. When she was gone Sophie sank down on the steps of the piazza, and resting her elbows on her knees, dropped her face into the palms of her hands, and gave herself up to despair. She sat there until the sun went down—she sat until the stars came out—she sat there until she felt a light hand fall upon the top of her head. She looked up, and the phantom of the forest dell stood before her, the same wan, spectral face—the same large, intense, blue eyes, blazing in their hollow sockets, surrounded by their livid, bluish circle—the same streaming yellow hair, with its streaks of grey—the same emaciated claw-like fingers. Her intense gaze sought and met Sophie’s eyes, and she knew that her visitor was a denizen of earth. She remained gazing into Sophie’s eyes a minute, and then she broke forth with terrible energy:—

“_Do not marry him!_—risk—suffer _anything_ but that! _Do not marry him!_ Be true to your instincts—they warned you at your first meeting, they warn you _now_! Be true to your instincts! They were given you of God for your protection; it is a sin—it is a _sin_ to disregard them, and the punishment—the punishment will be more than you can bear!—a broken heart!—a maddened brain!—at least—_at least_ a blighted life! Look at me!”

She tore the mantle from her breast and displayed a skeleton form, to which the tight skin clung.

“Who are you, in the name of Heaven?”

“I _am_ a shadow—a memory—a _warning_! I _was_ his wife!”

“Great God!”

Sophie raised her eyes just in time to see the tall figure of the minister near the shadowy woman, and his strong hand fell upon her shoulder. He had approached unperceived. She shrieked—sprang from under his grasp, and fled towards the river. He looked after her in dismay, apparently with an impulse of pursuit. When she had disappeared over the cliff, and down the bank, he turned to Sophie.

“Who is that woman, Sophie?”

“YOUR WIFE!” said the girl, raising her eyes bravely now to meet his gaze.

“You were always a little brainsick, Miss Churchill, but really this—or perhaps you are only jesting.”

“Do I look like jesting? Is yonder unfortunate a subject for jest?”

“Then you are clearly insane—moon-struck as your lunatic visitor. Pray can you tell me what put such an extravagant idea into your head?”

“Her own word.”

“Her own word—the mad fancy of a maniac!”

“At least, Mr. Withers, you will not think of pressing your suit, or even renewing a single visit, after such a revelation.”

“Will I not? I have two urgent duties to perform now—one is to seek that lunatic, and have her taken care of; the other to hasten our marriage, Sophie, that everything seems to endanger, from naval officers to strolling maniacs.”

“She is your wife!—I know she is! Every glance into your face deepens the conviction I feel.”

“Do you not know that I lost my wife while living in the North?”

“You lost her, but how?—by _death_? Possessions and persons are lost sometimes, and _found_ again. Nothing but the grave is inexorable. Come, has the grave inclosed your wife?”

“Insulting! insolent! Take care, Sophie, you are heaping up wrath against a day of wrath.”

“_You are!_ Were this incident known in the neighborhood—”

“You would be laughed to scorn for your credulity. _Nonsense_, Sophie! Were the letters I brought here of so little weight?—was the approbation, the warm friendship of the venerable and sainted May, of such little worth, that the fancies of a moon-struck woman should be able to injure me, or should change my views and purposes towards you? Come, Sophie, it is best that you understand me. _I have no wife._ I assure you, upon my honor—my untarnished truth, Sophie, that I have no wife, and I _must_ have you! Your hand is the _one_ thing that I wish on earth, and I _must, must_ have it—_will_ have it.”

Sophie was weeping bitterly. He stooped down, took her chin in his hand, and raised her tearful face, then sat beside her, and said, more gently than he had yet spoken—

“Come, Sophie Churchill, I am no hypocrite, no villain, and God knows it. I have been the most unfortunate and the most injured man, perhaps, that ever lived; and some day, when you are prepared for it, you shall know it. As for the woman, poor creature, she must be cared for; and now, lest you should perchance cherish in your heart another suspicion, which yet you would never breathe, I will volunteer to say that I have never wronged that woman—never, so help me Heaven! Dismiss her from your mind, Sophie, and tell me, has Mrs. Gardiner Green been to see you?”

“Yes, sir,” murmured Sophie.

“And between you, you settled the day for our marriage.”

“Yes, sir, but—”

“Never mind _but_—what day did you fix?”

“Mr. Withers, that is all over now—Mrs. Green, herself, if she knew—”

“Never mind, my dear; what day _had_ you fixed?

“Then we _had_ fixed the fifteenth.”

“Thank you, Sophie!” and he sealed his thanks upon her lips, arose, and bidding her good night, left the spot.