CHAPTER IV. MISS MARCHMONT.

d,thepowerofherpassions,toadmirethetruthofherfeelingstotrust.Allthesethingsshehad,andforthesethingsIclungtoher. ForthesethingsIwouldhavecrawledonwithherfortwentyyears,iffortwentyyearslongerherlifeofendurancehadbeenprotracted.Butanotherdecreewaswritten.ItseemedImustbestimulatedintoaction.Imustbegoaded,driven,stung,forcedtoenergy.Mylittlemorselofhumanaffection,whichIprizedasifitwereasolidpearl,mustmeltinmyfingersandslipthencelikeadissolvinghailstone.Mysmalladopteddutymustbesnatchedfrommyeasilycontentedconscience.IhadwantedtocompromisewithFate:toescapeoccasionalgreatagoniesbysubmittingtoawholelifeofprivationandsmallpains.FatewouldnotsobepacifiednorwouldProvidencesanctionthisshrinkingslothandcowardlyindolence. OneFebruarynight—Irememberitwell—therecameavoicenearMissMarchmont’shouse,heardbyeveryinmate,buttranslated,perhaps,onlybyone.Afteracalmwinter,stormswereusheringinthespring.IhadputMissMarchmonttobedIsatatthefiresidesewing.Thewindwaswailingatthewindowsithadwailedalldaybut,asnightdeepened,ittookanewtone—anaccentkeen,piercing,almostarticulatetotheearaplaint,piteousanddisconsolatetothenerves,trilledineverygust. “Oh,hush!hush!”Isaidinmydisturbedmind,droppingmywork,andmakingavainefforttostopmyearsagainstthatsubtle,searchingcry.Ihadheardthatveryvoiceerethis,andcompulsoryobservationhadforcedonmeatheoryastowhatitboded.Threetimesinthecourseofmylife,eventshadtaughtmethatthesestrangeaccentsinthestorm—thisrestless,hopelesscry—denoteacomingstateoftheatmosphereunpropitioustolife.Epidemicdiseases,Ibelieved,wereoftenheraldedbyagasping,sobbing,tormented,long-lamentingeastwind.Hence,Iinferred,arosethelegendoftheBanshee.Ifancied,too,Ihadnoticed—butwasnotphilosopherenoughtoknowwhethertherewasanyconnectionbetweenthecircumstances—thatweoftenatthesametimehearofdisturbedvolcanicactionindistantpartsoftheworldofriverssuddenlyrushingabovetheirbanksandofstrangehightidesflowingfuriouslyinonlowsea-coasts.“Ourglobe,”Ihadsaidtomyself,“seemsatsuchperiodstornanddisorderedthefeebleamongstuswitherinherdistemperedbreath,rushinghotfromsteamingvolcanoes.” IlistenedandtrembledMissMarchmontslept. Aboutmidnight,thestorminonehalf-hourfelltoadeadcalm.Thefire,whichhadbeenburningdead,glowedupvividly.Ifelttheairchange,andbecomekeen.Raisingblindandcurtain,Ilookedout,andsawinthestarsthekeensparkleofasharpfrost. Turningaway,theobjectthatmetmyeyeswasMissMarchmontawake,liftingherheadfromthepillow,andregardingmewithunusualearnestness. “Isitafinenight?”sheasked. Irepliedintheaffirmative. “Ithoughtso,”shesaid“forIfeelsostrong,sowell.Raiseme.Ifeelyoungto-night,”shecontinued:“young,light-hearted,andhappy.Whatifmycomplaintbeabouttotakeaturn,andIamyetdestinedtoenjoyhealth?Itwouldbeamiracle!” “Andthesearenotthedaysofmiracles,”Ithoughttomyself,andwonderedtohearhertalkso.Shewentondirectingherconversationtothepast,andseemingtorecallitsincidents,scenes,andpersonages,withsingularvividness. “IloveMemoryto-night,”shes