Standard Selections Part 64

"Who is it? Be kind, please, and tell me."

"I'm going to tell you," said Mrs. Tree, "if you will have patience for two minutes, and not drive every idea out of my head with your talk. I had a visitor last night, Mary--some one came to see me--an old acquaintance--some one who had seen Willie lately. Now Mary Jaquith, if you don't sit down,--well, of all the unreasonable women I ever saw!"

The blind woman had stretched out her arms with a heavenly gesture of appeal,--of welcome, of love unutterable,--and in a moment more her son's arms were about her and he was crying over and over again, "Mother, mother, mother!" as if he could not have enough of that word.

FOOTNOTE:

[79] An adaptation by Grace Arlington Owen.

THE PORTRAIT

ROBERT BULWER LYTTON

Midnight past! Not a sound of aught Through the silent house, but the wind at his prayers.

I sat by the dying fire, and thought Of the dear dead woman upstairs.

A night of tears! for the gusty rain Had ceased, but the eaves were dripping yet; And the moon looked forth, as though in pain, With her face all white and wet:

n.o.body with me, my watch to keep, But the friend of my bosom, the man I love: And grief had sent him fast to sleep In the chamber up above.

n.o.body else, in the country place All round, that knew of my loss beside, But the good young priest with the Raphael-face, Who confessed her when she died.

The good young priest is of gentle nerve, And my grief had moved him beyond control; For his lips grew white, as I could observe, When he speeded her parting soul.

I sat by the dreary hearth alone; I thought of the pleasant days of yore.

I said, "The staff of my life is gone; The woman I loved is no more.

"On her cold, dead bosom my portrait lies Which next to her heart she used to wear,-- Haunting it o'er with her tender eyes When my own face was not there.

"It is set all round with rubies red, And pearls which a Peri might have kept; For each ruby there my heart hath bled; For each pearl my eyes have wept."

And I said, "The thing is precious to me, They will bury her soon in the church-yard clay; It lies on her heart, and lost must be, If I do not take it away."

I lighted my lamp at the dying flame, And crept up the stairs that creaked from fright, Till into the chamber of death I came, Where she lay all in white.

The moon shone over her winding-sheet.

There, stark she lay on her carven bed; Seven burning tapers about her feet, And seven about her head.

As I stretched my hand, I held my breath; I turned as I drew the curtains apart; I dared not look on the face of death, I knew where to find her heart.

I thought, at first, as my touch fell there, It had warmed that heart to life, with love; For the thing I touched was warm, I swear, And I could feel it move.

'Twas the hand of a man, that was moving slow O'er the heart of the dead,--from the other side; And at once the sweat broke over my brow, "Who is robbing the corpse?" I cried.

Opposite me, by the tapers' light, The friend of my bosom, the man I loved, Stood over the corpse, and all as white, And neither of us moved.

"What do you here, my friend?" ... The man Looked first at me, and then at the dead.

"There is a portrait here," he began; "There is. It is mine," I said.

Said the friend of my bosom, "Yours, no doubt, The portrait was, till a month ago, When this suffering angel took that out, And placed mine there, I know."

"This woman, she loved me well," said I.

"A month ago," said my friend to me; "And in your throat," I groaned, "you lie!"

He answered ... "Let us see."

"Enough!" I returned, "let the dead decide: And whosesoever the portrait prove, His shall it be, when the cause is tried, Where Death is arraigned by Love."

We found the portrait there in its place; We opened it, by the tapers' shine; The gems were all unchanged; the face Was--neither his nor mine.

"One nail drives out another, at least!

The face of the portrait there," I cried, "Is our friend's, the Raphael-faced young priest, Who confessed her when she died."

The setting is all of rubies red, And pearls which a Peri might have kept; For each ruby there my heart hath bled; For each pearl my eyes have wept.

THE TELL-TALE HEART

A MURDERER'S CONFESSION

EDGAR ALLAN POE

True!--nervous--very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily--how calmly I can tell you the whole story.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object, there was none. Pa.s.sion, there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! One of his eyes resembled that of a vulture--a pale-blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees--very gradually--I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid my life of him forever.

Now, this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded--with what caution--with what foresight--with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it--oh, so gently! and then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed so that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly--very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man's sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon the bed. Ha!--would a madman have been so wise as this? And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously--oh, so cautiously--cautiously (for the hinges creaked) I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights--every night just at midnight--but I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his evil eye.

Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. To think that there I was, opening the door, little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he moved on the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back--but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness (for the shutters were close fastened, through fear of robbers), and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily.

I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in the bed crying out--"Who's there?"

I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down.

Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief--oh, no!--it was the low, stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not.

When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little--a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it--you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily--until at length a single dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and fell upon the vulture eye.

It was open--wide, wide open--and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness--all a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones; but I could see nothing else of the old man's face or person; for I had directed the ray as if by instinct, precisely upon the spot.

Now, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.