The morning call. [volume] (San Francisco [Calif.]) 1878-1895, 1890-05-14
MY GREAT
UNCLE'S DOUBLE.
CONTINUED

|
| years ago. and Of what Ann told US and OF our
| visit to NorthbrOok; aud then, presently looking
| NJ, found that some one had come 10 SIT with
| me. The impression my visitor made upon my
| senses was vivid and distinct. saw him clearly
and could hear him move, and felt the differ
| ence when he stood between me and the fire.
| But had clear Intuition that his presence was
unreal; mat what saw was phantom creation
| Of my own senses. So completely was in pos
| session OF my judgment that l said TO myself:
Il must be in worse health than l supposed to
| be SUBJECT 10 Illusions such as this But Just as
one says TO ones self in dream, This must be
| dream, and yet one continues to dream on. SO
| my Illusion continued.
| II felt no surprise The presence that was
with me seemed 10 be natural-as natural as If
your father had come in or yOu-only wondered
VINO my visitor He sat little before me,
| nearer The fire, that only saw The back OF his
| head ana a part OF his cheek. At one time l
| thought il was your grandfather, for the figure
| was not unlike his and the clothes were such as
| he used TO wear AT another time thought tt
was DICK; but the hair was darker than his. But
| my visitor spoke.
"'Shall we go back, william p" he said, 'eback
to 1914, and go down again TO NorthbI ook and
see Jessy Gwynne?'
His voice was familiar TO me, very familiar.
| II was Ike Dicks voice, but II was not Dicks.
! Nor was 1t your grandfather's, nor the voice of
( any one that could remember.
| However. while trying TO Identify II, had
| given some sort OF assent to his proposition.
The scene around me faded-the fire and the
walls and the pictures, and, simultaneously
| change passed within myself. Ii was spring. aud
| was walking with my companion in a country
| lane. My step was easy and elastic, and l wore
| had recently had made at Oxford aud l was in
| my twentieth year. Below US, on the slope OF a
| HILL lay lille country town, with its church
| tower peepiug above some trees. 1t was North
| brook. We reached stile and my companies
| said, This is no doubt the stie.' SO We crossed
| over The stile and took path across The fields.
| Shall we find Miss Gwynne at home p l asked.
| He did not know any more than |. Presently we
| came 10 a spot where We could just see a wicket
| gate-yOu remember it.
There is some, one coming said my CON-
| panion. a girl! LoOkr
I nm cd svast No IT 10 f{so
/ GwynDe hcrseif!' And my heart leaped wiki a
| great leap OF joy.
ave met her Just where the path reached the
| trees, and she aud shook hands, like lovers, de-
! lighted TO meet unexpectedly. For a few min
utes we stood talking where had met. The
sun shone on the grass and on the young green
| leaves, and The rocks cawed around their nests
| In The tall trees, and TO me the whole world
| seemed TO be flooded with happiness. But soon
| learned with disappointment that Miss Gwynae
was going out TO dine with friend; and that;her
| engagement could not be postponed. l offered
| 10 accompany her for part OF the way to her
| friends house, and so turning pack walked with
her; had brought her little present from Ok
| lord, and when we again reached the wicket
! gale, gave 1t her. Al the gate We stood awhile
| talking, and she put her small foot upon the
| lower bar OF the gate. L thought that she ac-
| copied my present coldly aud could not prevail
| upon her TO let me accompany her any further
than tue stile at the end of The meadows. There
| The Cottage Her father ana mother would be
glad TO see me. aud she would return home prob
| ably before left
| about going any further with her after she for
babe II. had, in reality. come to ask her to be
| my wife, aud would God had done so! But 1
| was unable to understand her reserve aud dis
| pleased that she should have refused my escort.
| So she went on and turned back with very
| heavy heart.
| 0ercbarged with burden OF my own loves might
| To retrace the steps had taken at her side. My
companion had reioined me, but we walked in
| silence, and l observed that he kept his lace
| aver ed from my scrutiny.
AT The Cottage we were received with kind
ness and hospitality and Mrs. Gwynne insisted
| upon our remaining until her daughter returned
| home. But the afternoon wore away and We saw
nothing of The young lady-only just before our
| depai lure she came in, as we were having some
refreshments, and then she sat apart from u.s.
talking with her father at the other end of the
room Of what she had heard at dinner gossip
about people TO me altogether unknown.
The time came whea 1t was necessary for US
TO leave In order to catch the COACH and 1 made
my adleus. Mrs. Gwynue babe me be sure 10
| come again. Jessy said nothing, only 'Good-by
MI Gibson a little timidy.
And my companion and l went back across
| the gleDo meadows TO meet the coach.
so we nave been 10 The Cottage" and seen
| Jessy Gwynne,' said he.
Yes, L answered slowly. My heart was
very heavy. had met Miss Gwynne the pre-
vous Christmas and ever since l had been
dreaming young mans dream of pretty Jessy
"'Shal you come to Northbrook again@ asked
my companion.
"'What is the good?' 1 replied.
"FOr, Bob,
To hear with eyes belongs to loves inc wit,
And exhibited no fine wit lin the matter, but
only the dullness OF boy, stupid with love and
because Jessy Gwynne was coy, L was clean dis
hearlened; II seems little matter, does it not?
But you shall hear.
" Now, SO far, Bob" continued my uncle after
little pause" there Is nothing very strange In
my vision or dream-unless Il was its coherent
viydness. 1t was all mere memory. For these
are exactly tile things that happened on the oc-
casion OF my Visit To Tile Cottage and | shall
never forget them. Only went ihiIher alone
at least-but perhaps you will understand pres
emily
- To my answer, What Is the gOod?' my CON-
panon made reply in words; but already the
scene had again changed. We were no longer
crossing the glebe meadows at NorthbTook, we
were nowhere In space, but the things that nap
peped al '1he Cottage passed before US, seen
aud understood cannot tell how. / saw Miss
Gwynne watching for my coming. heard her
taking OF me TO Ann, and saw her go out across
Inc meadows 10 meet me, now In the springtime.
now In the bright summer mornings. aud again
IN the autumn when the leaves were falling.
| Sometimes she would go out thus two or three
| days running. Aud then | saw her weep on her
return home. Much more than that, was con-
| sclous OF her thoughts; that she said in her
| sell that l was unjust 10 desert her, only be-
| cause she had once been coy. l saw and
understood much more than Ann told us. And
then perceived change pass in Miss Gwyune.
| Gradually she thought less of me- and stranger
| s1pplanted me in her affections man whose
features l could never see. But she met him
| often, and saw that from having loved me with
maiden's first timd love, she passed 10 for
| getting me and TO loving hlm with a woman's
| brst great passion. Then l heard my companion
speak again
90 VIII you see the rest?"
!" And l seemed, without speaking to answer
YES, but with apprehension.
/" And saw the rest II passed like lightning;
IKE that perfect recollection which, they say,
crosses at The last Instant the brain OF a drown-
| Ing man. but saw IL ALL saw what was never
known, and / know IT, / saw Mrs. Morgan,
| when In the last depths of her distress set out
on foot through the streets OF London to 90 to me
| Tor helD-for was in town at That dale, and she
knew u; and saw her turn back. saying to her
| self, He cast me of when | loved him, for he
| llghtest trlfe and what would he do for me now
saw her, with no covering on her head, in the
cold nighi, take tue poison from her pocket aud
drink II at the stile where we had parted. | saw
! her stop at the wicket gate. where she had ac-
| copied my present. and say to herself, oh, why
the Kitchen shutter, already In the torments of
death And L saw her die. l saw he. buried,
too, by the third buttress Of the cbuich-not
| counting those OF the clancel. And"-my uncle's
| voice dropped-"I saw her soul; and 1t had not
YET y entered into Its rest. aud it said to me,
| you have done to me 7
,, And then l was again in the oining-room
with my visitor. Ana L was no longer young
Dut 0ld, as old as l am now; and l under
stood that Jessy's soul is not even yet at rest.
| my vls,tor mad grown Old, too, very old, aud
az And was 1 the cause, then that Jessy
Gwynne came TO sorrow, and RUN, and shame
and dealt" asked, smltten with sudden fear
of guilt.
'' Yes, you, William answered my visitor, in
| that voice knew so well, but could not recog-
| nize. III you had gone again 10 NorthbroOk,
would any Of these things have happened p
"Then l understood, and bent my head and
| was silent.
My visitor rose and stood with his back to
| The hre Alter long time | raised my eyes to
him. IL waS-myself. For while eyed him
steadfastly. and then sudden great shock
passed through me, and knew that was again
alone, but my consciousness forsook me, and
knew nothing more until you came In"
long silence ensued. l burst ask no aues-
| lions
AND now will 90 to bed Bob" said my uu-
cie at length, quietly. "When die tell them to
| bury me near Jessy II they can"
When came to see my uncle the next morn
| ing was shocked al the change j found In him
" am very i'll, Bob" lie said at once. "Send
| Tor your father and for priest"
" You nave bad bad nght?" asked
| AD, no Bob" answered the old man with a
| strange smile. 81 have mad a good night-a
| good night Bob, but have had a bad awaken
| ing. dreamed, Bob. that IL was that Christmas
afternoon mat your great grandfather brought
US niue lads box OF bricks and Dick and 1 sat