And then, sitting erect upon the sofa, with
her hands tightly clasped, and her whole form
with its corpse-like rigidity of outline, presenting
a strong contrast to the face glowing with
blushes, and illumined by eyes of more than
mortal brightness, the Entranced Girl murmured
the first words of a harrowing Revelation.

“The setting sun flames in molten fire upon
the mountain tops, and lingers in flashes of
light upon the tremulous waves of the Hudson.
Near the river, in the hollow between two
hills crowned with locust trees in blossom,
stands the House of the Poor Man. Look at
it, as the last ray flashes upon the window
pane, half shaded by vines and flowers! A

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broad chesnut branch is over the roof — before
the door a garden, surrounded by a white fence—
not far off a brooklet sings under the leaves
and over the rocks. Is it not a beautiful place,
this house of the Poor Man, nestling in a hollow
of the river shore?

“Hark! There is a step upon the garden
walk — there is a form between my eyes and
the doorway of that humble home. She is
very beautiful, the Daughter of the Poor Man.
Alas! Alas, poor Mary Mervyn!”

At these words, uttered in a tone of unutterable
pity, the Man with the Mask uttered a
groan. Still he could not turn and look upon
the speaker's face. He was conscious that she
had passed into the third phase of the Magnetic
state; that her Soul was beyond the power of
his will. And yet her every word pierced his
heart like a dagger.

“Poor Mary Mervyn! Standing so beautiful
in the garden whose flowers were planted
by your hands, have you no fear for the future?
The setting sun shines brightly on your dark
hair, and plays with your cheek until it gathers
a deep blush — very, very beautiful Mary
Mervyn! I see you stand alone in the garden.
I see you gather the white kerchief around
your whiter neck. All day long I could look
into your face, and drink the gladness of your
eyes!

“Another footstep in the garden! The father,
with white hair and hands cramped with toil,
and sun-burnt face seamed with wrinkles. A
very poor man is old Abel Mervyn, and yet he
is rich in his daughter — rich in his humble
home — rich in his trust in God.

“Another step! It is the aged mother — she
comes forth from her low doorway, and looks
upon the old man and his child, whose faces
are reddened by the same sun-beam.

“Is it not a beautiful scene?

“Three persons in the garden — an old man—
his wife, who had shared his lot these thirty
years — and a beautiful girl, their only child.

“Who is it that comes to plant a curse within
the walls of this happy home? Who —
Alas! Alas! poor Mary Mervyn!”

“Hold!” the Man with the Mask turned,
and with a single stride reached the sofa: “You
shall not go on —”

He seized her by the wrists, but her eyes
gazed upon him as though they saw him not.
She was not conscious of his presence. In
vain he endeavored to awaken her from this
Trance. She continued to speak the Revelation
which was passing before the eyes of her
soul.

Her voice sank into a whisper as she continued:

“It is night, and the fireside taper burns
within that humble Home. The moon is up,
and the Hudson glitters in her light, and the
mountain tops glow with a pale silvery lustre.
Within the cottage of the old man is heard the
voice of prayer. Three forms are kneeling
around the opened Bible, which is placed upon
a chair. Mary, the father and the mother; it
is a beautiful picture. But the door opens, and
another face is revealed by the fireside candle.
Ah! does Satan come so smilingly into Eden?
It is a young man, with a measured step, and
a face impressed with a deep solemnity. Sleek
brown hair around his white forehead — glossy
black attire upon his slender form. He also
kneels; he prays. The Young Preacher
mingles with the devotions of this happy home.
Hark! Do you hear his earnest words — do
you see his outspread hands and uplifted eyes?
Alas, poor Mary Mervyn!”

There was a pause. The Man with the
Mask sank on his knees, and buried his face
against the sofa. And then in a lower, deeper
voice, with a glassy eye and a flushed cheek,
the Entranced girl went on:

“Summer is gone. It is winter. Ice upon
the Hudson; snow upon the hills. The garden
is white with snow. All is still. A single
ray trembles from the closed shutters of Abel
Mervyn's home. Let us enter. Are they
kneeling in their evening prayer? A light
spread a dim radiance through the place. Beside
the fire, his head between his hands, sits
the old man. He is alone. His face is changed.
Sadly, sadly changed. He grasps a bottle with
his trembling hands — the Bible, covered with
dust, lies upon the table. He utters a curse,
and casts his eye to the door of the next room.
Oh, the agony — the despair of that face, now
writhing with the madness of the brain and the
madness of the bottle!

“Yes, it is true. Abel Mervyn has become
a drunkard. A life of hard labor and steady

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virtue has not preserved him from this curse
in his old age. But where is his wife — where
his child? Where the Young Preacher?

“Listen! A cry comes through the panels of
the door — a groan is heard. It is the cry of
a new-born child. It is the groan of a Mother,
who has no blessing for the fruit of her womb.
A Mother who turns away from her new-born
child, for the print of shame is on its face —
the baptism of contempt upon its young life.

“The old man starts to his feet at the sound
of that cry, mingled with the Mother's groan.
And raising his hands above his face, blackened
by despair, he breathes an awful imprecation
upon the head and upon the life of the
Young Preacher.”

Once more she paused — but the Man with
the Mask did not raise his face from the sofa.

“Poor Mary Mervyn! It is summer again,
and her footsteps thread the winding path which
leads from the cottage to the spring, within the
shadows of the trees. She has left her aged
mother — she has left her father, who sits besotted
and blaspheming, upon the bench in
front of the cottage, his bleared eye-balls
turned to the setting sun.

“She has left that home once so happy, but
now the abode of hopeless wretchedness.
With a languid step she threads the windings
of the path. Her face is very pale — her eyes
swollen. Within her shawl she carries the
fruit of her dishonor. She hides the face of
her babe from the light. It is accursed.

“And down the path, until she reaches the
clear spring, hidden in a hollow of the woods.
See how the water sparkles in its rocky basin!
It is clear and cold and deep, and only one ray
of sunshine trembles upon its sullen bosom.

`Mary is kneeling now. She has taken
her babe from her breast. Look! How it
smiles and reaches forth its tiny hands, and
looks up into the Mother's face! But her eye
is cold and stone-like. `This is thy only
baptism, child of shame!' you hear her words.
She plunges her child into the spring. She
presses its face beneath the cold wave. She
holds it firmly there until it is dead.”

The Man with the Mask rose to his feet.
His face was old again. Old and haggard,
and seamed with wrinkles.

“What became of her?” he said, and fiercely
grasped the wrists of the Magnetized girl.
“Speak, or I will throttle you! What became
of Mary Mervyn?”

Do you realize the scene?

Do you behold the Entranced girl, sitting
erect on the sofa — her eyes bright with an
unnatural glassy lustre, fixed upon vacancy —
her cheek flushed, her dark hair streaming
over her gay attire, as her lips move slowly
with the accents of a fearful Revelation?

And the Man with the Mask — do you behold
him trembling in every limb, as he grasps
her wrists, and shrieks his question to her
sealed ears?

“What became of Mary Mervyn?”

As though she had not heard these words —
as though she was utterly unconscious of his
presence — the Entranced exclaimed:

“It is a cold winter day. They have tried
the Mother for the Murder of her child. On
the thousand faces of the crowded Court
streams the glad sunshine. They are bringing
her to the Bar. An aged woman, whose
face is half in shadow, supports the Murderess—
and in the back ground, haggard and
swollen, appears the face of an old man who
looks upon the scene with half-shut eyes.

“You hear the voice of the Judge — `Stand
up, Mary Mervyn, and hear the sentence of
the Court.' Mary has sunk back in a chair.
Aided by her mother's hand she staggers to
her feet. She stretches forth her hand and
rests it upon the Bar. Her eyes are downcast—
her cheek, no longer blooming, is sallow
and corpse-like. A thousand eyes behold that
trembling woman, as, half supported by a
Mother's arm, and half clinging to the Judgment
Bar, she waits the sentence of the Law.

“It is a different scene, Mary Mervyn, from
that where we first beheld your face!

“The sun shines on the black hair, which
the white cap only half conceals. A ray warms
that deathly face. The spectators hold their
breath. The very Judge pronounces the sentence
of the Law with tears.

“Listen to his words: `Mary Mervyn, you
have been convicted of the wilful murder of
your own child. It is the sentence of this
Court that you be taken from hence unto your
cell, and from thence on the appointed day, to
the place of execution, where you shall be
hung by the neck until you are dead. God be
merciful to your Soul!”'

p254-089

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