Mrs. Barr's short stories

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Prologue

HE story of Femmetia Vorhees is so far outside and beyond the general ideas of life, that any teller of it must necessarily feel as if they would desire to offer some personal gage for its likelihood to say, for instance : “ Impossible as Femmetia’s experience seems, I myself have knowledge of at least two or more cases that are — if not parallel — at least very far in the same direction ; thus there is a famous living artist to whom this thing happened :

He was busy* one gloomy, winter day on a picture for the academy, and he worked steadily for many

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hours. Then, being sensible of the failure of that enthusiasm which is the genius of work, he laid down his brush and stood a few moments looking at the results of his day’s labor. It pleased him. He had already attained success ; but he felt that this work was not only sure of appreciation, but that it deserved it. A sentiment of gratitude for the many great blessings of his life rose like a joyful song in his heart. For he knew that there were few studios in the world so perfectly appointed as his own, few homes so beautiful, few husbands and fathers so happy.

Suddenly he seemed to lose his grasp upon his will and consciousness ; there was a momentary darkness and void, and he was in a strange city which yet was a familiar city. The old, high-gabled houses, the chiming of the carillons from the steeples of the churches, the queer costumes of the crowds around the ancient stone cross in the market-place ; he knew them, and he passed through them like a shade, straight up endless stairs to a wretched attic, where there was a large, ambitious painting on a rude easel. He was familiar with every line of that painting ; he understood now, as he stood before it, all its weak points, and why failure and only failure had been the lot of the artist.

With a feeling of divine pity he turned to a pallet in the corner of the room. A man, still young, was dying there ; dying of defeated hopes and futile effort, and intense, ungratified feelings. The next moment, with a slight shiver of the fleshy tunicle, his soul returned to him, and he opened his

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eyes in his own splendid studio. They fell upon the picture he had been at work upon — an identical picture in subject and conception, but worked out with an immeasurably greater breadth of power and technical ability ; and he knew beyond a doubt that his soul had gone back a moment to its last life ; that what he had witnessed was not death but transition ; that the Great Master had said : “Yon have done all possible in this class, pass through that door called ‘ death/ to a higher room.”

He stood up reverently. He had received no ordinary lesson. Henceforward, his art was a sacred thing ; it was the key to an eternal progress. Not for any gold could he debase a line ; not for any fame hinder that “ well done, good and faithful servant” which from that hour has been the hope and the aim of all his labor.

Again, in the closest personal way, I have knowledge of a child who, before three years of age, had distinct and awful dreams of being bitten by a huge serpent, though it was beyond all possibility that in this life she had ever seen at that time even a pictured creature of the kind ; always the same dream of the sandy plain, and the bare rocks, and the long gliding reptile, that had no feet . When six years old, she was taken, one day, to Wombwell’s Menagerie, and there, in a speechless paroxysm of terror, she pointed out the creature which had impressed her soul with such supreme terror that the wondrous act of transition had not been able to efface the memory of it. And if such events as these, and others quite as remarkable, come within the positive expe

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rience of one person, it is hardly possible that such experience is peculiar. It is, indeed, far more likely that the story of Femmetia Vorhees will appeal to the majority of intelligences by the very reason of some personal knowledge of cases not dissimilar.

Chapter I. Femmetia

Femmetia Vorhees was born in the year seventeen hundred and fifty-seven, at the Vorhees country-house on the North River, near Lispenard street, New York. Her father and mother were of pure Dutch stock, the latter, Hildegonde Van T wilier, being a descendant of the Van T wilier who, as Governor-General of New Amsterdam, led the way into the Connecticut Valley, and built a fortified post there, called the House of Good Hope, near the present town of Hartford. She was a Dutch lady of the most marked character, and when she married Claes Vorhees she married a man of the same purity of lineage and the same pronounced Dutch individuality as her own. Claes was a trader, and proud of his abilities in that direction. His store on the Great Dock of the East River was a famous resort for country merchants, and his house on the North River was the embodiment of all that went to make a typical Dutch household of that day.

For Claes was not only a trader ; he was, also, a member of the classis of the Dutch kirke, and had his seat among the elders on the right hand of the minister. Besides which, he was one of the town

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council, and universally regarded as a safe and sure citizen. He was a large man, with a blank expression of face, which, however, concealed a deal of shrewd business intelligence, square-built, and rather fond of fine clothing, a taste shared by his wife Hildegonde, who was a woman pretty and ample, and very stirring about her domestic affairs She had three sons, who were older than Femmetia, all of them shy youths, without any apparent individuality to speak of.

“ But they will do well enough/’ said their father, frequently, to Madam Vorhees. “ The boys are slow. That is because there is yet nothing new to be done in our affairs. They will make themselves at home in the world in good time. Believe one who knows what goes on in the city.”

It was the little Femmetia who troubled and puzzled her parents. They looked at her when she could scarce talk and walk as something in their house outside natural laws, and at times listened to her strange prattle with a feeling curiously blended of love, admiration and dislike.

“ And what will come of it, even the domine does not know,” said madam, one night. “Such strange questions ! Claes, I feel as frightened to-day as I used to feel when I was a little girl, and could not say my Heidelberg.”

“ Questions ! What then ?”

“ Well, look now ! it is — 4 Mother, where do my dreams come from ?’ And then again : ‘ Where

do they go to ?’ ‘ Mother, where did Femmetia

come from ?’ 4 How do I grow bigger and bigger ?’

Femmetia.

‘ How many Femmetias are there in me ?’ ‘ One

Femmetia is here with you, and another Femmetia is with my aunt Gertrude in Pearl street, and another with my good father in the store, and I send another to Schoon - Durven ?’ As for Schoon- Durven, I never heard any mention of the place before ; no, nor you either, Claes ; nor yet anybody round here. It is no good for her, nor for us — such talk.”

“ Then 1 take leave to say, you are not doing right to let her talk in such a way. Say to her : ‘ Femmetia, I am not satisfied with you. I set you a good example, and you are conceited and troublesome, and make up questions that are not in your catechism, nor yet in the Holy Scriptures. Think that your little body is the work of the Lord, and knit your stocking like a respectable girl, whose father is in the classis and in the town council, and a man honored, and of some wealth, thank God !’ Such things as that is what you ought to say to her.”

“ Very well, Claes ; and she will listen, and then lift her big eyes, and answer me in this way : ‘ When I lived at Schoon-Durven, no one was cross to me. There were ladies in flowered silks there, and glasshouses full of flowers, and all the servants who waited wore scarlet waistcoats/ And suppose I get angry, and say: ‘ Femmetia, I will tell you what that means in plain Dutch — it means lies !' She looks offended then, and is like to cry, or she says calmly : ‘ Mijn moeder , how can you tell ? This happened before I came to live with you/ And so, Claes, I know no more what to say. But as for Schoon-Durven,

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it must be in Dreamland, I am sure, and nowhere else in this world.”

“That is what I think, Hildegonde. It is in Dreamland. Queer things happen there, I have heard tell. As for me, I dream not ; it is not my business. Dreams — as you may tell by what Femmetia says — are about other people’s ; and it is a fixed principle with me never to meddle with the affairs of other people.”

It was at this moment Femmetia entered the room. She came in from school, with her small text-books in her hand, and her lovely face flushed with anger.

“ Peter Martense called me a little angel, mother ; and my own brother Adrian laughed at him, and said that it was the boys only who had no sisters who thought girls were angels.”

“ I shall punish Adrian,” said the father, quickly ; “ but listen to me, Femmetia. We shall have no more dreaming, nor any more dream-talk. Think that you were baptized a Christian, in the Gardenstreet kirke, and that when you go to your bed, and lay you down with your good prayers on your lips, it is that you may go to sound sleep ; and so be fit for the lessons and the work of the next day — it is not that you should think or dream of ladies in flowered silks and servants in scarlet waistcoats. That is folly ; and tolly is a thing God is angry at, every day. Besides, you may read in your Bible that follies end in ruin ; and St. Paul says that children must never vex their parents! This is the truth; and you must dream no more by night or day. A good girl who has to go to school, and help her mother at

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J 5 home, should not dream. I am a respectable merchant, and an elder in the kirke, and I never dream !’’

And Claes Vorhees spoke the truth, as he understood it. As far as he was concerned, his sleep was the sleep of mere flesh and blood ; and no winged dream ever came to inform it. And if Madam Vorhees dreamed, it was only of her half-done household tasks ; and she rightly enough concluded that she had not been in a sleep sound enough to make her oblivious of her daily cares. But it was very differ ent with Femmetia. She lived a real dream-life ; a life quite distinct from her waking existence ; though after this unusual and severe reproof from her father she was extremely reticent on the subject.

And, as the years went by, daily custom brought that weight which lies upon childhood’s intuitions like a frost. The nature that remembered what was so fugitive :

“ Those shadowy recollections,

Those obstinate questions,”

those

“ Blank misgivings of a creature Moving about in worlds not realized,”.

began to be less sensitive ; and to shape itself more and more to the dream of a human life. Her lessons, her dresses, her companions, her first communion, the methodical certainties and duties of a Dutch household, filled her heart. All our births “are a sleep, and a forgetting.” All our souls

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“ rise with us like a star, that had elsewhere its setting, and cometh from afar, not in entire forgetfulness or in utter nakedness.” But Femmetia’s soul had a more than ordinary memory ; she kept her heritage longer, the seeing eye among the blind, the brooding thought of immortality, the sense of presence not to be put away, convictions, which many toil all their lives to arrive at — only as she grew older she kept all those things, more and more closely, within her own consciousness.

And this unspoken confidence with her nobler part influenced the fleshly form. Her eyes were mystical, large, slow-moving ; her face still, and rather grave ; all her movements were leisurely ; and she rarely laughed. Pleasure, love, or any strong feeling was shown by a quick brightening of her whole countenance ; as if the flesh itself suddenly became luminous.

So the days and years went by, and she was sixteen ; partly child, partly woman, and partly spirit ; and it was on her birthday she had the first of those experiences, which were perhaps the legitimate conclusion, to which all the dim, half-forgotten, halfperceived intimations of her soul-life had been foreshadowings.

She had gone to rest with a piece of news in her ears which, though not unusual or unexpected, had affected her with unusual and unexpected emotions The house next to the Vorhees house was occupied by a Dutch gentleman called Volckmaar, whose son Denyse had been many years in Holland with his grandparents. The Holland Volckmaars were gen-

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erally supposed to be people of very great wealth and importance, and the impassive stolidity and silence of Cornelius Volckmaar on the subject seemed to give assurance of the fact. It was also very unlikely that Cornelius would permit his only son to remain away for years unless there was some very tangible good in gold or land to be obtained by his self-denial.

“ For my part,” said Claes Vorhees frequently to madam, his wife — “ for my part, I am sure it is gold and not learning that keeps Denyse Volckmaar in Holland. Councilor Volckmaar is a man who neglects not the main chance. It is right to be so prudent, and as for piety and wisdom, you could not get in a church more than is in the life of Cornelius Volckmaar.”

But at last Denyse Volckmaar had come to his home again. Claes had heard the news from the youth’s father. All afternoon they had been together and never a word of it, but at the last moment, as they leaned on Claes’s garden gate and admired his tulips, Cornelius had spoken thus :

“ My son Denyse came home on The Sea Beggar . He brought with him some tulips ; it is thought new and rare ones.”

“ Mean you it ? A fine young man he will be now.”

“ You say what is true. He is from Leyden, with many honors. Ah, my beautiful Leyden !”

“ Well, well, that is so. But as for me and my boys, we do not snifter after Holland. We have all taken suck from the breasts of this good land, and i8

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the better of it we think ourselves — indeed yes, councilor.”

“ There is no harm said, neighbor. The vaderland is my own land. In Holland I myself was born.”

Then the flicker of light which his son’s name had called into his face died out, and with a solemn nod he went onward to his own gate.

The news did not stay long with Claes. He was fond of talk, and he felt his cup of tea to be improved in flavor by his Hildegonde’s exclamations and wonderments and his Femmetia’s memories and speculations. Femmetia was, indeed, unable to forget Denyse, now that he had suddenly been brought into her life again. Ten years ago they had been very close friends. She had confided to him all her recollections of Schoon-Durven, and also many a strange and half -caught intimation. Would he remember ? Would he speak to her now of such things ? She hoped not. A man who had been through the college of Leyden must be too wise for this world’s knowledge to care for intimations. He would want to know , and to have proof that he did know. She went to sleep thinking of these things, and as soon as her body was helpless and unconscious away went her soul on its own affairs.

It went far away, to a house standing on a natural hill facing the Zuyder Zee — an old house rising among many red gables, and girt about with a lavish greenery of gardens and a sloping lawn, and at the foot of the hill great salt marshes stretching away to the salt waves. And she saw on a kind of

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l 9 balcony, a man who was walking restlessly about. He looked at the sea as if he hated it ; and watched it ; and knew it to be a treacherous creature who could not be trusted.

This look of doubt and suspicion deepened and darkened as she went toward him ; and as he led her up stairs and stairs, to the topmost room in the tower. Heavy were her feet, climbing and climbing, till they reached at last a low room with a large bay-window looking seaward, and a door, made strong, to bear the great winds that came from the Northern Ocean. With a swift, noiseless motion, the door shut and she was alone with her fate.

Who does not know the possibilities of infinite anguish that are in dreams. Real life has nothing comparable to the sense of loss, of remorse, of terror, of actual pain, which the soul can endure in dreams. Out of that room Femmetia’s soul fled, trembling and shivering, coming back to her with a shock like that with which a mortal fleeing before some infuriated beast reaches, at the last gasp, the shelter of his own home, and clashes behind him the door of his salvation. Femmetia came to herself with such a clash and shock, her eyes wide open with terror, her face gray as ashes, her clothing drenched with the sweat of her mortal agony.

She ran to the window, flung it open, and let the west wind coming across the river and the garden blow in her face. There she knelt with her head on the window-sill, resting like a creature who had been run to death. And by and by she wept a little, and afterwards she began to pray. Her mother broke her prayer in two by an imperative call. The breakfast was waiting; and Madam Vorhees was always angry at those who delayed it, “ making behind-hand the whole day.”

For once this consideration had little weight with Femmetia. She could not hurry. Her hands trembled ; she put her garments on wrong, she dressed herself as people dress in troubled dream ; finding and losing, and doing all things wrong, or twice over. She expected to be sharply reproved, and somehow she did not fear reproof. This unavoidable indifference acted like ice upon madam’s anger ; it compelled her to look into her daughter’s face, and there were on it yet the dread and gleam of that awful passage of the night.

“ Are you sick, then, Femmetia ?” she asked gently.

“ Mijn moeder ! I have seen a murder this night.”

“ In God's Naam /”

“ A young woman — cruelly murdered — and it was /, I myself I

Then madam went into a sudden passion ; for it is natural to deny what we cannot comprehend.

“Dreams!” she cried, “ Dreams ! In God's Naam what is it you want ? This waking life is not good enough for you ? To have such a daughter ! I am a most miserable woman ! All the neighbors will laugh at me ; they will say again : ‘ Poor Hildegonde Vorhees ! She has a daughter who is possessed.’ If in Boston you was living, for a witch they would burn you. That is so.”

“ A witch I am not ! I am a miserable little maid

Femmetia.

who was stabbed to death last night. The house, the man, the long, thin knife sharp at both edges, I saw them. On the floor I was kneeling ; over me stood the man, the knife entered my heart — cut straight through until the blade passed beyond. I felt the agony of it. Mijn inoeder, pity me !”

Madam stood looking at her daughter, the cup and saucer in her hand rattling with the fear and anger evoked by this extraordinary complaint. The very apathy of Femmetia’s sufferings shocked her. For a minute, that seemed many minutes, both women were silent. The mother spoke first.

“ Drink your coffee, Femmetia, and go then into the garden. The smell of the fresh air and earth will be good for you. For the domine and the doctor I will send. In your soul or your body you are sick/’

“ For the domine and the doctor send. Out of what I have seen and suffered, can they talk or physic me ? No, mijn moeder !”

Nothing is more powerful than positive suffering. Madam made no more opposition. She renewed her advice to take the fresh air, and was glad to escape the presence and influence of the supernatural which clung to her daughter. Femmetia watched her departure with that aching, longing gaze which love sends after whatever has failed it in its extremity. Then she drank her coffee and put on her hood and went into the garden.

There had been rain, but the sun was shining brightly, and the scent of the lilacs filled the cool, damp air. She stood still and let it blow all over

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her. It was an elixir to her fainting spirit. Every breath was full of life, and she sighed deeply, and filled her heart and brain with the sweet, fresh elements.

Suddenly she thought of Denyse, and she turned her face toward that side of the garden where the dividing wall ran lengthwise to the river. It was a stone wall, covered with vines, high, but not too high for love to pass, if love desired it. Many a time, when a lad, Denyse had clambered over, and sat talking with her of things far off and mysterious ; for all good children have that longing to go beyond , which is the heavenly light yet lying about their infancy.

Denyse was standing watching her. He was willing her to look toward him, and she answered his desire. As she did so he put his hand on the wall and threw himself easily over it. The boy had become a man — a pleasant-looking man, neither short nor tall, neither fair nor dark, but straight and well-knit, with eyes full of light as a cup may be full of wine.

She would have hastened to meet him, but something restrained her — an innate modesty, a shy love, which was just revealing its unsuspected presence. It was easier to stand still under the blossoming trees and wait for his approach. How young and fresh and sweet she was ! Not, indeed beautiful, as physical beauty is rated. It took something nobler than the mere lust of the flesh to see the loveliness of her broad white brows, and the charm of eyes like wood-violets and full of spiritual

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light. Many people did not think Femmetia was at all pretty.

To Denyse, whose soul had long ago found her soul, she was the one woman on earth desirable. He came swiftly to her, so forgetful of himself, so absorbed in Femmetia, that his rapid walk had all the grace of unconscious movement. He called her name, and he sent with the word one bright, glad flash of love. It seemed to Femmetia that all heaven and earth was in it. They clasped hands, they smiled, they leaned slightly forward ; ere they were aware they had kissed each other.

“ Old love is a dangerous thing to touch.” The fire that had only been smoldering and quietly sub duing all to itself burst into a sudden flame. The great spaces in Femmetia’s eyes were full of a softblue light that charmed his very soul from him and lifted him higher than any selfish thought. Some love blows,

Leaf by leaf, coming out like a rose

but the love of Denyse and Femmetia was born perfect, and it swung into their lives as a planet fullorbed, at its appointed moment, rises above the horizon.

They asked each other a hundred questions. They did not seem to feel that the answers were often irrelevant and broken and unfinished. Whatever words were spoken or unspoken were all part of a glorious fairy-tale. “ The old sweet story ?” Oh, no ! The young , the fresh , the ever new story ! The

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story that is always “ news ” to the heart ; the story of the bride and the bridegroom.

Side by side, hand in hand, they walked in the garden ; and the trees rustled their blossoms above them, and the flowers perfumed the air around them and the birds made a musical accompaniment to their words and sighs and smiles and silences. And Madam Vorhees looked at them from her bay-window, that was full of geraniums, and said, complacently, perhaps a little scornfully :

“ Ack y mijn kind ! Nature goes beyond all. I take leave to say the domine will not be wanted for the soul, nor yet the doctor for the body. The lover, for a young girl, is the best of all. Yes, yes, it is so ! Love and marriage ! And as to what comes after we must expect it.”