The Wildfire Club - The Emma Hardinge Britten Archive

164 THE I)[PROVVIS.A.TORE,
in reality to make his bed of death. To the poor pilgrim
so rapidly nearing the visionary shores of spirit-land, I
sometimes ventured to speak of what anyone else would
have termed my straDge hallucination. I know not why
he believed me so readily, but this he did; and I have
since attributed it to the clear perception of spiritual realities,
which I believe to be constantly pervading this dull,
sensuous world of ours, and into which the eyes of the
dying can so readily look. Yes, he believed me; and
whilst I had the satisfaction of finding one ear into which
I could pour the tale of my visionary but life-long association,
the remarkable accuracy of my sprite's predictions,
and the occasional low breathing of delicious music which
in the long hours of night often rang through the chamber
which he shared with me, soothing with its exquisite pathos
the feverish unrest ·of the poor sufferer's vigils, convinced
him that a something beyond my own human intelligence
inspired my prophetic utterances, and made music in the
lonely mountain when every mortal slept.
" Two days before he died, one balmy summer evening,
I found him lying on the little mountain shelf of which I
have spoken, and which no inducement of mine could before
urge him to attempt reaching. By his side were hiB
brushes and pallet, and to my amazement and delight, in
his hand, drooping with exhaustion, he held a faithful miniature
likeness of my fairy.
" , Take it, Ernest,' he said; 'it is my dying gift. Do
not thank me; I am well repaid, for I too have seen her.
She stood here in what seemed to me bodily presence before
me - I know not how long. I know not how I came here,
nor why I brought my colors. I know she bade me paint,
and I obeyed her. My task is ended, and she in gratitude
will pilot me across the unknown sea. She comes to take
me home.'