MEETING NIGHT.

Auckland Star, Volume XVIII, Issue 144, 20 June 1887, Page 6

MEETING NIGHT.

The German professor, when he had finished our lesson, and was waiting for the thunder-shower to pass—for, though he had brought his big blue umbrella, he did not care to face the flashes of lightning—suddenly turned to us and said :

[ ' It was exacts such aD evening as this I saw Leopold— 1 We looked up at him and waited. "We knew be was about to tell us a story He always began in this way, without preface. 'In ray native village,' he said, « people.believe that whoever will alone to the cathedral on a certain midnight in summer, which we call • Meeting Night,1 and with his own blood, and a quill from a bird's wing, write the name of a dead friend in the form of a cross at the foot of the altar, may see that friend and speak to him. People believe this, but very few try the spell. When it comes to the point, ghosts scarcely prove satisfactory; and writing in ones own blood is rather a solemn proceeding, especially in an empty church at midnight. • One man who lost his sweetheart did it. They said he saw her, but he "bled to death from the wound he gave himself to get the blood, having accidentally severed an artery. : • When I left the town, the custom was spoken of as amongst the things of the past. I left in haste. I had had a quarrel with my cousin Leopold. The quarrel was about a lady I loved. Fritz Wagner told me something that made me furious, and I challenged Leopold on the spot. ' We met in the great open clearing in the heart of the pine woods often used before for the same purpose. It was dawn—the pink dawn of summer I can see him vow, standing, handsome and tall, in the sweet light, his coat off, his sword in his hand. He looked at me reproachfully, but not angrily. I was furious. The word was given. I did my best to wound him. He merely defended himself. Then he lay on the ground at my feet, and my second hurried me away, put on my coat, and dragged roe to where a carriage awaited me. .

"Go!' he said. ' The quicker the better ! You have killed your cousin Leopold. This place will nofc be safe for you.'

" The coachman drove furiously As for ra'e, I was in a sort of dreara • Had I killed Leopold whom I loved so V Tasked myself. Then I replied ; 'He deserved it. I did well.'

"The next day I left Germany. I came to America. J established my self here. One day, in the midst of the great throng upon Broadway, I met Fritz Wagner. He looked like a ghost—grey, hollow-cheeked — scarcely more than a skeleton. 'You see it," he said, as I glanced at him; 'I am dying. This is my address. Do not come UDtil I 6end for you; but whenSkdo, come at once Swear it.'

'My friend,'--1-said,'let me come' before that. Let me help you if J can.'

'No,'he said, 'no,' and turned away.

' Three months afterwards a messenger came to me at midnight, and said r 'Fritz Wagner has sent for you." (I found him dying, but he had strength to speak. 'Frederick,' ho said, 'I have a confession to make. I lied about Therese. I was in love with her. When I said I saw her ,ldss Leopold and all the rest, it was true enough ; but the Leopold was her sister's little baby, named after your cousin. You understood that I meant the man. I took my oath to the truth of my statement. For that, I am suffering the torments of the lost.'

With these terrible words on his lips, he died. ~

' And now remorse seized me, I suffered agonies when I remembered my true love, Therese, and my dear cousin, Leopold. I could not rest. I could not sleep. I could not live, I thought. I knew nothing of the fate of my friends in Germany, but I resolved at last to return to. see Therese, who, if she lived, was forty years old, and beg her forgiveness, and to give myself up to the authorities as my cousin's murderer. This, I fancied, would be an expiation.

'I bade adieu, as I believed, to Amjsjicja, for ever, and sailed in the next steamer for my:native home. 'I travelled many miles over land to reach the village after leaving the ocean. At last I reached it late on the" night of a stormy summer day. I ■walked from the? station to the hotel, and on my way the lightning flashed through the heavens. I passed a tree riven from top to root by a recent stroke, and saw at my feet a little dead bird, killed when the great pine was smitten.

'I stooped and laid it aside on the moss, As I did so a feather fell from its broken wing, and on the instant it occurred to me that this very, night was the mystic Meeting Night; and that it was with the quill Of a bird that one wrote the name of the spirit one wished to meet at the altar's foot, I had little faith in the superstition ; but I was in a strange mood, and beyond shone the window's of the cathedral, open day or night to any worshipper. , : f I seized the little quill. I turned my steps towards the sacred edifice. It was empty. I entered. The lights burnt palely, few and far between.^. 1 passed up the aisle/ and, kneeling, took a knife, from my pocket and cut my finger slightly; then, having pointed the little quill, I dippedit in my blood and wrote the name of. Leopold. The thunder rolled overhead as I did so. The colours of the painted windows grew brilliant as the lightning flashed, and then again were dim and dusky. Suddenly I heard a voice breathe my _name-r-' Frederick !' It came from above. I looked up. In

the gallery stood a figure all in black, save for a white band upoo its forehead It had the face ol Tharase, but paler, thinner. Its white hand* were bers. It stretched them out toward* me, as if In greeting. It waved thana in farewell. It wa» gone.

1 A spirit had appeared to me— Therese's spirit. Then she. too, was dead Still on my knees, powerless ie move, I awaited the mysteries ol this atrange night. Again I wsa accorded a vision. Leopold ijtood there—a sad, grey Leopold—but 1 knew him. I uttered his name. He answered »

• la it Frederick V

•Ghost of my friend, I replied. 'I have returned to make expiation. Fritz Wagner lied to me, and so I left my love, and murdered you. I have discovered the truth. I return to give myself to justice. You shall ba avenged, dear spirit. Pray for me in heaven, and forgivo me.' 'The spirit advanced. It smiled, ft seized me by the hands with a warm, living clasp

11 will forgive you,' he said. • God knows I have forgiven; but A3 yet 1 only hope for heaven. lam no ghost, Frederick. You do not kill me I recovered in a little while. A jealoui man is a mad man. I know that. ) never ceased to love you.' 'He opened his arm 3. I fell into i them We embraced.

1 But Therese ** I said. ' Surely, it was her spirit that I saw.' •• I aaw it also,' hs answered 1 Therese is dead to the world She is a nun in the convent close at hand After you had been gone 6ve years I asked her to marry mo , but she could lovo but once. When her mother died she took the veiL On this anniversary tbe nuns come to the cathedral to keep vigil. This is the night. 1 also come And Therese looks down on me and smiles. This she esteems a sin, and expiates with penance , but \ live on it the year through. To-nighi she saw only you. She forgot me. Ah, Frederick, what folly you commuted in leaving her!'

11 bowed my head in contrition, and just at that moment there arose from the dark gallery the soft, sweet sound of women's voices, singing without any accompaniment.

•Together, standing hand in band, wo listened. Then, arm in arm, we left the cathedral

• J returned to America soon afterward Leopold remained behind Every year he goes to the cathedral at twelve on Meeting Night—every year until the last be wrote :

' J have seen her. With her eyes she sent an angel's love to you." 'But last year this is what he wrote:

' She is dead. I believe tbab tbe will be yours io heaven j aob mine. Bufc 1 shall love bar Lhroagh et-ernfey.'