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                             OLD LADY MARY.

                   A STORY OF THE SEEN AND THE UNSEEN.

                    By Margaret O. (Wilson) Oliphant




I


She was very old, and therefore it was very hard for her to make up her
mind to die. I am aware that this is not at all the general view, but
that it is believed, as old age must be near death, that it prepares the
soul for that inevitable event. It is not so, however, in many cases. In
youth we are still so near the unseen out of which we came, that death is
rather pathetic than tragic,--a thing that touches all hearts, but to
which, in many cases, the young hero accommodates himself sweetly and
courageously. And amid the storms and burdens of middle life there are
many times when we would fain push open the door that stands ajar, and
behind which there is ease for all our pains, or at least rest, if
nothing more. But age, which has gone through both these phases, is apt,
out of long custom and habit, to regard the matter from a different view.
All things that are violent have passed out of its life,--no more strong
emotions, such as rend the heart; no great labors, bringing after them
the weariness which is unto death; but the calm of an existence which is
enough for its needs, which affords the moderate amount of comfort and
pleasure for which its being is now adapted, and of which there seems no
reason that there should ever be any end. To passion, to joy, to anguish,
an end must come; but mere gentle living, determined by a framework of
gentle rules and habits--why should that ever be ended? When a soul has
got to this retirement and is content in it, it becomes very hard to die;
hard to accept the necessity of dying, and to accustom one's self to the
idea, and still harder to consent to carry it out.

The woman who is the subject of the following narrative was in this
position. She had lived through almost everything that is to be found in
life. She had been beautiful in her youth, and had enjoyed all the
triumphs of beauty; had been intoxicated with flattery, and triumphant in
conquest, and mad with jealousy and the bitterness of defeat when it
became evident that her day was over. She had never been a bad woman, or
false, or unkind; but she had thrown herself with all her heart into
those different stages of being, and had suffered as much as she enjoyed,
according to the unfailing usage of life. Many a day during these storms
and victories, when things went against her, when delights did not
satisfy her, she had thrown out a cry into the wide air of the universe
and wished to die. And then she had come to the higher table-land of
life, and had borne all the spites of fortune,--had been poor and rich,
and happy and sorrowful; had lost and won a hundred times over; had sat
at feasts, and kneeled by deathbeds, and followed her best-beloved to the
grave, often, often crying out to God above to liberate her, to make an
end of her anguish, for that her strength was exhausted and she could
bear no more. But she had borne it and lived through all; and now had
arrived at a time when all strong sensations are over, when the soul is
no longer either triumphant or miserable, and when life itself, and
comfort and ease, and the warmth of the sun, and of the fireside, and the
mild beauty of home were enough for her, and she required no more. That
is, she required very little more, a useful routine of hours and rules, a
play of reflected emotion, a pleasant exercise of faculty, making her
feel herself still capable of the best things in life--of interest in her
fellow-creatures, kindness to them, and a little gentle intellectual
occupation, with books and men around. She had not forgotten anything in
her life,--not the excitements and delights of her beauty, nor love, nor
grief, nor the higher levels she had touched in her day. She did not
forget the dark day when her first-born was laid in the grave, nor that
triumphant and brilliant climax of her life when every one pointed to her
as the mother of a hero. All these things were like pictures hung in the
secret chambers of her mind, to which she could go back in silent
moments,