.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 48080
   :PG.Title: The Chariot of the Flesh
   :PG.Released: 2015-01-25
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Hedley Peek
   :DC.Title: The Chariot of the Flesh
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1897
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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THE CHARIOT OF THE FLESH
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      THE CHARIOT OF THE FLESH

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      BY

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      HEDLEY PEEK

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   ..

   |  "Look on the Spirit as the rider! take
   |  The Body for the chariot, and the Will
   |  As charioteer! regard the mind as reins.
   |  The senses as the steeds; and things of sense
   |  The ways they trample on....
   |  For whoso rides this chariot of the flesh,
   |  The reins of mind well grasped, the charioteer
   |  Faithful and firm--comes to his journey's end."
   |                      *The Secret of Death*.

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      LONDON
      LAWRENCE & BULLEN, LTD.
      1897

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      NEW YORK
      LONGMANS, GREEN & CO.
      1897

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      [All rights reserved]

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      RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED,
      LONDON & BUNGAY.

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      Dedicated
      TO
      REV. S. A. TIPPLE

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      FOR THIRTY YEARS MY FRIEND AND TEACHER

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      In our definitions we grope after the *spiritual* by
      describing it as invisible.  The true meaning of *spiritual*
      is *real*.--EMERSON.

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.. _`CHAPTER I`:

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   THE CHARIOT OF THE FLESH

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   PART I

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   CHAPTER I

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It is nearly eleven years since Alan Sydney left
England, but I have only recently been released
from my promise of secrecy.  So sacred to me is
the memory of our friendship, that, even now, I
shrink from the task of narrating his strange and
curious history.  A strong impulse, however, urges
me to break silence.

The village of Anstead, near which we both lived,
is in Surrey, possibly the best county in England to
find mixed society.  Here the old-fashioned farmers,
the labourers who have never travelled as far as
London, and a few country squires are mingled
with, and influenced by, retired London shopkeepers,
merchant princes--with or without H's--and
a sprinkling of literary and scientific dabblers;
these last are regarded with suspicion by all, but
especially by the retired Army and Navy magnates.

Nobody seemed to know to which class Alan
Sydney belonged, and strange to say he was
admitted, chiefly, I fancy, because he was an eccentric
bachelor, into all societies.  As I am wealthy and
have been a confirmed idler from my youth, the
same privilege has been granted to me; a privilege
of which, however, I am seldom inclined to take
advantage.

I had known Alan Sydney for some years before
we became at all intimate.  He fascinated, repelled
and puzzled me.  "Why," I would say to myself,
"is this man so confoundedly unlike other men?"

It is not easy to describe him, because, instead of
having to portray an identity, I seem rather obliged
to describe a number of individualities peeping out
through one person.  Often you would fancy when
speaking to him that you were in the presence of a
fool, to be sharply awakened to the unpleasant
discovery that it was far more probable you were being
fooled yourself.  You had hardly decided that he
was a liar before you were conscious that, if once able
to get behind the outside spray of speech with which
he was purposely blinding you, it might be possible
to trust him more fully than other men.  I usually
left him with the unpleasant impression that instead
of treating me as a man, he had been dissecting me
as a mental or spiritual corpse.  He seemed to have
about as much regard for the opinion any one
formed of his character as a surgeon would have of the
views once entertained by his unconscious subject.
Yet it was difficult to tell why one felt these
sensations, for his manner was outwardly pleasant even
at times jovial; and if there was satire in what he
said it was certainly quite impossible for a third
party to be conscious of it.  I have heard him at a
dinner-party make some trivial remark in his quiet
voice to one of the guests which would cause the
person addressed to flush up with annoyance and
surprise as though he had been detected in a crime
or stung by the lash of a whip.

I have never been able to find out why he chose
me as his only confidant, but so it came about.

It was a warm summer evening, and after dinner
it occurred to me that I would stroll over and consult
him about an old manuscript which I had recently
purchased.  From something that he had once
said it seemed probable that he might be able to
help me with the Old English, which was more than
usually difficult on account of the writer having
been a North-countryman.  Alan Sydney was in
the garden inhaling a cigarette, a bad habit which
he frequently denounced and perpetually practised.
Sitting down beside him I remarked on his inconsistency.

"Consistency," he replied, smiling, "if we may
believe Bacon, Emerson, and at least ten other
original thinkers, is the quixotism of little minds.
Inhaling cigarettes is the last infirmity of habitual
smokers.  The boy-child begins with a cigarette; in
youth or manhood he drifts into cigars and pipes;
later on, if he should be unfortunate enough once to
try the experiment of inhaling, he reverts to his first
love."

I turned the subject by handing to him the
manuscript, which he looked over for some time with
evident interest.  When asked if he could make
out the meaning of some of the Old English words
he answered that he could not, and that there was
probably no one living who could.

"You think I am conceited in making such a
remark, but in that you are mistaken.  It is simply
that I am better acquainted with ignorance than you
are.  Most of these early English provincialisms, if
I may use the term for want of a better, can only be
guessed at.  There are not sufficient local manuscripts
of similar date for comparison to be of much service.
If a word cannot be traced either to Anglo-Saxon,
Moeso-Gothic, or Scandinavian, you may safely
translate it as you please and defy criticism.  But
let us come in, it is getting chilly."

We entered the house together, passing on to his
study.  The home was typical of the man.  From
outside it might easily have been mistaken for
a small farm-house.  It had the appearance of age,
though built by its present owner.  It was
constructed after the model of the oldest existing style
of a Surrey cottage.  The walls were supported
by and interlaced with massive oak beams, and the
roof was entirely composed of thin slabs of rough
ironstone which had served a similar purpose for
many centuries, having been collected from various
dilapidated and condemned buildings.  The greatest
care had been taken in removing these slabs not to
destroy the moss and lichen attached to them, and a
few years after the house was finished, an antiquarian
might easily have been deceived, so perfectly had
every detail, external and internal, been studied.

This humble-looking abode cost probably as much
as many of the surrounding mansions, and was
unquestionably far more comfortable.

I thought that I was well acquainted with the
interior.  How far this idea was correct will shortly
be seen.

We looked over the manuscript together for some
time, and I was surprised to find that many words I
had considered provincial were known to my friend;
and it was not often that he had to own himself
beaten.  The matter, however, was most uninteresting,
being a homily on the Roman faith.

Presently my companion leaned back in his chair,
and seemed to be looking fixedly on some spot on
the wall opposite him.  I followed the direction of
his eyes, but could see nothing likely to attract his
attention.  I spoke, but he did not answer.  The
light was rather dim, and it was not possible to see
his face distinctly, as the shade from the lamp screened
it, but I felt certain that something was wrong.  I
placed my hand upon his arm, but he took no notice,
and this now thoroughly alarmed me.

My first inclination was to ring the bell; my
second to move the shade from the lamp so as to
be quite sure that I was not mistaken.  Lifting the
screen, I let the light fall brightly on Sydney's face,
and turned to look more closely.  For a moment
his eyes still maintained their fixed and vacant
expression, then turned slowly toward the light.  He
heaved a deep sigh, and then looked at me with a
slightly dazed expression.

"I am afraid you are not well," I said.

"It is nothing," he replied.  "For the moment I
felt faint, but the sensation has passed."

Knowing something of fainting fits, and having
noticed that he had never changed colour nor shown
any of the usual signs of faintness, I presumed that
he wished to deceive me, and began wondering what
the attack could have been.

"You are not satisfied," he continued.  "However,
let it pass now.  Some time I will explain."

Seeing that he wished to be alone, I said good-night.

"Can you come and dine with me to-morrow?" he
asked.  "I shall be alone, and should be glad to have
a quiet talk with you."

Accepting the invitation gladly, I went out into
the warm summer night, little thinking how much I
was to learn before that door again closed behind me.





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.. _`CHAPTER II`:

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   CHAPTER II

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On the following evening I dined with Alan Sydney
for the first time.  It was one of his peculiarities not
to ask acquaintances to his house; his bachelorhood
excused him from the necessity.  I was therefore not
a little surprised to notice the dainty epicureanism
of his meal.  The wines were such as it is an
unexpected delight to find; the service a thing to
remember, but scarcely to hope to attain.  Why
have some men this curious power of getting their
slightest wish gratified, apparently without effort?
Money cannot purchase it, and ordinary mortals,
whilst they approach the semblance, miss the ease
and quietude.

My host talked freely on many subjects, leaving me
to suggest a topic, and seeming equally at home
whatever I might choose.  Sport, philosophy, science,
history--I tried each subject, and seemed always the
pupil of an expert.  At last I started on my pet
hobby, Ancient Engravings.  "*Now*," I thought, "*it
will be my turn*."

"I know little or nothing of the subject," he said.

I went off gaily, but even while preparing to air
my wisdom, he would apparently intercept my thought
and take the very words out of my mouth.

"*This man must be deceiving me*," I mused.  "*He
has purposely led me on to my favourite topic, to show
that even in that he is my superior!*."

My reverie was broken by his next remark--

"Why do you think me a liar?"

I turned round confused, protesting that of course
I did nothing of the kind.

"I often am guilty of what people call lying," he
said, "but never intentionally of deceiving a guest.
That is why I so seldom indulge in the pleasure of
entertaining."

As he said this he rose, and we went together into
his study.

"Come," he continued, "I have a surprise for you."

He went up to one of the book-cases, touched a
concealed spring, and the whole oak framework
moved slowly round on a pivot, forming a doorway
through which we passed.

Having gone down a few steps into what I judged
must be an underground passage, we once more
ascended into a large room, lined on every side with
crowded book-cases.

"You are surprised," he said, "to see so large a
room in so small a house.  We are now in part
of what are usually supposed to be my farm-buildings.
There are three rooms here which I use for
different purposes.  I will show you the other two
later on."

The library was lighted by a skylight arranged in
such a way, that from outside it would not be visible.
My companion sat down on a comfortable couch, and
beckoning me to another, said--

"I must ask you to promise me that you will reveal
nothing of what I am now going to say, or anything
which I may show you until you have my permission.
I have a strong opinion that for some reason or other
the time has not yet come when it would be advisable
to make generally known many facts which I have
discovered belonging to a power which is lying
dormant in all men.  The world, however, is progressing
quickly, and the responsibility must rest with you
at some future time, when I am gone, as to the
wisdom of making known part or all of the knowledge
which you will gather from me."

Saying this, he got up, and going to one of the
shelves in his book-case, took down a volume.

"You may judge," he continued, "by the collection
here, that at one time I was an ardent lover of books.
Now they have little interest for me: but this volume
will always have a special value, for it was from it
that I first gained the knowledge which has influenced
my whole life.

"While travelling in France, and making, as was
then my custom, a round of any old book-stalls that
came in my way, I noticed a small shop which
outwardly had little appearance of containing anything
of interest to the bibliomaniac.  In the window there
were various ancient curiosities, but knowing that
these antique dealers sometimes bought books which
they did not display, it seemed worth while to
make an inquiry.  I was well rewarded, for the
old man, after saying that he did not as a rule
buy books, told me that he had at various times
picked up at sales a few which he usually sent to
be sold by auction in Paris.  He had some by him
at the time, and amongst these a curious Latin
manuscript.  Though evidently a seventeenth-century
work, it was not dated.  I thought at first that it
would probably prove of little value, until turning
over the leaves, I noticed that it was by no less
celebrated a writer than Descartes.  This author's
works were at the time little known to me, and it
never occurred to my mind that this volume could be
anything more valuable than a manuscript of one of his
published works.  However, published or unpublished,
it was certainly worth a thousand times more than the
dealer asked for it, so I took it back to my hotel well
pleased with my morning's work, and spent the whole
afternoon reading.  An entirely new idea of existence
seemed opening before me, and it appeared incredible
that a work of this description could have been known
for two hundred and fifty years without my having
even heard a repetition of the views found there.
Then remembering that many of Descartes' works
had, owing to the opposition of the Romish Church,
never been printed, I decided to find out at once
whether by any chance this might be one of them.
I sent immediately to Paris for a complete edition
of Descartes, which had recently been published,
and soon found that this volume was not among
them.  A little further inquiry satisfied me of the
authenticity of the MS., and that it was entirely
unknown.

"You may remember that Descartes, in his
'Discourse on Method,' published in 1637, says, 'It
appears to me that I have discovered many truths
more useful and more important than all I had before
learned, or even expected to learn.  I have essayed to
expound the chief of these discoveries in a treatise
which certain considerations prevent me from
publishing.'  Now we know that the chief consideration was
his fear of offending the Church, and every one who
has read Descartes' published works must observe
through them a perpetual veiling of what he thought
to be true so as to avoid being brought in conflict
with the religious opinions of his day.  Notice this
passage from the work just mentioned.  'It may be
believed without discredit to the miracle of creation,
that things purely material might in course of time
have become such as we observe them at present,
and their end is much more easily conceived when
they are beheld coming in this manner gradually
into existence, than when they are only considered
as produced at once in a finished and perfect
state.'

"He then applies this theory to man.  He says
that as yet he has not sufficient knowledge to treat of
this development, and is obliged to remain satisfied
with the supposition that God formed the body of
man wholly like to one of ours, but at first placed in
it no rational soul.  Having gone thus far and
apparently fearing to go further, he breaks off suddenly
and never satisfactorily returns to the subject in his
published works.  But how different is his method
when we turn to the manuscript before me, which I
fancy must have been his last work, as it is unfinished!
How much more lucid and complete we find his
conclusions here!  There is no attempt to suppress his
real view.  I will give you briefly a summary of the
chief conclusions which interested me, and which will
be enough for the present purpose.

"'All things have slowly developed.'

"'Man is the most perfectly developed being of
whose existence we are conscious.'

"'The lower orders of life have a varying number
of powers of perception which we term senses.'

"'The higher orders of life have five.'

"'These senses diminish in power as they increase
in number, being relieved one by the other.'

"'No deterioration in sense-power is known to have
taken place without causing deterioration to the
possessor unless at the same time accompanied by
the development of a new perceptive faculty.'

"'Man alone is credited with being an exception
to this rule.  He is inferior in keenness of sense to
the animals below him, yet superior in power.  It is
also noticeable that the savage is in like manner
superior to the civilized man.  It is therefore probable
that man is really the possessor of a sixth sense as
yet imperfectly developed and unequally distributed.'

"Briefly this is the key to the remarkable
conclusions at which he eventually arrives, and which are
worked out with his usual mathematical exactitude
and care.  He has fully satisfied me that this theory
explains most of the mysteries of life; but there is
not time now to go more fully into the matter."

"But," I said, "he appears to have forgotten entirely
the importance of intellect."

"There you are mistaken.  He goes very fully into
the matter and anticipates Darwin.  'Intellect,' he
writes, 'is not a means of perception, but an organ for
the arrangement and use of the senses, and is to be
found in all animal life though in a less developed
form than is noticeable in man.'"

"But," I interrupted, "is not that therefore the
explanation; the higher intellect of man needs a
lower standard of sensitive faculty, and he is thus
enabled to produce from lesser gifts a greater gain?"

"I will," he answered, "as nearly as possible give
you Descartes' answer to this objection.  'To say that
the more highly developed a being, the less it will
require its perceptive powers, and that therefore through
want of use they have gradually deteriorated, would
lead us to this *reductio ad absurdum:*--that in time
man will become so perfectly developed that his senses
must continue deteriorating until at last he will arrive
at the perfection of an insensitive existence, with
intellect to place in order all things which he perceives
while he is unable to perceive anything.'  Of course
in endeavouring to give you his argument in a few
words--an argument which requires close and careful
reasoning, I do Descartes considerable injustice, but I
hope on some future occasion to be able to go more
fully into the discussion.  I have said enough for my
present purpose, and am not fond of argument unless
satisfied that my opponent agrees with me upon the
primary ground of discussion; much valuable time is
otherwise wasted.  For instance, if you are speaking
on the subject of the colour red to a man born blind
and his idea of red is some sound which resembles
the blast of a trumpet, you cannot possibly hope to
arrive at any very satisfactory conclusion.  In the
same way if man is unconscious of the power granted
him through the sixth; or, as for lack of a better term
we may call it, the spiritual sense, no argument on
the subject would be of the least value.  It will suffice
at present to say that the theory which Descartes
fully works out was to me personally a revelation; a
revelation, because it seemed but the perfected
expression of my own dormant thought.  Having therefore
carefully considered the advice which the writer
gives to those who are anxious to prove the value of
this partially developed power, namely, to use it, I
started on a course of experiments which, should you
care to follow me, I will endeavour to explain.  You
may thus be able to judge of the truth of the theory
by its results, which after all is by far the safer
plan.  Moreover, some of my experiences may be of
interest."

I expressed my anxiety to hear him further, and
he continued--

"You must endeavour to realize clearly the work
to which I had decided to devote my energies and
time.  It was to cultivate and analyze every perception
or sensation which appeared to reach me through
none of the known organs of sense.  The first
conclusion arrived at was that I imperfectly possessed
the power to read other people's thoughts; that at
certain times and under certain conditions ideas
were conveyed to me through no recognized organ
of perception.  I therefore decided for the time being
to devote all my energy to following up this clue.
It was not long before the truth of my idea was
confirmed beyond any possibility of doubt; but the
difficulty was, firstly, in being confident from whom
the impression came; and secondly, in discerning
truth from imagination.  Many others have gone
as far as this point on the road to discovery, but
few have persevered much further.  The story of
how my path was cleared of these uncertainties is
worth describing in detail.

"About this time I became engaged to be married
to a girl of seventeen.  It may be owing to prejudice,
but I still think she possessed remarkable beauty.
It is not easy to give a reason, but a girl seldom at
that time seemed lovely to me after she was out of her
teens.  She might be more interesting intellectually;
but owing to some peculiarity in my character, her
chief charm was too often brushed away somewhere
about the age of twenty.

"I first met Vera Soudin at her father's house in
Scotland.  I had gone down to stay with a friend
for grouse-shooting, and the members of her family
were practically our only neighbours, so that we saw
a good deal of each other.  She was an only child,
and must have found life rather dull.  Her father's
thoughts were chiefly concentrated on sport; her
mother was an invalid, and a decidedly uninteresting
woman.  It is hardly surprising that Vera found the
change from previous solitude a relief.  She had a
remarkably weak will, though probably few outside her
intimate friends were aware of the fact, for, as is often
the case with such characters, she possessed a strong
vein of obstinacy, which people mistook for firmness.
As a matter of fact she was little more than a mirror
which reflected surrounding influences.  On the other
hand, I may possibly possess a will of rather unusual
power, more powerful, unfortunately, over others than
myself.  I was unconscious how great my influence
over her really was, nor did I know that in cultivating
her acquaintance I was allowing myself to be
swayed by my affections.

"I had decided to take this opportunity of practising
and perfecting, if possible, my power of thought-reading.
It is curious how often we are influenced
by an unconscious motive, and how long we take to
find out in ourselves an emotion which is perfectly
obvious to those around us.

"Whatever the effect of our intercourse may have
been in other ways, it certainly enabled me to make
considerable advance in my particular study.  To
begin with, being often alone with her, the
difficulty of deciding from whom the impression came
was at these times necessarily removed.  I had,
therefore, only to satisfy myself as to whether these
impressions were real or imaginary; and it was easy
with a girl who had not yet learned the trick of hiding,
or feigning emotions, to discover by her face whether
I had rightly or wrongly interpreted something which
was passing through her mind.  A question on the
subject was usually sufficient.  It mattered little to
me how trivial or unimportant the thought might be;
I felt satisfied that there was a difference between the
effect caused on my mind by a true or by an imaginary
impression.  The difficulty lay in defining this
subtle difference.

"Before I had known the girl a week I was able,
as far as she was concerned, to overcome this obstacle,
and to tell with certainty whenever any thought of
hers passed involuntarily through my mind.  In the
same way when meeting her at dinner, among other
people, I was equally certain that the impression was
a correct one if it came from her; and this knowledge
was a great assistance, enabling me, as it were, to
take the first step towards localizing the direction
from which thought was transmitted.

"One evening after dinner I was sitting alone with
Vera Soudin; her mother had not been well enough to
come down to dinner, and the other men had retired
to the billiard-room.  The light from the candles was
overpowered by the brightness of the fire, and as she
leant back, this ruddy glow gave an additional attraction
to the delicate beauty of her face.  I forgot for the
moment all about my new power, and sat looking
at her without speaking, the whole force of my
will unconsciously exercised in a desire to gain her
love.  She sat silent, gazing at the burning logs as
though unconscious of my presence.  Then I recognized
an inaudible voice speaking.  I use the words
'voice' and 'speaking' because as yet our language is
too imperfect to express any sensations connected
with the sixth sense.  The sentence was, however,
unmistakable.

"'*I love him.*'

"I answered her aloud.  'Why do you?'

"Her face flushed and then lost all colour save
what the firelight cast there.  'Why do I what?' she
stammered.

"I cared for her too much to press my advantage.
'I love you!' I said, and getting up I went over and
knelt by her side; then looking into her eyes I saw
an expression that I had never seen before.

"What man who has once been brought under this
influence could ever forget it--man's passion reflected
upon woman's nature, the idealized counterpart of
his sensations revealed on the idol of worship?  In a
moment such as this, reason is trampled under the
feet of a hundred new emotions, hurrying forward to
find expression, and the man's action will be
determined by natural instincts, and not, as is more often
the case, by the training and habits which have
moulded them.  During such times of intoxication
we become for once natural; and as all men tend by
nature, if on a lower plane, to idiocy, if on a higher
to madness, such moments are best kept private.  An
observer missing the more delicate atmosphere of
pathos which ever surrounds a truly comic situation,
is apt to rest his own instability more on the stick of
ridicule than the crutch of pity.

"As, however, owing to the power which I have of
reading other people's thoughts of myself, my nature
has become impervious to scorn; and as it is better
that you should have the opportunity of judging my
actions impartially, I will throw off reserve as far as
possible.

"We remained much in the same attitude for an
indefinite period of sensations, which may probably
have extended to thirty minutes, her hands clasped
in mine as we talked together.  As far as I can
remember, the conversation rested principally with
me, and her answers came back chiefly in unspoken
thoughts.  I will endeavour to give you an idea of
what passed between us, audibly and inaudibly.

"'Beloved,' I said, 'is it possible that you can care
for me?  That what I have longed for, dreamed of, and
despaired of ever attaining, is at last mine?  I cannot
realize it!  I feel rather that I am in a trance,
surrounded by a confusing, yet delightful mist.'

"'*I love you*.'

"'Say it again out loud that I can hear.'

"'I love you.'

"'But why--tell me why?'

"'I don't know.  Why do you love me?  I cannot
see that there can be anything to love in me.  I
suppose it is only because I am pretty!'

"'Beauty is only a veil which the soul looks
through; how perfect then must be your soul,
dearest!'

"Then came these unspoken words which puzzled me--

"'*What queer things men are!--but I like to hear
him, and perhaps it is true; but if so, how horrid most
women must be!*'  Then out loud--'*I fancy you will
soon get tired of me.*'

"'Tired!  It makes me mad when I think of
ever having an opportunity of getting tired--to have
you with me always--to know that we can never
be parted--to feel that death itself will only bring
us closer: I almost wish that we could die now,
for such great happiness makes me afraid something
may come.  Oh, Vera! you will always love me?'

"'Of course, dear!'

"Then this thought followed--

"'*I wish he would not talk about death; I hate death,
I don't want to die.  It is quite nice enough to be here
having some one loving and petting me, without thinking
about the future.  I wonder if he is going to kiss me?
I thought men always kissed girls when they proposed
to them!*'

"This was enough for me.  I had been afraid to
venture on what seemed so great a liberty, but now
I moved forward and was about to kiss her, when to
my surprise she drew away saying--

"'Oh, don't!  You frighten me!'

"'Why, dearest, you cannot be afraid of me?
Will you not let me have just one when you know
how I should prize it!'

"'No, I cannot really, not yet anyway; perhaps
some day!'

"I was so afraid of offending her that I moved
back, puzzled and discomfited, when once again I
was conscious she was thinking.

"'*How foolish he is!--it would have been much nicer
to have been forced to give him one; he is so strong he
could easily have held me back in the chair and made
me do it.*'

"This came as a whip for my inclinations, and I did
as suggested under a storm of protests which soon
died down, for I now found her thoughts were
wandering between the condition of her hair and
the probability of some one coming in from the
billiard-room.

"I think I have now described sufficiently our first
moments of happiness, but I will own that before we
were eventually disturbed I had begun to get not a
little annoyed with my new power of perception, and
began to wonder if after all we had arrived at a
sufficient state of perfection to be always happily
employed when using it.

"The next half-hour which I spent with Vera's
father convinced me that often it might be useful in
the cause of humility.

"I asked to speak with him alone, a request that
he readily granted, though, if I interpreted his
thoughts aright, he used strong language internally.
I felt horribly nervous, and at first he did nothing
to help me, but what was far worse, he kept on
transmitting thoughts that made me every moment
more wretched and uncomfortable; they must have
been his, as I feel sure they would never otherwise
have occurred to me as being likely to proceed from
the smiling old gentleman sitting opposite.  This
is something of what I made out of them, but they
were disjointed and confused, for you must remember
I had not as yet had an opportunity of studying him
as perfectly as his daughter.

"'*Confound it!  I wish he had not been in such
a hurry.  I must delay things in some way.  I meant
to make inquiries, but have been so busy.  Besides
there is ... coming, and I quite fancy that when
he sees her, he ... But after all, Sydney is an only
son; I did find that out, and I must not choke him
off.  I wonder how much longer he will stand there
like a fool and say nothing!*'

"You may well imagine that this kind of thing
was hardly helpful to me.  I began at once to
wonder who my rival might be.  And here I may as
well mention that even now, when my thought-reading
power has been developed very nearly to perfection, I
can seldom read the name of a person passing through
another's mind, unless that person is also known to
me.  This is probably owing to the fact that in
thinking of an acquaintance we disregard usually the name
and are conscious only of the individuality, for in the
few cases when I have had a name conveyed distinctly,
it has been where the person referred to was comparatively
a stranger to the one whose thoughts I was
studying.

"The silence was eventually broken by Mr. Soudin.

"'You wish to speak to me.  I hope that you
know me well enough to be certain that if there is
any service I can do for you I shall be delighted!'

"'It is more than an ordinary service,' I answered.
'I wish to take from you your greatest treasure, and
consequently you must excuse my embarrassment
in asking.  I love your daughter, and would beg her
from you.'

"'*Young ass!  Now he has once started he talks
like a book bound in morocco with gilt edges*,' was his
thought.  His words--'You have taken me greatly
by surprise, Mr. Sydney.  I have always looked
upon my daughter as a child, and it would be quite
impossible for me to think of allowing her at present
to be disturbed by any question of marriage.  Hers is
a sweet and delicate nature, influenced as yet but by
the dreams of childhood.  I trust that nothing you
have said to her can possibly have ruffled the calm of
innocence.'

"At this point I should have been placed in
a position of difficulty had not his thoughts
continued--

"'*I would stake twenty to one the young cub has
been sitting spooning for the last half-hour.  I wonder
how he will try to get out of it.*'

"I did not, therefore, try at all, but quietly told
him the fact, ignoring, however, the details.  His
anger was so well assumed, that whilst it lasted his
thoughts almost followed his words, or else the
latter so upset me that I missed the accompanying
reflections.

"'It was, he said, a most unpardonable action thus
to take advantage of an innocent child who, he felt
quite certain, had not even realized the very meaning
of the situation, etc., etc.'

"At last he cooled down a little, and when this
happened, his thoughts and words became mixed
up in my mind somewhat in the following manner.
'You must realize, Mr. Sydney, that in speaking
to you in this manner, I am actuated by no unfriendly
feeling--*it would be unwise to go too far*--Personally
from what I have seen of you, there are few young
men whom I could welcome more cordially into my
family--*If only I were certain that he possessed a safe
five thousand a year*--But she is too young, and I
am quite sure that you will agree with me when you
think it over in a calmer mood, that it would be
unfair to bind my daughter to an engagement before
she is fairly out of the nursery--*That ought to smooth
him down and keep up the romance at the same time.
I must have a good talk with Vera and see what is
best to be done.  I feel certain that I shall have
indigestion to-night.  It always upsets me having to
think and bother about things after dinner.*'

"I eventually agreed not to see Vera for a week,
and at the end of that time I was to be granted
another interview with her father for the purpose of
arriving at some plan for the future.

"My feelings were of a mixed character as I
walked away from the house over the crisp, frozen
ground.  I felt excited, but neither satisfied nor
happy.  I had tasted the sweets of love, and a little
of the acidity of disenchantment.  I began to
meditate somewhat after this fashion.  How lovely she
looked with that expression on her face as I knelt
down by her side and took her hands in mine.  'Is it
possible that the physiognomists are correct when
they tell us that the eye never changes, and that the
eyelids alone work those miracles of varying
expression; that a few slight wrinkles can convey such a
world of meaning, and have often the power to change
the destiny of thousands?  Is it not more probable
that some subtle influence passes from eye to eye
that no scientist can detect, owing to the fact that as
yet science confines its observations only to those
influences which are discernible by animal sense organs?
But, whatever the cause, the fact is most remarkable,
and one must needs have loved to realize the full
significance of its power.'  However, I did not, after
all, feel satisfied that I had awakened quite the same
feeling in Vera as that which I myself experienced,
and I began to think of another partially developed
power which Descartes attributes to this sixth sense,
and to which I have not hitherto referred.

"He maintains that the will-force is always
unconsciously transmitted, and that if this power were
cultivated it would lead to surprising results.  We
can now have no doubt that his theory is partially
correct, as it has been satisfactorily demonstrated
through recent experiments in hypnotism; but his
views also convince me that the modern methods
which have been adopted for the transmission of this
will-power are likely to prove both dangerous and
inadequate, as they are based on totally false premises.
As, however, I shall have occasion to go into all this
matter more fully later on, as well as to show you the
light which Descartes throws on theosophy,
spiritualism, and many other modern mysteries, I shall
only refer now to the subject so far as I find it
necessary in order to make my story intelligible.

"The probability that this theory of transmitted
will-power might have been experimentally proved in
my late interview with Vera sent a shock of anxiety
to my heart.  What if after all she had been little
better than a semi-conscious mirror reflecting my
newly-awakened sensations?  I argued, however,
against my fear, that it could not be so, for I had
read in her thoughts sensations not only differing
from my own, but even foreign to a man's inclinations.
Yet even as I recalled these instances with relief, a
passage from Descartes flashed through my mind
which brought a painful reaction.

"'It must not be supposed,' he writes, 'that the
will-power, however strong, can absolutely take
possession of an alien mind.  A person of tender
susceptibility cannot be induced to commit a murder,
or a man of brutal instinct be made, even for the
time being, pure or lovable.  That part of the brain
on which the will either of ourselves or others is
brought to bear, may be compared to a musical
instrument on which this force plays.  A tune may
be the same whether practised on a pipe or upon a
full organ, but there will be a considerable difference
in the effect produced, owing to the numerous
variations, etc. of which the more complex instrument is
capable; so also on different natures a similar impulse
will produce totally different results.  This difference
of effect is most noticeable in the actions of men and
women who, if willed by one influence, often act
dissimilarly, singing, as it were, the same melody to
an accompanying music which flows forth from their
complex dispositions and sensibilities.'

"Having by this and similar reflections thoroughly
unsettled my belief, not only in the girl I loved, but
in myself and in nearly everything else, I went to bed
wretched, and after tossing about for some hours, at
last fell into a troubled sleep, during which I had the
following rather curious dream.

"It seemed that I was walking hurriedly along a
winding path, though for what purpose, or whither,
I thus hastened was hidden.  On my left, through its
setting of ferns and pleasant flowers, there flowed a
stream, the waters of which cast back many fair
reflections; yet so great was my wish to gain some
unknown object, that I was scarcely conscious of the
beauty around.  As I turned a corner, however, I saw
across my path an object lying, and coming nearer
found it to be a woman; the face turned upwards
bore all the traces of degradation which dissipation
and misery had engraved upon the image of one who
in youth might have been beautiful.  My feelings,
supersensitive to the slightest coarseness, revolted at
the spectacle before me, and crushing through the
undergrowth which grew beside my path, I strove to
avoid getting in closer contact with it, but I had not
gone many paces forward before I became hopelessly
entangled.  Then looking round I noticed an old man
standing near, who it seemed must have followed me
unobserved.  His hair was of silvery whiteness, and
though his face was lined with age, each furrow seemed
but the imprint of an habitual expression of kindliness.
He might have stood as a sculptor's model for
love that has outlived passion.

"'Why have you wandered from the path?' he
said.  'It is not possible for man to reach the place
whither you are bound save by the way appointed.'

"'But,' I answered, 'He who called me is pure, and
in the footpath lies that which is abhorrent both to
my Master and to me.'

"'Who then is thy master?' he asked.

"Then I looked at him in surprise and said--

"'We have but one Master; He who ruleth all
things, and is Father of all.'

"'And it is one of His beloved children,' he said,
'from whom you turn aside, and her weakness and
your strength are of His ordering; and you whom He
has made on a different, though no higher plan, turn
in pride from your sister who has been placed in
the path so that your strength may support her
weakness.'

"'Now,' I replied, 'you speak blasphemy, for God
is not the Father of sin, and what is sinful is
unpleasing in His sight.'

"Then my companion, looking fixedly at me, said--

"'There is no sin.  Viewed from the eye of wisdom
and holiness there is one law--Love; one path--Order;
and one state--Happiness.  Man is permitted
to dream of freedom, which he calls life; is allowed
to dip into the darkness, and, for the moment, to
imagine discord exists, that when he shall awaken his
joy may be exceeding joyful.  It has been left to
man to give names to nothing and to fight the
phantoms of negation; when his sleep shall be
broken the former things will have passed away.
Follow me.'

"So we returned together to the path, and as we
stood before the woman I said, 'If this is but a
dream, wherefore should I care what happens either
to the woman or myself?'  Then it seemed that the
man did not answer, but I heard a voice singing.
And the song was of love, and told how the
slumber of life could never be broken till the light
of unselfish love fell upon the sleeper.

"When the voice ceased, I turned and said to
my companion--'What can I do for the woman?
Behold her, as she lies there.  It seems impossible
for me to feel more than helpless compassion for such
a one.'

"'Compassion and pity,' he answered, 'are words
coined by man, and are associated at best but with
a gleam of love, and more often with nothing but a
selfish desire to hide pain from sight because it
reminds man of that which is hateful.  Love will
ever find a way to helpfulness.'

"'But,' I said to him, 'I cannot feel this love to one
so degraded.'

"Then he bent over the woman, and touched her
with his hand; and as I looked down wondering,
the degraded face seemed changed into the face of
the girl I loved.  And in the horror of the revelation
I awoke, thankful to believe that it was but a dream!
How many lessons, prophecies, and warnings come to
men, if they did but realize it, in certain forms called
dreams!

"When I got up on the following morning my
mind was in that anxious and restless condition in
which it usually finds itself after being too busily
occupied during the hours of slumber.  I felt depressed
and irritable, consequently my view of everything
was one-sided.  My thoughts continually expressed
themselves in doggerel verse instead of moving along
smoothly and quietly in prose.  This, I have always
noticed, is a sign that my body requires some stimulating
exercise.  Moreover, every picture that reached
my mind had a dark and unpleasant background.
For instance, when my thoughts for relief turned to
Vera's face, I had scarcely begun to dwell with
pleasure on the beauty of some remembered expression
before I became conscious that the woman of my
dream was grinning at me over the girl's shoulder.

"This way, I knew, led to madness; so conscious
that the body, if ill-used, becomes too often the
master of the mind, I decided to give it a day's
pleasure, tempting it back thereby into a condition
of happy servitude.

"The result was in every way satisfactory.  After
two hours' walking over the moors, I was able to
laugh at my fears, and by lunch-time it was even a
trouble to recall them.  At dinner nothing seemed
more important in life than perfect accuracy of aim,
and my friends might easily have mistaken me for a
sportomaniac by my conversation.  The only thought
I read that evening came, I believe, from my host,
and took the form of regret that he had not selected
a better shot than myself for the sake of the game
returns which he intended to forward to *The Field*,
and considering the number of birds which my nerves
had succeeded in missing for me during the morning,
I could not feel surprised.  My dreams during the
night did not trouble me.  I felt but a momentary
discomfiture even when the youth who was
expected to fall in love with Vera rose up with a whirr
just under my feet, and in the flurry of the moment
I only succeeded in knocking a few feathers out of
his coat-tail.

"On the second day, therefore, after my proposal,
I felt in a safe mental condition to think rationally
over the prospect before me, and as I can always
reason more quietly when walking and in the open
air, I went for a stroll by myself over the moors.

"The day was bright, and the wind blew softly
from the south-west.  I felt that life was very good
as I passed over the heather.  Presently, however, a
wounded bird which was lying by the side of the
footpath upset my train of thought, and set me on a
discussion of cruelty which I began to argue out
from both sides.  The impression which I arrived at,
after wasting fully an hour, may be summed up as
follows: that about an equal amount can be urged
for and against sport, and that there is something
wrong somewhere.  Nearly every subject we approach
seems beset with like difficulty, owing to the fact that
our life is not as yet sufficiently under the rule of
order to embrace, without causing additional misery,
the doctrine of perfection.  For instance, war can
easily be shown to be unjustifiable, and socialism to
be the only form of perfect justice; but it is equally
clear that the abolition of armaments and the adoption
of socialistic principles would lead to the greatest
misery that has ever been experienced on earth, if
they should be tried before men have learnt to control
their evil passions without the whip of legal and
military chastisement.  Birds of prey and moral
disease would quickly take the place of the fowling-pieces
of modern civilization, whilst the dream of
Paradise would be found more to resemble a
nightmare, and the comparative peace of the past would
be transformed into a pandemonium of unbridled
passions.

"At last, after a few more fruitless attempts, I
managed to fix my mind on the condition of my own
prospects.  Firstly, was I in love?  And this involved
settling in my mind what love really meant.  If not,
what had caused in me certain sensations never
before experienced?  Secondly, if this love existed,
was it returned?  It is not necessary for you to
follow me through my subsequent confused circle
of reasoning, as it led to no satisfactory conclusion
beyond a determination to watch for further light,
and in the meantime to follow the dictates of
inclination.  It is always easy to do the latter, and unless
a man's nature inclines strongly to selfishness, it is
often the wisest course to adopt.  Progress is often
hindered by self-repression, and even more by self-analysis.

"At the moment, inclination led me towards a
figure which I saw in the distance.  On drawing
nearer I felt certain that the form in question was a
familiar one, and soon recognized one of my London
acquaintances, Lord Vancome.  Now if there was one
man whom I thoroughly disliked without apparent
reason, it was Vancome.  I had at that time a
peculiar eccentricity; there were a few people who
possessed the power of unconsciously torturing me in
a way that defies description.  He was one of these.
If we met in a room I felt my whole flesh creep, and
on shaking hands with him an absolute chill of horror
passed through my body.  It was with great difficulty
that I refrained from showing to such persons marked
expressions of dislike.  When, therefore, I met him
thus unexpectedly, it seemed as though a blight had
suddenly swept over the hills, blurring the sunshine:
the glow of life had vanished; the beauty of love
was forgotten.

"'Why, Sydney!' he called out, 'whoever expected
to see you here?'

"I told him briefly how it came about, and that I
was stopping with Major Couson.

"'Oh!' he said, 'that's lucky!  I am glad to find
there is some sort of society in the place.  Mr. Soudin
asked me down, and feeling a trifle played out, I
accepted; but I was already beginning to dread the
idea of being confined to the society of Heather
Lodge for a fortnight.  The daughter's not a bad
sort of girl, and devilish pretty, too!--but one wants
even more than that combined with the shooting,
which is not first-rate, to avoid being bored to death
during a period of two weeks.'

"'Why are you not shooting?' I asked.

"'The old man's got a touch of the gout, so I was
taking a look round.'  (Then before I could think of
anything further to say his thought flashed through
me.)  '*Damn the fellow!  I wish he would go.  The
girl's bound to turn up soon, and I don't want him
fooling round.*'

"'I must be going,' I said, looking at my watch.
'No doubt we shall meet again before long.'

"He seemed relieved, and saying that he should
look me up, held out his hand.  I took it, thanking
God I had not a gun, and being now certain that I
was in love, went hurriedly on my way.

"I had been walking for perhaps ten minutes, when
I saw Vera Soudin coming towards me.  She had
evidently been to the village.  What was to be done?
I had promised not to see her for a week, but
it would be ridiculous to pass without speaking.
Besides, ought she not to be put on her guard against
Lord Vancome?  And yet what right had I to do
this?  As far as I knew there was nothing against
his character.  It is true that I felt a mortal
antipathy to him, but such feelings are hardly regarded
as evidence.  Then I remembered that women are
credited with possessing far more accurate discrimination
of character than men.  This thought comforted
me, and having decided to discover her feelings with
regard to Vancome I went on towards her.

"When we met I noticed that she also felt
embarrassed, but for some reason possessed better
control over herself.  When I made some remark about
being so pleased to see her again, she put her hand
to her lips, and then, taking out a pocket-book,
scribbled these words down--

"'I promised not to speak to you for a week.'
'But good gracious!' she cried out, 'I also said I
would not write, and now I have done both.  Well,
as it is done, it can't be helped.  But mind you don't
tell, or father would be angry, and you know it was
all your fault.'

"'I did not know, dear, that you had promised,' I
replied, 'and though I also said I would not see
you during the same time, it seemed absurd to pass
without speaking.'

"'Of course it's absurd, and father's no right to
make us promise such foolish things.  But I don't
mind, for we need not say anything about it.  Besides,
as we have broken our promises it does not now
matter what we do.'

"'But,' I said, 'will it be right to go on breaking
them further?'

"'Oh! what is done can't be mended.'  And as
she said this she looked into my face with such a
pathetic appeal that all ideas of right, wrong, honour
and dishonour got hopelessly mixed.  'You don't
really love me,' she continued, 'or you would not talk
like that.  You don't care how wretched I feel!'

"What could I do?  Tears were coming into her
eyes.  Not a mile away, waiting in her path, stood
one I hated.  Could I let her go on distrusting my
love, to meet possible treachery?

"I gave up the contest without a struggle.

"We turned from the footpath, and crossing a strip
of heather, descended into a woody glen.  Through
this glen ran a merry bubbling stream, and the soft
moisture which it left along its edges had encouraged
the growth of deep soft moss to cover the otherwise
barren stones.  Choosing a pleasant nook thus carpeted
on which the sun shone brightly, we sat and rested.

"A few birds were singing their farewell songs to
Scotland before retreating to a warmer country.  My
companion's face was slightly flushed by the wind,
and the colour seemed to give an additional depth
to the blue eyes which looked shyly forth from
between her dark lashes.  Her fair hair, which was
unusually soft and fine, had been blown by the wind
into a waving network of shining confusion round
her ears, and over her forehead.  As she sat just
above me, and I looked into her face, it seemed
impossible for God to make, or man to picture, aught
more fair or pure in earthly texture.  Yet, so does
my nature act and react, ever tumbling from the
sublime to the ridiculous, that I had hardly realized
the perfect human beauty before me when my
mind began to drop down into one of its most
annoying analytical moods, tearing, as it were, all
soft and delicate covering from the face, and pointing
mockingly to the hollow skull beneath, the framework
alike of beauty and ugliness.  Not that there is really
anything ridiculous, or for the matter of that, frightful
about a skull; the comic part of the situation lay
in the fact that it was impossible for me vividly to
realize this framework of the beauty I had a moment
before worshipped, without a shudder.  I refer to it
now, because such sensations throw a valuable
sidelight on love itself.

"It is to be presumed that when we love a person,
we fancy that we love, not the body, not in fact the
clothing of the individual, but the personality; that
there is something therein which attracts and draws
forth these sensations wholly apart from anything to
do with simply animal passion.  There are, of course,
some who deny this, but to reason with such is, as
said before, absolutely useless: to the purely animal
nature all must necessarily appear animal.  Such
men and women are exceptions, yet though many
are conscious of the strength of higher love, how few
seem to try to solve the mystery surrounding it, or
to draw a line between true and false sensations.

"For instance, here was I sitting at the feet of one
who, as far as it was possible to judge, possessed
nothing really attractive except most unusual physical
beauty; one I judged to be lacking in will-power,
to be untruthful and vain, to be possessed of little
information and still less discernment.  Yet, knowing
all this, I loved her.  You may think that I deceived
myself, and that what I really experienced was
simply animal fascination; but before my story is
finished you will see that you have judged wrongly.
The truth of the matter is this; pure love is no more
drawn out by nobleness of character than it is by
beauty of form, but by a far more subtle attraction
for which as yet we have no name, and which reaches
us through the medium of our imperfectly developed
sixth sense.  Whatever comes to us through the
ordinary channels is merely passion or comradeship,
though owing to our complex nature, the former
usually accompanies true spiritual love and is
hopelessly confused with it.  This confusion has led to
much misery and to many senseless social and
so-called moral laws which are quite unsuited to the
present condition of man's development, as they are
nearly all founded on the theory of animal instincts
alone.

"I am sorry to be obliged so frequently to break
the thread of my narrative, but as I am about to
deal with subjects which are outside the range of
ordinary experience, it is absolutely necessary that
from the commencement you should follow not only
the course of events, but also the working of my
mind.  If I simply confine myself to the story, it
might possibly interest you as the wild imagination
of either a liar or a madman; on the other hand,
should you have patience to hear me to the end, I
hope to convince you that many things which seem
incredible are only so as long as we stand outside
the door of discovery.  There is nothing more
remarkable than the ease with which the public will
swallow yesterday's miracle, if only scientists will
give it a name.

"For instance, look at a recent case--the Telephone.
What do the public understand about it?
The electricians themselves have only discovered a
method by which they can produce certain effects,
and know nearly as little as the public of the servants
they employ.  Yet this miraculous transmission of
sound, once baptized, is admitted forthwith without
further questioning, into the circle of commonplace.

"You must not suppose that, though I have thus
wandered from my subject, any of these ideas occurred
to me after my encounter with the imaginary skull,
for at that moment one of my companion's thoughts
fortunately deranged my own, and gave me fresh
subject for reflection.

"'*I like him in some ways better, but he is certainly
not nearly so amusing.*'

"'I am sorry you find me so dull,' I said, 'but
looking at you has made me speechless through
admiration.  However, I want you to tell me what
your father said about our engagement.'

"'Oh! only that I was too young to know my
own mind, and that he wanted me to promise that
I would not speak or write to you for a week.  What
nonsense!  Too young to know my own mind, and
I shall be eighteen next June!'

"After which remarks these thoughts followed; and
as I was busy listening to them I remained silent.

"'*I wonder why father wished me not to say anything.
Can it be to do with...?  But I like Alan much
better, and ... is not likely to make love to me, and of
course I should not let him if he tried.  Yet perhaps
he may.  I have a good mind to see if I can make him
just for the fun of it, and when he does of course I will
tell him I am engaged.  It's rather nice to have people
make love to one.  That's the worst of being married,
you can't have proposals afterwards, so it is only fair
to get as many as you can before.  Besides, then I could
say that I might have been Lady ... if I had chosen.*'

"Thought is quicker than speech, and probably
the pause was hardly more than thirty seconds before
she continued aloud--

"'Why are you not shooting to-day?'

"'I wanted to think about you,' I answered, 'and
so went for a walk instead, and was lucky.  But I
met some one else on the moor, an acquaintance of
mine, who, I find, is staying with you.'

"'Oh!  Lord Vancome!  So you know him.
Where did you meet him?'  Then silently, '*I wonder
if he came out so as to walk back with me?*'

"'I met him wandering about, taking a prospective
view of your father's shooting,' I answered vaguely.
'But tell me what you think of him?'

"'Oh! he seems very nice and interesting, but I
feel somehow frightened of him.'  Then, dropping
her voice slightly--'Is he rather wicked?'

"'What makes you think so?' I asked, relieved to
find that her woman's instinct was not at fault.

"'I do not know; I suppose it's the way he looks
at one, or something.' Then her thought continued--'*Men
are so foolish; they seem to fancy girls are perfect
fools and don't know anything!*'

"I felt it was not fair to follow these reflections
further.  One gets hardened in time to seeing people's
minds, as it were, naked, but at first some revelations
tend to lower our views of human nature.  It is not
until we realize that our own unclothed sentiments
would have a similar disenchanting effect upon others
that we grow more charitable.  If you wish fully to
understand my meaning, try next time you are in
mixed society to fancy that not only your words, but
also your thoughts are audible to those around, and
see if under such circumstances you would care to
meet any of those people again.

"I, therefore, not wishing to be disenchanted, here
disturbed her reflections with a kiss, and this action
of mine started the usual train of sentimental talk
which is about as varied and interesting as the soft,
gentle, and monotonous sounds which the wood-pigeons
make in spring-time.  Happy birds, to whom
comes no questioning voice to break their peace; who
are conscious of no notes of absurdity mingling with
their monotonous strains, and who wake from each
short spring-time of love without remorse or
disenchantment!  Surely some men and women seem
more naturally fitted for such brief experiences than
for the prolonged and deeper sentiments of life-long
devotion.

"'Life is too short,' cry such in the moment of
awakened joy, for at that moment eternity touches
them.  Yet how few natures have risen sufficiently far
above their transitory and animal instincts to remain
long in this spirit of self-negation.  The first breath of
egoism disturbs it; passion degrades it; and before
a year of the wished-for eternity is expired, how
many may be found secretly regarding the one sane
emotion of their lives as an experience of temporary,
and yet conventional madness.

"Yet we have no right to blame them so long as
they live up to the best instinct they possess, for
growth is slow, and if we carry as yet more beast in
our body than angel in our spirit, the beast will have
its way.  Growth or deterioration (for which alone
we are responsible) depends upon the rule we
welcome, and to which side our will, consciously or
unconsciously, inclines us.

"During one of the pauses, as Vera and I sat
together, I became conscious of a new and remarkable
clearness of mental vision such as I had never
before experienced (though I have spoken to a man
temporarily insane who graphically described similar
sensations of increased mental sight).  It was as
though from the normal condition of observing all
subjects through the medium of frosted glass, some
power had for the time removed the obstruction,
enabling me to see every object in the clear light of
day.  In this condition I fully realized the weakness
of Vera's character, and the misery that must
necessarily follow.  I also felt that whether we married
or did not marry, I, having once loved, could only
break this bond by selfishness.  Then came this
question, Was I prepared to suffer all things for her
sake?--for if not, it was far better to cut my bonds
at once.  I looked at her, and a feeling of intense pity
filled my heart.

"'Poor little child!' I thought.  'God alone can
see all the nightmare of misery your nature must
pass through before it comes forth in the light of His
pure love!'  Then a voice seemed to whisper in my
ear, 'Think of your own life.  If you take up this
burden you will be dragged into the darkness; your
nature will be lowered, your power for good destroyed.'  Then
again I looked at the girl, and as I did so my
spirit cried and said, 'Even though I should be
damned to walk for ever in darkness, though God's
light be hidden from me, yet will I never cut this
bond till we stand together before the face of our
Father.'  And it seemed to me that there were many
voices chanting softly, 'Amen.'

"Whilst listening to the sound an overpowering
gloom settled upon me.  I remembered nothing more
distinctly, though through the darkness many indistinct
pictures flashed before me and vanished ere they
were printed on my mind.  At last I heard voices
speaking, and opening my eyes, saw Vera and
Vancome bending over me.  As far as I know, this
was the first time that I had fallen into a trance, or as
doctors would call it, a state of catalepsy.

"It appears that Vera, finding me insensible, had
rushed out of the glen, and seeing Vancome in the
distance, had called to him for assistance.  They both
appeared to think that I had fainted, and I did not
wish to undeceive them.

"But it is getting late, and as I have now reached
the point in my story which makes it necessary to
explain an important discovery to which I was led
by this trance condition, it will be better to stop for
this evening."

"But," I interrupted, "before I go you will show
me the other rooms you spoke of."

"Not to-night," he replied, "for there are many
things in them which still require explanations for
which at present you are hardly prepared.  But the
next time we meet I hope to take you into one of
them.  When I began this evening, I had no intention
of going so fully into the details of my story,
but noticing that the method unconsciously adopted
did not weary you, it seemed better to give my
experiences in the order in which they occurred.
This plan has led, and will probably still lead, me to
describe many so-called trivial reminiscences; but as
a matter of fact, nothing is trivial, and by striving to
confine ourselves to more important subjects, we often
miss the tiny thread which might, if followed, have
led to some great discovery.  When, however, I
continue my story, I hope to make it more interesting
by illustrations."

As he said this he took both my hands.  In a
moment I was plunged in darkness; the room, my
companion, everything had vanished; but as I still
strained my eyes a faint revolving spark of light
became visible.  This light increased until I found
that I was in the presence of a young girl, whom I
had little difficulty in recognizing as the Vera of my
friend's story.  She was standing in a listening
attitude, as though some one had called her, and was
evidently unconscious of my presence.  As I lay
watching she turned her face toward me.  I shall
never forget the revelation of beauty and weakness
depicted there; but more quickly than the vision
came it vanished, and I heard my host say--

"Good-night.  Come again at the same time as
soon as ever you feel inclined."

Then I heard the door close, and found myself
standing in the cool evening air outside Alan Sydney's
house.

When I got back to my room I was too excited
to sleep.  Was there, after all, some incomprehensible
meaning in life, a possibility of solving the mystery
of existence?  I sat for some time thinking; then
taking my pen, began to write, and as I wrote it
seemed that already my mind was under the influence
of a new power, for each sentence Sydney had used
came back to me without effort of memory, as if I
were writing from some inaudible dictation.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER III`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER III

.. vspace:: 2

I felt annoyed the next morning to remember that
I had accepted an invitation to dine out that evening,
and it would be therefore necessary to postpone
seeing Sydney until the following day.  I was so
interested in what I had heard and seen that it hardly
occurred to me to delay my next visit longer than
necessary, for he who evidently could read my thoughts
would not expect me to restrain my impatience with
any feeling of consideration for conventionalities.

My entertainment this evening was likely to be
a stimulating contrast to that of the previous
night.  Transon Hall, where I was to dine, may
be considered the centre of our circle of social
exclusiveness.  Into this ring those who moved in
inferior orbits at times penetrated, and at times were
excluded.

Sir James Folker, Baronet, M.P., J.P., M.F.H., etc.,
comes of one of the oldest families in this semi-suburban
part of Surrey; in fact, his father lived here
before him.  Of course, in saying this I refer only to
the wealthy part of the community.  We have plenty
of small squires and farmers whose ancestors have
lived here for centuries, but as their present
representatives are nearly all too poor to entertain, such
impecunious hereditary grandeur is appreciated chiefly
by their respective families.  Sir James is, however,
a thoroughly good fellow, well informed, of kindly
disposition, and a true sportsman.  If he is a trifle
overbearing, it is owing chiefly to education.  His
father was a self-made man, and necessarily had a
very exalted appreciation of the dignity attaching to
wealth and title.  Even a snob, if snobbishness is
linked with every association of childhood, may be at
heart a gentleman.  Life is not long enough to polish
off the ugly advertisements which were engraved upon
him in youth.

I arrived at the house rather late, and you may
fancy my surprise on looking round the room to see
Alan Sydney busily engaged in talking to one of the
guests.

"Well," I said, as soon as an opportunity occurred
of speaking to him, "suppose I had turned up at your
house to-night?"

"If I had not known you were coming here," he
replied, "I should have warned you; but I quite
expect to see you to-morrow.  As you know, I am
not often away from home, but there is a reason for
my being here to-night."

At this moment we were disturbed by the general
shuffle which takes place at the announcement of
dinner, and I found myself escorting a stranger into
the dining-room, who had just been introduced to
me as Miss Augusta Smith.  My companion was
neither young nor pretty, but I noticed with relief
that she had a bright and interesting face.  We sat
exactly opposite Sydney, who had on his right Miss
Folker, a good-looking girl of about twenty-one,
devoted to sport, and on his left Lady Todman, a
most energetic widow, whose object in life was to
reform the world by means of teetotalism.

Everything tended to my friend having a
somewhat dull time of it, though I noticed a look in his
eyes which showed me he was in one of his more lively
moods.  Lady Todman is not a woman of tact.  If
all around you are drinking wine, it seems to me
hardly good taste to begin a sermon on the eleventh
commandment, "Thou shalt not drink."  But there
are some women whose consciences constrain them,
and she was one of these.

"Don't you think," she said in a rather loud,
penetrating voice, turning to Sydney, as the butler was
pouring some sherry into his glass, "that drinking is
the cause of much evil?"

Her companion tasted the sherry thoughtfully
before he answered.  "Certainly, if the wine is not
good.  But let me assure you this wine is very dry;
you need have no fear of any ill effects from drinking it."

"Oh!  I don't mean that," she replied; "I mean
that nearly every crime that is committed can be
directly or indirectly traced to the use of alcohol."

"You surprise me," he said.  "Are you fond of
travelling?"

"I don't now travel," she answered, evidently
offended at what seemed an obvious attempt to turn
the conversation.  "I find sufficient work near at
hand which my conscience will not allow me to
neglect, and therefore leave these pleasures for
others."

"Let me urge you to go to Constantinople," said
Sydney; "it is the best place in which thoroughly to
study the temperance question.  Degradation and
misery have there reached such a perfection without the
aid of drink that after a month of such experience I
can almost fancy any one weeping tears of joy at the
sight of an honest drunkard."

Seeing Lady Todman turning away in evident
disgust, and wishing to know what my friend really
thought on the matter, I asked whether the Turks
might not possibly be even worse if they added to
their other sins the vice of intemperance.

"Drink," he replied, "does not alter a man's
character; it simply exposes it.  That crime is
generally associated with drunkenness is true, but
that it causes it is unusual, and it is frequently a
deterrent.  The weakness in a man is sure to find
vent through some channel, and I would rather not
picture some of the crimes that our drunkards would
probably have committed had not the absorption
of this attraction turned their thoughts in another
direction.  Among weak natures and deformed
characters we should expect to find both drunkards
and criminals of all kinds."

"I quite agree with you," said Miss Folker.  "I
don't believe that it is any use trying to make people
sober; our best whips always drink, don't they,
father?  And nothing you could do would ever stop
them."

Our host seemed to think this was an unfortunate
remark, for I noticed him glance at the butler as he
replied, "If they do they soon have to go, I know
that."

"You misunderstand me," Sydney said, turning to
Miss Folker.  "I believe there is great use in trying
to make people sober, for weakness of any kind
encouraged leads to disease; but one does little service
to the cause of truth by telling lies."

"What would you do, then?" broke in Miss Smith,
who had been listening intently.

"With the habitual drunkard," replied Sydney,
"there is only at present one course open.  He should
be placed under restraint as a temporary lunatic,
which he is.  But drunkenness is a mere stage in the
growth of mankind, and can only work itself out
through the lessons of experience.  To try to
prohibit drink is to hinder progress; to say that there is
more drunkenness now than formerly, is simply to
say that the greater part of our race is considered
strong enough to face the temptation.  Give a savage
as much spirit as he cares for, and he will kill himself
in a few months.  Our forefathers, in much the same
way, though with more caution, used to lie nightly
under the dinner-table; but now, among those classes
which can afford to drink as much as they like, only
persons with hereditary tendencies, or those who are
unusually weak go to this extreme either in private
or public.  They have partially learned their lesson.
Among the more ignorant there would be ten times
the drunkenness if their wages allowed it.  If you
consider a man, though he starves his wife and children,
cannot afford to get hopelessly drunk more than about
twice a week; and this is one of the reasons why the
poor have taken longer to learn by experience this
lesson.  But they, too, are slowly improving under
increased temptations."

"Well, Sydney," said our host, "you are the most
extraordinary man.  You always seem to take a view
of things from a reversed position."

"It is an excellent plan," Sydney replied, laughing,
"now and then to stand on your head; in that
position you see the world from quite a new aspect, for
instead of your eyes being turned naturally to the
earth with only an occasional glimpse of the heavens
above, your view for the time is altered.  It does not,
however, do to keep in that attitude too long, or the
blood will flow to your brain."

"But," asked Miss Smith, "do you not think that
such doctrines might be very dangerous?"

"All truth is dangerous to those who wish for an
excuse for weakness," he replied.  "But there are
many at the present time who want a little light
thrown on the subject; for the man who does any
action, however right in itself, feeling that thereby he
may be throwing his influence on the side of selfishness,
must therein be damned.  Alcohol is probably one of
our greatest gifts if rightly used, and being so, must of
necessity be a frightful curse if abused."

"Gift indeed!" sniffed Lady Todman, "when every
doctor will tell you it has no feeding property."

"That is quite true," Sydney continued.  "It is not
a food, and therein lies its great charm for an age when
people eat far too much for the sedentary lives they
live; but it prevents the waste of tissue, and enables
man to keep in health without half his time and
two-thirds of his energy being exhausted in the process of
digestion.  It is, however, a so-called poison, and must
be treated as such; but the poisons of to-day will
probably become the nutriment of the future.  On the
other hand, sugar, a splendid food for savages and
labourers, is little better than a slow poison to those
who neglect exercise.  Some day we shall have a new
commandment--'Thou shalt not take sweet
things.'  Considering the misery brought about in families
through dyspepsia, I have a good mind to try and
start a new order of lemontotallers at once.

"If, however, you want a temperance sermon, you
must go to the drunkard, and as an antidote to what
I have said, if you care to hear it, I will tell you a
story of a friend of mine who is now dead.  He was
a young man of great ability, who had passed through
the University, carrying off some of its most coveted
prizes.  For some years having heard nothing of him,
I decided to look him up.  I knew that he had
been ordained, and, retaining his fellowship, had
accepted a quiet living in the country, intending to
spend his spare time in literary work.  It had surprised
me that since then I had heard nothing from him,
nor had any book of his been published.  I found
him a hopeless wreck, and this, in a few words, is what
he told me.

"He had come down to the country for the purpose
of having leisure to study and write.  For some time
all went well.  He had been brought up not to take
wine, and was one of the few teetotallers of his
College.  His father had died from drink when
Hamlin was a boy, and his mother had done all in her
power to keep her child from following in the same
course.  'I never,' he said, 'touched drink till I was
ordained.  My curacy was in the West End of London,
and as the time drew near for me to preach my
first sermon, I became hopelessly nervous, feeling that
I should break down, or losing all self-control, behave
like a lunatic.  The thought horrified me.  As I went
over my sermon in private, my hand shook so that I
could not read the words.  In despair I tried a remedy
many University men resort to when they have to
read the lessons in chapel.  I took a small dose of
brandy and tried the effect.  It was only about a
tablespoonful, yet the result was miraculous.  In a few
minutes I felt capable of preaching in St. Paul's.  On
the following Sunday, having provided myself with a
flask, I took a double dose in the vestry before the
sermon, and the result was equally successful.  From
that day to this I have never preached without the aid
of a stimulant.'

"For some time he confined his abuse of alcohol
to this purpose, but before he came into the country
the habit had grown, and he took spirits every evening,
though not in large quantities.  On being appointed
rector to a small parish, the loneliness of his life
added to his temptation.

"'I knew I was damned,' he said, 'but was
helpless.  Week by week, as I got less effect from the
usual amount, I increased it.  At last I began to
feel the result.  My interest in my work died down;
the services in the church became a hollow and hateful
mockery.  I felt languid, and disinclined to take
exercise, whilst my thoughts now always ran in one
direction, to the moment when again I could
drink--drink and be happy--feel the blood course freely
through my veins, and my brain wake from its now
normal condition of torpor; for you must understand
that I never drank to what is called excess, that is
to say, was never obviously the worse for drink.
One night, after having been sleeping soundly for
some hours, I woke oppressed with a feeling of
nameless horror.  The perspiration poured down me,
and yet I shivered; then it seemed as if the very
fiends of hell were tearing at my soul, mocking me,
shouting my ordination vows into my ears, bidding
me look at the damned souls in torture whom I had
promised to watch over here, and had neglected.
Thus I lay for an hour in anguish unspeakable,
and at last got up, dressed, and went out into the
cool night air.  As I began to feel better I
vowed to God never again to touch a drop of alcohol.

"'On the following morning it seemed that, after all,
the whole state of my mind had been exaggerated,
and was only probably due to indigestion.  I,
however, kept my vow for a few days and became a
wreck.  Sunday was drawing near.  What should I
do?  I began my sermon after taking an unusually
large dose, and preached contentedly from a passage
chosen to strengthen my resolution during the night
of misery--"Thy vows, O God, are upon me."  Only
once since,' he concluded in a whisper, 'have I made
a vow, and that was after the first week spent with
the real visible fiends in hell, when the doctor came
and found that the minister whom all respected was
suffering from *delirium tremens*!'"

There was a pause, and Lady Todman, who had
been listening intently to the story, which she
evidently intended to retail with a little extra colour at
her next temperance meeting, asked what was the
poor fellow's end.

"I am glad to say," Sydney replied, "that the day
after I left he gathered up what little power was left
him, and seeing that his life was hopeless, faced death
bravely."

"I hope he was truly penitent before the end," said
Lady Todman.

"I think he showed that conclusively," replied
Sydney, "when he shot himself."

There was a moment's silence; and then, before
anyone could continue the subject, which had become
depressing, he turned the drift of talk quite naturally
into a new channel, and was very soon keeping most
of the party laughing over some comical experiences
in the hunting-field.  Though he made himself the
hero for his own satire, we all knew him well enough
to be sure that he was speaking from observation, and
not personal experience.

"Well," I said, when the ladies had left us, and
I had taken the opportunity to move over next to
him, "was it the temperance question which brought
you here to-night?"

"No," he replied, "it was not that; but a little
private matter, which I hope to be able to accomplish
later on."

The conversation then became general, as is usually
the case under the friendly influence of tobacco.

We found only two ladies waiting for our arrival
in the larger drawing-room, the others had gone into
a dimly-lighted and smaller apartment adjoining.
Lady Todman informed us, with a look of disgust,
that the others were tempting the devil to rap on
a circular table, from which we gathered that our
hostess was indulging in her favourite occupation of
playing at spiritualism.

"You don't seem to approve of spiritualism, Lady
Todman," I remarked, rather hoping to draw Sydney
into discussion with her on the subject.

"I certainly don't," she replied.  "I consider it not
only a great waste of time, but also wicked."

"I am glad to find," said Sydney, "that in this
case we can agree if I may use the word dangerous
instead of wicked, which is much the same thing."

"But why dangerous?" asked Miss Smith, who
was the other lady present.  "It is nothing but
rubbish, and I don't see that people can do much
harm by unconsciously pushing a table about, and
we cannot fancy that any one would rap on purpose."

"Have you ever been present at one of these
gatherings?" he replied.  And being answered in
the negative, continued, "Is it wise to judge without
experience?  There may be more than you fancy
even in so apparently childish a performance as
table-turning."

Whilst he spoke we were roused by low, yet excited
voices in the next room, and he went toward the
drawn curtains and quietly passed through, followed
by Miss Smith and myself.

The light was dim, and at first I had some difficulty
in seeing anything; but as my eyes became more
accustomed to the gloom, I noticed six ladies sitting
round a table with their hands joined.  One of these,
a girl of about twenty, was lying back in her chair
apparently unconscious, although her eyes were
open.  The others were watching her with expressions
either of alarm or interest.

"What shall we do?" said Lady Folker in a
whisper; "she has gone off, and I know that in my
book it says if any one goes into a trance one ought
to be most careful unless an experienced spiritualist
is with you."

"If," said Sydney, "you would care to follow my
instructions, we might see something interesting
without doing the young lady any further harm.  I
once had a good deal of experience in these matters."

"Oh! how delightful!" said Miss Folker.  "Tell
us what we ought to do, and let us see a real live
ghost; that would be lovely!"

The instructions were quickly carried out; the
insensible girl being laid on a couch.  All the rest
were asked to go into the drawing-room, and the
curtains were then again drawn between the two
rooms.  After some protest from the remainder of
our party, including Lady Todman and the men who
had so far taken no part in the performance, the
lights were put out, and Alan Sydney brought a
small shaded pink lamp from the inner room, where
the girl still lay unconscious, and placed it in our
midst.  Hardly had he done this before the curtains
were drawn quickly apart by some invisible means,
and we could see into the inner room.

Miss Halcome still lay on the couch, apparently
sleeping, but with her face turned from us.  A soft
light was falling upon her from above; as we watched,
the light appeared to take, as it were, form, till we
recognized that a woman clothed in white stood
leaning over the girl.  Then the woman, taking one
of the girl's white hands, raised her up and led her
into the centre of the inner room.

Miss Halcome moved at first as though walking
in her sleep, with eyes open, yet apparently unseeing.
When they thus reached the centre, the figure of the
woman again began to fade till the girl stood alone
before us, still with that strange light falling upon
her.  She made a beautiful picture, being one of
those who possess a physical and purely sensuous
loveliness, which appeals especially to men of lower
type.  Her hair and eyes were brown; her complexion
clear, though rather dark; her lips were full,
prettily shaped, and of deep colour; as a rule her
cheeks carried, for my liking, too deep a rose tint,
but they were now more pale than usual.

As she stood there she lifted her arms towards us,
and began to sing.  Her voice I had always considered
to be her chief attraction, for not only was it
rich and tuneful, but unusually well trained.  I had
not heard either song or tune before.

   |  "Come to me, dearest, with a love
   |    Eternal, strong as death;
   |  Love that but lasts a transient life,
   |    And fades with fading breath,

   |  Can bring to this sad heart no joy,
   |    No ecstasy divine;
   |  Eternity is far too brief
   |    To fill this heart of mine.

   |  Though I should change, as all must change.
   |    My soul shall ever be,
   |  In youth or age, the soul you love
   |    Through all eternity.

   |  The beauty now that charms your eye,
   |    This youthful form so fair,
   |  Shall alter with each passing year.
   |    Is it for these you care?

   |  Go! face the truth!  If all the grace
   |    That earth alone can give,
   |  Were turned from one you think you love,
   |    What of that love would live?

   |  A little space--say fifty years,
   |    Or only five, may be,
   |  And all that now you prize so much
   |    Shall change to what you see.'"
   |

The last few lines of the song almost died away,
for at the commencement of the last stanza a most
extraordinary change began to take place in the
singer.  The only way in which I can describe it is
to compare her to a waxen image that was being
melted rapidly by the strong light falling from above.
Everything seemed to slip away downward and disappear,
except the skeleton, which stood with hollow
eye-sockets and moving jaw chattering out the last
few words.  There was a frightful shriek, and at the
same moment the curtains fell together.

We were all, Sydney excepted, far too horrified
to move.  He, however, got up immediately and
drew back the curtains.  The room was just as we
had left it; Miss Halcome still lay on the sofa in
exactly the attitude he had placed her.  Lady
Todman was the first to speak.

"Just as I said, tempting the devil!  And a nice
fright he has given us all.  Not that I was frightened.
I just shut my eyes and said my prayers."

The poor old woman was simply shivering as she
spoke, and we must therefore excuse her, for it is
possible she did not know what she was saying.

"If any one wishes to talk about what we have
seen," remarked Sydney, "he should do so at once,
before we bring Miss Halcome out of her trance, as
I am sure every one will agree with me that nothing
of what has occurred should be mentioned in her
presence."

"Oh! for goodness' sake!" cried Lady Todman,
whose chattering teeth reminded me of the skeleton,
"let's wake her up at once, or we shall be having I
don't know what next!  It is quite sinful, it really is!"

As no one seemed inclined to do more than utter a
few disjointed words such as "Awful!" "Most
remarkable!" etc., Sydney struck a match, and lighting
a powerful lamp held it in front of the girl's eyes.

At this she sneezed twice, and then sitting up said--

"What's the matter?  Why did you all leave the table?"

Her companion, holding the lamp still near her
eyes, then told her that as she had gone into a trance
the others had left the room, but he mentioned nothing
of any further experiences; and she, seeming none the
worse in any way, followed him into the outer room.

While looking round on the faces present I noticed
that of a young man who was a stranger to me.
As the girl came forward a look of terror passed
over his features such as I had never seen before,
and hope never to see again.  There was still more
mystery, apparently, behind even the late mysterious
performance, and I began to wonder whether my
friend's motive for coming might not have something
to do with the terrified face before me.

Shortly after this, to every one's relief, the carriages
began to be announced.  I asked Sydney if he were
driving, and finding that he was not, offered to take
him with me.

"No," he replied, "let us both walk.  I get too
little exercise as it is, and cannot afford to miss an
opportunity."

I agreed, and sending the coachman home, we
started together.

There is no time like night for walking, and as the
south-west wind blew softly against us, I felt as though
it would have been pleasant to spend hours in the
open air.  There was much that I wanted to say, but
for a few moments the delight of quiet night kept us
both from speaking.  At last I broke the silence.

"Well, that was the most extraordinary experience,"
I remarked; "can you throw any light upon it?  Talk
about the days of miracles being over!"

"The days of so-called miracles will never be over,"
replied my friend, "till all have equal knowledge.  A
miracle is but a natural law, of which most persons
have hitherto been ignorant, brought into play at
length by one who is better informed than the
majority."

"But you had nothing to do with the manifestation
of to-night, had you?" I asked.

"It was all my doing, with the exception of the
first act, and even that was ruled by my influence;
but I will explain it to you, as by doing so I shall
save trouble later on.  I told you that I had come
to-night for a reason, and that my object was an
important one you may judge by my using a power
in public which I have seldom cared to exercise.  No
one, however, suspects that I had anything to do with
what happened beyond being able to give them a
little information; all the credit or discredit will be
with the performers at the table.  Let me first
explain what I did, and then give you an idea of my
motive.

"Before the ladies left us I exercised my will on
Lady Folker and two others to try table-turning that
evening.  It is a slightly dangerous amusement that
has recently revived; and is nothing else but a
convenient form of semi-mesmerism caused by the joining
of hands.  If, which is unusual, no one tries to cheat
or to fool the others present, the persons will soon
feel a tingling sensation in their arms and hands, and
lastly through their whole bodies; when the balance
of will is fairly even, nothing may happen for some
time, but at last one will-force must predominate the
others, and quite unconsciously that power influences
all the rest, so that every hand moves by the order of
a semi-dormant will.  Hence the moving and tilting
of the table, the message received, etc.  Sometimes
the motive-will, being partially entranced, becomes a
medium for the transmission of thoughts passing
through the mind of some absent friend, for under
certain conditions thought can be transferred, even as
the sound of the voice through a telephone; but this
is too lengthy a matter to go into now.

"As a rule, however, one of the party being more
susceptible than the others, will before long become
unconscious, or completely mesmerized.  This is, as
you know, what happened to-night, and in this condition
the predominant will, whether the owner thereof
be absent or present, gains complete control, speaking
through his or her voice, and in fact acting the part
of hypnotizer on a patient.  Sometimes one of the
party present, and then another, will so act on the
medium, and each one be unconscious of doing so."

"I begin to see now," I said, "what happened.
Your will acted on the girl, and you made her do just
what you wished.  But how about the skeleton?"

"You are mistaken," my friend answered, "and you
forget about the curtains going back of their own
accord.  I adopted a simpler method, and one less
harmful to the girl.  Those at the table mesmerized
her, but I mesmerized all the others present; from
the time the curtains had been drawn till I myself
threw them back not a single thing took place, and
the room was in silence with the exception of the
shriek of horror when I relaxed my power, and you
saw, as you thought, the curtains fall together."

"Do you mean to say that the girl had nothing to
do with it, and that she never moved?"

"She never stirred so much as a finger, but her
condition assisted me in a way that you will
understand better when I explain the laws which govern
the transmission of will-force, for in her state what
power she possessed was added to my own."

"And you mean to say that during all this time we
were staring like a pack of fools at a blank curtain?"
I demanded.

"I should hardly put it in that way myself," he
replied.  "It is true that that is what your bodily
eyes were doing to all appearances, but your minds
had a most impressive scene in front of them, which
though it reached them from a different channel than
the eye, was none the less vivid."

"But how did you convey the impression?" I asked.

"That," he replied, "requires what I fortunately
possess, a vivid imagination, and it was only necessary
for me to call up the visions for them to pass also
before you; but it is exhausting work, as you will find
some day if you try it, for the mind must never
wander for a moment, and few people have learnt the
art of perfect self-concentration.  It is also necessary
that for the time being the operator should be in a
half-entranced state, or the pictures would be meagre
and unreal.  This condition, which for the sake of
convenience may be called day-dreaming, requires
much practice, but it is nevertheless fairly easy to
learn.  I will before long show you the method of
acquiring the habit, so that you can judge for
yourself of its use."

"And now," I asked, "what was your motive for
giving us such a terrible experience?  You succeeded
in giving one young man, whose name I don't know,
such a scare that he will be some weeks before he
gets over the effects."

"I pray that he may never get over them," said
Sydney.  "If he should, my work has failed.  His
name is William Jackson, and he is the only son of
the late Sir John Jackson.  You may have heard of
the father, as he was fifteen years ago one of the
most notorious and wealthy rakes in London; in
other words, having made a god of self, he had become
a fiend to others.  Thus, as we carry our circumference
with us, he raged at the hell he created,
whilst increasing its torments.  It is only when we
fully realize the damnation of such lives that our
hatred turns to pity.  Some whom I have known had
good cause to hate his memory, as you will hear in
the story of my life.  Too often have I in his case
forgotten that vengeance is not man's business, and
that the law of retribution never faileth.  It is easy to
forgive one who wrongs you, but how hard when the
injury is to one we love; when we see some weak
loved spirit driven further into the darkness, deeper
into the thicket of pain, for though we know that in
the end, as Tennyson so finely expresses it, 'There
shall be greater good because of evil, larger mercy
through the fall,' yet is the suffering present and it is
hard to see those we love in pain.  William, however,
takes far more after his mother than his father.  She
is a good and noble woman, purified by suffering of
which she had in the latter days of her husband's life
considerable experience.  It would be cruel not to
try and save her from like misery through her son, to
whom she is devoted.  He is a youth of good ability,
possessing even half-fledged genius; his nature is at
present very susceptible to kindness, and in many
ways lovable, but he is cursed with his father's
passions, and should this get the upper hand, the finer
qualities of his disposition will drag him the more
quickly down.  If he once came under the influence
of a heartless animal nature, there would practically
be little hope of saving him."

"And one with that nature was there to-night?"

"Yes," he replied, "Miss Halcome is of all girls the
least suited to be his wife, yet he loved or fancied he
loved her, and she has set her mind on marrying him,
though I believe she cares only for his wealth.  But
I do not know that I should have interfered were it
not that I possess knowledge which makes the whole
case most terrible.  It is not fit that any child should
be born into the world cursed by a double descent
from such a man as Sir John Jackson."

"And are you certain that Miss Halcome is really
his child?" I asked.

"Unfortunately I have too good reason to know,"
he replied; "but this is where we part, and I have
told you enough to throw some light upon this
evening; the rest of the explanation can be left till I
reach that part of my story where it would naturally
come in."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER IV`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IV

.. vspace:: 2

On the following evening, as soon as we had
finished dinner, Sydney led me, as on the previous
occasion, through his study and into the library; but
we did not wait here, for going up to a curtain at one
corner, he pushed it aside, and opening a door led me
into a room beyond.  This room did not seem to be
lighted in any way from the outside, but an electric
light, the first I ever saw in a private house, cast a
strong glare over the apartment.

As soon as we entered, my companion touched a
handle and a shade passed over the light; the
effect was pleasant and restful.  Except in one recess
which was curtained off from the rest of the room,
there were few signs of comfort.  I could not help
fancying that I had suddenly entered a scientific
laboratory; the walls of the room were covered
with mechanical apparatus of various kinds, and
with shelves that contained rows of bottles, tubes, and
other chemical appliances.

"This," said Sydney, "is my workshop, where
for years I have been busy trying experiments on
nature by the assistance of knowledge gained through
the development of our sixth sense.  There is no
doubt whatever that when men once begin to
understand the uses of this latent power, existence
will be revolutionized entirely.  The world as it is now
will cease to exist, and there will be a new heaven and
a new earth.  But," he continued after a pause, "I
fear the time is not yet come; for so awfully will
man's power be increased, that unless our natures are
at the same time purified and perfected, existence here
under such a reversal of conditions would be in truth
hell itself.

"Fortunately, however, the power of using this
sense is greatly dependent on the lives of the
persons employing it.  If a man has not learned to
curb his passions and keep his body under control, he
will make little progress, for the subjugation of the
body is essential to success.  The weakness of my own
nature has, alas! too often caused me to break down
at the very moment of seeming victory.  If only a man
were perfectly unselfish, pure, and free from pride, he
could without the aid of science and without seeming
effort control the forces of nature.  Such a One has
been on earth, and we know the result.  Such power
may be given when man has learnt to follow His
example.  But as man becomes conscious of his new
powers we may expect a terrible time of transition,
for with the possession of free will each added gift
means added force to evil as well as to good, even as
I was saying last night with regard to the gift of
alcohol.

"People will soon find this out, if they have not
already done so, with regard to hypnotism.  In the
time that is coming no creed shall save a man, for the
wonders that shall be done on the earth shall deceive
all those who have not experienced the realization of
things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen; all
those in fact who are not able to distinguish truth
from falsehood by the instinct of their own hearts.  It
is doubtless for this reason that scientists have so
long had their eyes blinded.  When the time shall
come, and the people are ready, these men shall lead,
as they have ever led, the march of progress; yet
they must abandon pride if they hope to succeed.

"I perceive, however, that like many others, you
are more anxious to hear of the marvellous, or to see
it, than to listen to the future possible condition of
things which probably will not take place in your
lifetime.  If, therefore, you will lie down on the couch
in that recess, I will continue my story, though on a
somewhat different plan from that to which you are
accustomed."

I lay down, and he drew the curtain that divided us
from the rest of the room, and sitting beside me,
said,

"If I remember rightly, I left off last time when,
having just recovered from my first trance, I found
Vera and Vancome standing over me.  I felt very
little the worse for my experience, and seeing that
I did not appear likely to faint again, my companions
went on their way to Heather Lodge, leaving me to
walk back home.  During the evening I began to
feel nervous and distressed; a weight of anxiety
seemed to be hanging over me, none the less
real because it was undefined.  I went to bed early,
but instead of feeling better, the nervousness
increased.  On whatever subject my thoughts
turned, the unpleasant impression followed them,
haunting me and driving sleep far away.  At last in
despair I determined on an experiment.  I would try
to think of nothing, and keep my eyes steadily fixed
on some imaginary spot just over my head.  The
room was dark, but (as any one who has tried the
experiment will know) if you concentrate the eyes on
one dark place for any length of time, that spot
will appear light.  As I watched the light it revolved
at first slowly, and then with increasing rapidity.
Though unknown to me at the time, the method
I had adopted is the simplest and easiest way of
hypnotizing oneself, and with a little patience most
people could do it, for if the light does not soon
revolve it is easy to start it by moving the eye, as it
always follows; the great difficulty is to keep the
mind from wandering.

"When these revolutions had continued for some
few moments, I became about every alternate second,
as it were, blind, seeing nothing, and my mind also
during the same period became a blank; then
pictures alternately flashed across the darkness, so
rapidly that I could not perfectly grasp them.  But
after a time I was able to see quite clearly, and this
is the picture which I saw."

Sydney stopped speaking, touched something, and
the light was extinguished; then as he placed his
hand on mine, I found that I was looking into a room
which was lighted by a number of shaded candles.  A
man of about thirty was standing with his back to a
log fire, and a girl was lying on a sofa near him.  The
girl was the same I had previously recognized as
Vera; the man I had little doubt was Lord Vancome.
He was speaking in a low tone, but every word was
distinct.

"How cruel you are to me, Miss Soudin!  The
very softness of your voice but adds to the bitterness
of your words!"  Then coming a little nearer and
speaking still lower; "Vera!--I must call you Vera,
just to hear the word--if you could but know for one
moment what it is to be a man and to see such
loveliness, and yet not to be able to approach it; to have
to stand off and to be told that it belongs to another.
If you could only know, you would have pity before
you send me from you for ever!  How can you be
so cruel?"

"Oh, Lord Vancome!" said Vera, "I wish you
would not talk like that; you know I do not wish to
be unkind, but you must remember I am engaged,
and it would be very wrong to let any one kiss me."

"Wrong!  You dear innocent thing!" he answered;
"how small is your knowledge of the world!  Do
you think girls never let any but one man kiss them?
And what harm would it do?  Do you fancy a kiss
leaves any mark behind that would betray us?  No,
the only mark will be upon my life, a mark of
brightness in the gloom!"

"Oh! but I really could not!" she replied; but
even as she said the words, her up-turned face, her
eyes, her lips, denied them, and she knew it; and the
spirits of evil and of good knew it; and the man who
stood trembling with passion over her, knew and took
advantage of it.  As he did so the scene vanished.

Sydney turned on the light, and then said--"That
is what I saw; but what I felt it is impossible
to describe.  The girl lying there listening to the
stage-learned sentimental drivel of a half-drunken
blackguard--that she could not see through it--that
she was unable to distinguish the laugh behind the
scenes, or know that at some future date the details
exaggerated would be retailed to a club audience--that
she should let him even kiss her!

"I came-to from that trance little better than a
madman, with one only hope, that it might not be
true; one determination to find out for certain, and
if so to be revenged--revenged on the man.  My
love for the girl was unchanged, and I realized with
something akin to horror that nothing could alter it;
that from the moment when I made my vow, her
fate and mine were woven together; and in this first
vision of her damnation I felt driven from the face of
God, a thing accursed.  I had taken her sin upon me,
as we must ever take the sins of those we truly love;
and I had then perhaps for the first time some faint
idea of the meaning of the word substitution, and
could understand how one perfect in love, and therefore
perfect in holiness, must in a world like this bear
the sin and carry the sorrows of humanity.

"As every man born into the world becomes a
unit, influenced by all that preceded him and
influencing all future life, so must each be a saviour
or destroyer through self-renunciation or through
egotism.  To One alone can we give the title, the
noblest and the grandest for us to conceive, of the
Saviour.  He, who possessing fully the spirit of God's
order and of God's love, was ordained to reflect them
once perfectly upon earth so that He might show to
the wanderers of all time the possibility of man's
nature, and the only path by which we may return to
peace.  Men waste time in disputing if this Saviour
was God.  What know we of God but by his attributes?
Which of these attributes can we conceive
bound down in human form which was not manifest
in the Christ?  Could love exceed His love, or
meekness His humility, whose unselfishness asked no
reward of gratitude, and the exercise of whose power
was ever restrained by the hand of a far-seeing
compassion?  Is all we read true?  Perhaps not; the
hand of imperfect devotion often, through want of
insight, may have touched and marred the picture,
but the portrait remains, if somewhat soiled through
the fingers of adoration.  On the other hand, if the
painter of our picture had no living model, a thing
well nigh impossible, then must he have been the
Christ, for no soul can rise to a sustained ideal beyond
the possibility of his own nature.

"How wretched and partial a thing my love was,
may be seen at once by the bitter feeling of revenge
that took possession of me.  I fully believe that at
that moment I could have murdered my enemy in
cold blood.  It is a humiliating reflection that there
is virtually no crime of which the best of us could not
be guilty if the temptation were only strong enough
and the circumstances propitious.

"The next morning I walked to Heather Lodge,
and asking to see Mr. Soudin, was shown into his
library.  The old gentleman was sitting there dressed
for shooting, and did not seem very pleased to see me.

"'I must apologize,' I began, 'for coming up before
the week is expired, but I have good reason to believe
that Lord Vancome is making love to your daughter,
and feel that it is impossible to let things go on as
they are.  I must therefore ask you to release me
from my promise and allow me to have an interview
with her at once.'

"I knew that to all appearance I was making a
fool of myself, but being desperate and unable to
think of any better plan, I adopted the simplest one
of speaking the truth.

"'You must be mad, Mr. Sydney,' he replied.  'You
insult, without any possible grounds, both my daughter
and my guest, and show yourself unworthy of the
position in my family which you wish to occupy.'  Then
without speaking his thoughts continued--'*I
hope he may be correct; if so, that settles the business
once for all, and I can get rid of him.*'

"I felt so angry with the man before me that I lost
all self-control.  'If you think that you can play fast
and loose with me,' I answered, 'you are mistaken.  I
know your views perfectly well, and that you are
anxious that your daughter should, if possible, become
Lady Vancome.  If you were told such a marriage
would end miserably; that Lord Vancome is thoroughly
bad, it would not influence you.  I will, therefore,
keep strictly to business, and for your daughter's
sake give you information which may possibly have
some weight.  Lord Vancome, never wealthy, is a
gambler, and, if report speaks truly, has nearly reached
the end of his resources.  On the other hand, though
it is not generally known, I have an income of over
twelve thousand pounds a year, derived from safe
investments.  You can verify my statements without
difficulty!'

"I saw my companion, when I came to the last part
of my sentence, metaphorically speaking, prick up his
ears.  He, however, sat a few minutes silent, and I
had to content myself with his thoughts, which after
all were far more important.  And this is what I
made of them--

"'*Twelve thousand pounds a year--safe securities--four
per cent. at most--three hundred thousand
pounds capital--other fellow broke--wonder if it's
true--soon find out--getting tight myself---cannot live
on a broken Lord for son-in-law--good job, if it is true,
I found it out--must write at once to ... and make
inquiries--wish this fellow was broke and the other had
his money--getting to hate Sydney--damned prig! talking
to me like that--what in the name of the devil am
I to do?--the beggar seems regularly to see into one!*'

"At this point I thought it well to keep up my
advantage, so I said, 'That facts are as I stated, you
can find out as soon as you please, but one thing I
wish you to understand; if I leave this house without
an opportunity of speaking to your daughter, when
you have dismissed Lord Vancome as unsuitable, you
may find you have lost me also!'

"'Really, Mr. Sydney,' he replied, trying to force a
smile, 'I am afraid being in love does not agree with
you; your nerves seem thoroughly upset this morning.
But I suppose we old people must put up with this
kind of thing, we were all young and foolish once.
Many years ago I believe that even I was jealous.
There is, after all, no particular reason why you should
not see my daughter if you wish; but it is the tone
you have adopted which I object to.  Money, my dear
sir, money is a thing that, where my child's happiness
is at stake, would never cross my mind; it must rest
with her to decide, when she is a little older and
knows her own mind, what husband she will take.  So
long as he is a good man and of gentle birth, I shall
not interfere!'

"'Have I your permission, then,' I asked, 'to go
and see her?'

"I saw he was about to consent when the thought
crossed his mind that very likely she was at the
moment with Vancome, and he replied, getting up,
'I will send her to you.'

"Soon after his departure Vera came into the room
looking very pale and nervous, and I saw that she
was wondering what could have brought me up.  As
I looked at her, my love, pity, and anger grew
uncontrollable, and entirely upset my mental balance.

"My animal nature got the upper hand, and I became,
for the time being, cruel.  My very passion, as is
often the case under such conditions, was an incentive
rather than a check, to that which, in the language of
hypocrisy, is termed 'religious anger,' but which is
often little better than the counter thrust of a wounded
heart.  I will, I thought, use my power against this girl,
and make her see herself even as she is.

"'Vera,' I began, 'I have got your father's permission
to see you again before the week is over.  I
find it impossible to keep away from you, dearest, any
longer.  I want to hear from your lips once more that
you love me, and that you will be my wife.'

"'Why, of course I love you, dear,' she said, a look
of relief coming into her face as she came forward,
evidently expecting that I should take her in my
arms and kiss her.

"I took both her hands in mine, and looked into
the sweet face before me.  Was it possible that I
might have been mistaken?  That I was a victim of
delusion?  As I stooped and kissed her forehead, I
said--

"'Have you missed me much, dear?  And did you
find the hours hang heavily?'

"'Oh, yes,' she replied, 'it has seemed such a long,
long time.  But after all, you see, we have met once
already.  Have you quite got over your fainting fit?
Do you know that you don't look at all well.  When
I came in I was quite afraid something had happened,
you seemed so queer.'

"'What did you fancy could have happened?' I
asked.  'Did you suppose that in this short time I
had fallen in love with some one else, and had come to
break the news to you?  Now, tell me, are you jealous?
Let us hope not, because you know it would be
unpleasant to have a jealous wife.  Should you be
very angry if you knew that I had sometimes kissed
other girls?'

"'How can you be so horrid!' she answered, looking
troubled and perplexed.  'But you are only joking.
Why, if you ever did such a thing, I would
never! never! never! speak to you again.'

"'Why?' I questioned.  'Do you think there is
much harm in a simple kiss?  Do you fancy that men
only kiss one woman in their lives?'  I stopped
abruptly.

"She stood staring at me with a frightened look in
her eyes, but whilst I was watching she turned away;
then her thoughts came quickly.  '*Just what he said
about women--after all I did not kiss him.  And how
could I help his kissing me?  I wonder whether Alan
knows any thing--Can he have guessed?  No, it is
absurd!  But somehow he frightens me, especially when
he looks in that queer way.*'

"'Vera,' I said, 'sit down.  I want to talk to you,
to explain something so that in future we may
understand each other.  You see you are going to
be my wife, and those who love should have as few
secrets as possible.  Now I feel sure that you have
something on your mind, and I want you to tell it to
me.  Don't be afraid that I shall be angry.'

"'I don't know what you mean,' she answered.
Her manner was half defiant, half frightened.

"'Should you have wished me to be present,
though unseen, in the drawing-room last night,
between ten and eleven?' I asked.

"She lost her presence of mind in a moment.  A
bright flush passed over her face and left it deadly
white.

"'How mean!' she cried.  'You were outside
looking through the window.  I don't know what
you think you saw.  It is disgusting of you to have
done such a thing.'

"'I was in bed,' I replied.

"'Then what on earth do you mean?'

"'I mean this, that last night a gross insult was
offered to one I love, and that she accepted it, and
what is more, accepted it willingly.'

"'Oh!  I know you were looking.  But I don't care
if you did see, it was not my fault.  I tried to prevent
him, but he would do it, and I hate you now!  Yes,
I do!  You are mean, and you tell lies!'  Then she
burst into a flood of tears.

"'Vera,' I said, placing my arm round her, 'I have
told you no lie.  If I tried to explain how I know
all, yes, all that happened, far more than could have
been seen through any window, you would simply not
understand me.  You say I spied upon you.  How
was it then that the shutters were not closed, and
the blinds and curtains drawn as usual?'

"'They were,' she replied.  And then in the pause
her thought continued.  '*I looked to see afterwards,
and that is just what I can't understand.  Besides, he
could not have been in the room either, for I examined
carefully after Vancome left, as I had an uncomfortable
feeling at the time that some one had been watching us.*'

"'Cannot you understand,' I asked, 'that if we love
a person very much we may be conscious of what is
happening to such a one, even though we are not
present?'

"'No,' she replied, 'I don't believe anything of the
kind.  You may imagine things, or you may see
them, or be told about them; but I won't listen to
another word.  I hate you! and would not marry
you now if you were the only man on earth.  I
would rather marry Lord Vancome, so there!  And
I will kiss him too, just to spite you, if for no other
reason.  Whatever else he is, he is a man, and you
are not!  You are a devil!'

"She got up, and before I could stop her, rushed
out of the room.  I went to the window and looked
out.  In the distance I could see Soudin, and Lord
Vancome, with keepers and dogs starting for their
day's shooting.  There was no fear of my being
disturbed for some time, so I sat down and reviewed
the situation.  Vera had defied me, and there seemed
little doubt that if left to herself, she would throw me
over and accept Vancome.  That is to say, if he had
any intention of going beyond flirtation, which seemed
doubtful.  On the other hand, I felt satisfied that
when her father had verified my statements, I might
fully rely on having the paternal influence.  The
retreating figures of the two men seemed to show
conclusively that he already believed me; otherwise
there is little doubt that he would have seen me
safely out of the house before starting off for the
day with my rival.  I had therefore to decide an
important question.  How far was I justified in
influencing this girl's will?  Could I, in fact, excite
a love which was not spontaneously given?  Should
I not, in doing so, destroy the one thing that gives to
life an interest and meaning, namely, freedom of
action, without which man would be little better than
an automaton?

"Whilst I sat thus musing over what may well
seem to you a comparatively trivial matter, a new
light was cast upon the mystery of life, for as I
realized how unsatisfying such self-created love would
be, I began to see an interpretation which had not
previously occurred to me in the parable of man's
fall.  Was it not possible that the Creator of all
things, not fully satisfied with the loving obedience
of those who through their very nature were only able
to do His bidding, decided to create man, a being, who
like Himself, should know by experience the good
of order, the evil of disorder, and therefore be capable
of discovering which path leads to pain, and which
to happiness; one who in the end should love him
with the deep love that is a free offering of the lesser
nature to a greater which is akin to it?

"While thinking about these things it seemed clear,
that if any man had the power of partially influencing
another's will, he must be careful how it was employed.
I began to wonder why it had been given to me, till
I remembered that after all it was but a developed
form of that influence which we see around us every
day, and that the reception of good, and the rejection
of evil influence, is the necessary part of free growth.
As man therefore develops, we might naturally
expect that he would have to contend against stronger
and more subtle forces.  For these reasons it seemed
to me that we are as fully justified in using any
such powers, as we are in applying the more ordinary
methods of influence, provided that we do so
unselfishly, and in no way permanently overpower the
general freedom of another.  This latter restriction,
as you will see, is open to a very wide construction.

"I had, however, up to this time, seldom tried to
exercise my will on others, for though Descartes has
given up a great part of his manuscript to this subject,
my time had been chiefly occupied in studying the
transmission of thought, which is, as it were, a first
step to the other.  Until you can read the thoughts
of those around you, it is practically impossible to
convey distinct impressions to another, unless for the
time being the person is in a trance condition, when
it is comparatively easy.  The mind in this latter
state being deprived of its usual guiding forces, is
peculiarly susceptible to any external influence.  It
is probable that I should have been unsuccessful in
the attempt now made, had I not been working on
one with whom I was already familiar, and who was
partially under my sway.

"I willed that she should come back to the room,
having a strong desire to tell me all that had
happened on the previous evening, and the feelings that
had influenced her throughout.  In a few minutes the
door opened and she entered; there was nothing in
her appearance that would have led any one to
suppose she was acting under restraint, or had in any
way been mesmerized; her face was slightly flushed,
and her eyes showed traces of recent tears, but she
was outwardly calm.  Having closed the door behind
her, she came and stood before me.

"'Alan,' she said, 'I have been thinking that
perhaps it will be better to explain exactly what
happened last night; you will then understand.'

"I said nothing, but continued to concentrate my
will, urging her to tell me all, not in the conventional
manner of speech, but from her soul.

"'I have, you see, a sort of liking,' she continued,
'for Lord Vancome, a liking which is checked yet
increased because I am afraid of him.  I don't understand
the feeling, but it is nice to play with fire; as a
child I always loved to run my finger through the
flame of a candle, each time more slowly till at last
it just burnt me a little; and then I like, oh! you
cannot know how I like to influence others!--to feel
that for the moment I can turn them this way or
that; to realize that there is some charm about me
which holds them with a spell, and which they cannot
escape.  If you could have seen his eyes last night as
he followed my every movement!  I, only a country
girl, and he a man used to all the beautiful women
of London.  I do not love him, I do not love you;
in fact, I don't know what people mean by love, but
I like people to be attracted by me, and to make
much of me; and--well, to lead them on.  Why
should I not?  Then he wanted to kiss me; he came
nearer, I refused to let him; I felt more frightened,
but I liked the feeling; would he or would he not?
Then I looked up into his face in a way that I felt
sure would make him, intending all the while to
refuse if he tried to take advantage of that look.
But he was too quick, and--and it was nice to feel
powerless, but it was not my fault, for I told him not
to do it.'

"'Vera,' I said, and my heart was very sad, 'can
you not see, do you not understand, that it is your
will and not your words that matter?  Men and
women are differently made, and the temptations of
the latter come chiefly from weakness and vanity;
but tell me why it was you promised to be my wife
if you do not love me?'

"'Well,' she replied, 'I don't quite know; you see
I don't love any one, but I suppose I shall when we
marry, and it would be nice to marry.  It would be
lovely to have a wedding and presents, and to be
made a lot of, and to have people talking about me,
and it's dreadfully dull at home; besides, you are
strong, and it is nice to feel that there is some one to
lean upon, some one to trust.  But I hate you now,
and I will tell you why.  You see into me, and I don't
like it.  I know you do, you see my thoughts, and if
when we are married I did anything which you would
not like, I should be afraid you might find it out.  It
would be better to marry Lord Vancome, he is not
a bit like that; though I would rather trust you of
the two in a difficulty.'

"I had become so interested in what she was
saying that I had relaxed my power over her, and
was only reminded of the fact by her next remark.

"'I do not really know, Mr. Sydney, what induced
me to come down and say all this nonsense, for I
have quite made up my mind, and it is no use your
asking me to reconsider the matter.  After your
insult I shall never think of speaking to you again.'

"'I don't know that you have been asked to change
your mind,' I replied, altering my tone, and no longer
striving in any way to affect her judgment.  'You
have wronged yourself, and would put the blame on
me for bringing the fact home to you.  I can for the
present think of nothing to say, nothing to do; but
remember, though you do not love me, I love you,
and love never changes; whatever may happen in
the future, Vera, as long as I live you will find me
unchanged in two things---my desire for your love,
and my wish to help you.'

"'Thank you, Mr. Sydney,' she answered, making
at the same time a little mock curtsey; 'I do not
think it at all likely that your valuable assistance will
be required, or that you will succeed in gaining my
love.  Good-bye!'

"'Well,' I reflected, while walking back slowly over
the moor, 'for one possessed of exceptional powers it
seems that I have made a pretty fair mess of the
whole thing.'  And I began to understand how
limited all influence must be under such conditions.
For, in the first place, I wished for the love of a girl
who was as yet incapable of understanding the
meaning of the word; and secondly, was trying to save a
soul from its own nature without destroying its
freedom of action.

"I left Scotland on the following day and returned
to my chambers in London.  Before doing so I wrote
a note to Mr. Soudin saying that though my feelings
were still quite unchanged towards Vera, I felt it
would be better for both of us if we did not meet
again just at present.  I also asked him in the event
of his coming up to town, if he would call and see me.

"In reply a most cordial letter arrived, saying that
he expected to be in London in the course of the
following week, and that he would be sure to call and
look me up.

"When I had settled down once more in my own
rooms, my thoughts turned to Vancome.  I hated
him with a hatred that was almost madness.  In later
life it is impossible to feel either the passions of love
or hatred as we feel them in our youth.

"I look back upon this period of my life with
horror and contempt; but it is none the less important
that you should follow me through it, as you will see
what new temptations to evil every added power
brings with it.  I determined, if Vancome had not
already ruined himself completely, to beggar him,
flattering myself that in so doing I was but assisting
lagging Providence, getting out of the way a corrupt
influence, making myself an instrument of retribution
to avenge the many whom he had wronged.  I set
about my plan carefully and systematically, being
aided not a little by my increasing powers, and still
more by an entire disregard of expense.  I very soon
had a far more correct knowledge of his affairs than
he probably possessed himself, for few people in
money difficulties can bring themselves to face the
unpleasant facts connected with their position.

"When his father died he came into the title and
property; the estate, which was not entailed, had been
heavily mortgaged, and since then every year the
burden had been increasing until it was very doubtful
if at the present time a forced sale of the property
would cover his liabilities.  The mortgagees were
pressing for a large sum of interest overdue, and
Vancome's solicitors had done all in their power to
raise this money, but as yet without success.  I
therefore called on a firm of rather second-rate bill
discounters, and had an interview with Mr. Marsden,
the senior partner, who had some interest in the
mortgage.

"I have always adopted one method in dealing
with business men, which has proved on the whole
successful.  I will endeavour to describe it to you
briefly, as it may be of service.  Each man's honesty
lies on a certain plane, and the types can for
convenience be classified under four heads.

"No. 1, which is rarely met with, may be called
the natural inclination level.

"No. 2, the advantageous moral level, which, except
under severe temptations, it is equally safe to trust.

"No. 3, the reflecting level.

"No. 4, the fear of detection level.

"More men set their honesty down on No. 3 platform
than on all the rest put together, and as
Mr. Marsden was among the majority, it will be as well,
therefore, to explain more fully what is meant by the
definition.

"This type is honest or dishonest simply through
the way it is approached.  If you go to it in a meek
and quiet spirit, carrying all the guilelessness of your
nature on your head, and all your cunning wrapped
in a napkin, it will meet you frankly, treat you
moderately fairly, and protect you with almost tender
solicitude from the jaws of any of the No. 4 type.
This way of approach is, moreover, safest in dealing
with all business men, for if you come on one by
mistake whose honesty is altogether absent, such
method will incite to greed, and your wolf will be less
careful to keep on his sheep-skin.

"I learned this lesson when quite a youth from the
relation who has since left me a great part of his
fortune.  He was one of the most successful men in
London, and when I asked if he would tell me the
secret of his power, he replied in his queer and
enigmatical way--'I have sucked in knowledge through
every pore, and studied men always from behind the
mask of stupidity; those who wish to be thought
wise must be content to remain fools; for in the
light of seeming wisdom, the bats hang head
downwards in their safe retreat indistinguishable from the
dirt around; but they flutter in the dull face of
stupidity, and may easily be knocked down and
trampled upon.  Nevertheless,' he continued, winking
at me, 'it is good sport sometimes to cast off the veil,
and to give these people a taste of your power; then
the poor wretches will go away blubbering that you
have hurt them, and the world, knowing how stupid
you are, will say that you must have been mad.'

"Thus I went, carrying a helpless expression, to
Mr. Marsden, and letting him know that I was very
wealthy, and at the same time anxious to acquire
the whole of Lord Vancome's property, I threw
myself upon his world-wide knowledge, and asked
his advice.

"'I am delighted, Mr. Sydney, that you should
have come to me,' he said, rubbing his hands.
'There is fate in it; had you gone elsewhere, a large
price might have been asked.  With my information,
and if you leave yourself in my hands, we can secure
a bargain for you, a real bargain.'  Here he dropped
his voice as if imparting a great secret.  'Lord
Vancome is pressed for money, and the mortgagees
are threatening to foreclose.'  (All this of course I
knew, but I thought it better to appear ignorant.)  'We
must advance money--we must get his bills--press
for payment--threaten bankruptcy--pay off
mortgagees--take estates.'

"I besought him not to trouble me with details,
but whilst keeping my name from appearing in the
matter, act as he thought best.  My solicitors, I told
him, would supply whatever funds were required.
Then once more calling his attention to the fact that
I was entirely at his mercy, and having read in his
thoughts various ways by which he intended to profit
by the transaction, without fleecing me beyond the
limit of his conscience, I went away satisfied.

"On entering my rooms after this interview, I found
Mr. Soudin waiting to see me.  He appeared in
good spirits; told me he had been in London the
last three days; and I perceived from his thoughts,
that he had found out all he wished to know, and
had quite decided to accept me as his future son-in-law.
It was just as well that he could not see into
my mind as clearly, for I had also discovered that
he was in even worse difficulties than Lord Vancome.
Not contented with a comfortable income, he had
put some of his capital into an unlimited bank,
which, if my information proved correct, was about
to fail.

"He seemed anxious for me to return with him to
Scotland, and his wishes evidently inclined towards
an early marriage.  Moreover, he suggested the
advisability of having the engagement publicly
announced in the papers.  At this point it seemed
necessary to inform him that at my last interview
with his daughter, we had quarrelled, though I did
not mention the cause; at the same time I told him
that if Vera was willing, I had not the slightest
objection to his making our engagement public.  He
pooh-poohed the idea of any objection coming from
this quarter, declaring that his daughter was devoted
to me, and took his departure, saying he would write
to her and settle everything.

"The door had scarcely closed behind him, when
a deadly faintness began to steal over me.  With
some difficulty I managed to get into my bed-room,
and had hardly thrown myself on the bed before
I lost consciousness."

My companion paused for a moment.

"I have at last brought you to the point of my
narrative," he continued, rising, "where the chief
interest may be said to begin.  It has seemed best to
touch on many points which may have appeared of
little or no importance, and to leave out a few which
you might have considered more interesting.  It is a far
more difficult matter than you can well understand, to
deal in an intelligible manner with the forces brought
into play through an unrecognized sense; especially
as we have at present no names either for its effect
upon the mind, or for the subjects of which, through
the medium of its power, we are for the first time
conscious.  I propose, therefore, before continuing
my story, to show you a few experiments, and to
throw as much light as possible on the remarkable
changes in our whole life, which a perfect knowledge
of this sixth sense would bring about."

"First," he continued, throwing back the curtain,
"you, in your condition, are permanently tied to
what we call the body, and bound down to its
limitation.  You can see only by the aid of light,
and your vision cannot pass through what we call
opaque substances.  The reason why the animal eye
is thus constructed must be obvious.  Had it been
formed in such a way as to enable it to focus only
on the object it wished to observe, and were able to
disregard any material obstruction which lay in the
way, an animal would dash into the intervening
material, even as a bird strikes itself against a clear
sheet of glass.

"It was doubtless for this reason that nature
mercifully deals but seldom in transparent solids,
allowing the eye only to penetrate matter in its
liquid or gaseous forms.  But you must not for
a moment suppose that there is anything more
miraculous in a vision which is constructed in such
a way that it can reverse the process, one form being
as easily developed as the other.  Moreover, what
we call solid, is only the term for describing matter
which in its present condition resists the pressure of
other material bodies to a certain extent.  For as
we know, heat, electricity, sound, etc., can pass even
through steel.

"Now, if you will come this way, I will show you
an instrument which was perfected by me some years
ago, but which I no longer require to use; it may
possibly explain my meaning more fully.

"Here," said Sydney, pointing to a small instrument
which looked like a very delicate binocular
telescope, "is an invention of lenses which neutralizes
the effect of the greater part of the services of the
eye on the brain.  It is very imperfect, but it will do
as an example.  I will focus it at twenty yards from
here, and turn it in this direction.  Now what can
you see?"

I looked through, and saw a servant in the dining-room
removing some of the things off the table.

"That is a wonderful invention," I said.  "Why
have you never made it known?"

"Can you ask?" he replied.  "Just fancy what
misery such power would cause in our present
condition; what temptation it would be to evil;
what an aid it might give to cruelty.  But I do not
fancy it will ever be required, for as soon as a man
is fit to use the power, he will not require the aid
of any instrument.  The powers of vision are slowly
changing from generation to generation, in the
direction here indicated.  It is the same with regard
to hearing.  Ask any man who is acquainted with
the roar of London, if it strikes with the sense of
confusing sound.  No, he is capable quite unconsciously
of listening to a whisper, or some soft strain
of music, and being quite oblivious to the uproar
going on around.  If we for one moment were able
to hear, as people fancy they do, all sounds in
proportion to their magnitude, we should that instant
be struck deaf by the thunder of universal movement,
the tumult of unceasing vibration.  But we hear only
just as much as our natures are fitted to make use of.
With the aid of the sixth sense, we hear just as much
or just as little as we will."

He led me to another instrument.  "Put your ear
to that," he said.  "It is not a telephone, but it
answers the purpose far better.  Now concentrate
your thought on some distant sound you would like
to hear."

I thought of my own hall clock, which has a
peculiar, solemn, old-fashioned tick.  I could hear it
distinctly, and even now there came the familiar
rattling sound, then slowly it chimed a quarter past
eleven.

"Try again," my companion said.

I thought of my cottage by the sea, and wished
to hear the waves on the beach as I hear them from
my bedroom window.  I listened, but could distinguish
nothing.

"There is no sound this time," I said.

"It is low tide," he replied, "and the sea is calm.
You must will to be upon the sand."

I did so, and in a moment the little wavelets
seemed tumbling over my feet, splashing and trickling
back over the sand.  It seemed impossible that I
could be thirty miles from the sea, and nearly a
hundred from that sandy beach; for the sea on
nearly all our southern coasts, breaking as it does
on shingle, can give forth no such sweet sounds as
these.





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.. _`CHAPTER V`:

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   CHAPTER V

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In this way Alan Sydney gave me an idea of the
limitations of our present sense-organs, and how, by
superior knowledge, they may be altered and varied.
I was able to feel things at a distance that I did not
touch, and touch things near me without being able
to feel them.

"It is curious," he said to me at last, when he had
been showing some rather singular experiments with
regard to perfumes, "that the sense of smell has
been allowed to die out so much through lack of
cultivation.  I once taught a person to read quite
easily by various scents.  I made an alphabet first
of all, which he soon learned, and then by arranging
the perfumes in order he soon was able to read by
this means quite easily.  But there is a still more
curious fact that, notwithstanding our present scientific
knowledge, people talk of having five senses, even as
I have done to you for fear of confusing matters, for
there is no such thing as the sense of taste."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Taste," he replied, "is simply the combined effect
of two senses, touch and smell.  If a person loses
his sense of smelling he can only taste by feeling;
he can detect oil from water, or alcohol from vinegar,
sugar from lemon, through the effect that any of these
substances have on the more delicate nerves of feeling
which are connected with the palate.  But we will
not waste time in discussing the matter.  A few
experiments will prove it to any one who is doubtful.
I only mention it to show why I had not referred to
taste as a means of perception."

He then took me to that part of the room fitted up
as a chemical laboratory.

"Now," he said, "I am going to show you some
experiments that will surprise you far more than
anything which you have seen hitherto.  But as I
do not wish you to look upon them from the marvellous
side, it will be well to explain some of the
reasons why quite natural causes may lead apparently
to miraculous results.  For instance, you look upon
your body as an inseparable condition of life upon
earth.  It is even a question whether you do not
really regard it as an essential part of yourself
instead of seeing it is nothing more important than a
suit of clothes well fitting and adapted to the present
conditions and circumstances of your spirit.  This
latter view, though professed by most people, is but
seldom really believed in.  From the lowest to the
highest every body is formed in one way; the life, or
spirit, by its force of attraction drawing certain
material elements to its aid for the purpose of growth
and development.  As the spirit thus grows and
develops, its needs, and consequently its outward
shape, alter.  These elements, so gathered, we call our
bodies, and it is as easy to cast off these bodies and
put them on again as it is to take off or replace our
clothes.  If, however, the experiment is tried with
an imperfect knowledge it is attended with great
danger, probably with what we call loss of life.  I
will, however, show you an experiment on an animal."

He whistled, and a small bird that I had not
noticed, flew down from the top of one of the
cupboards and settled on his shoulder.  It was a tame
robin.  As my companion poured out a number of
liquids from various bottles into a glass dish, he told
me that he had tamed it about six months ago, and
that it lived chiefly out of doors and found its own
food, but that it now nearly always slept in one of
the rooms.

Taking it in his hands, he said--"As soon as its
development in this form is complete, it will die.  If
the body is injured in such a way as to make it
useless, it will find another; but there is a way of
temporarily causing a life to become dormant.  If
during that time I dissolve the body into its gaseous
particles, the life, on awaking to consciousness, will
draw these particles back into their previous shape."

Whilst he was speaking he softly stroked the bird,
and its head fell back.  When the little thing was
mesmerized he laid it down, a heap of ruffled feathers,
beside the bowl.

"That condition of trance will last one minute,"
he said, as he placed the body in the bowl.

A slight vapour rose from the liquid, and in a
moment all sign of the bird had disappeared.  I
looked into the pure watery fluid, but could see
nothing left there.

"It is over there," he said; pointing to the shelf
above me, and there the robin, without any sign of
injury, stood pluming its feathers.

"I have shown you this," he continued, "not to
convince you of the truth of what I was saying, for
of course any second-rate conjuror could apparently
bring about a similar result; but because this
illustrates an important law of nature, viz. that life,
which is indestructible, is everything, and the body
merely a temporary convenience."

"But," I said, "do you mean to tell me that the
life of a bird is eternal?"

"Everything is eternal," he replied, "and everything
is slowly progressing towards perfection."

"Yet," I answered, "do you really think that
heaven will be full of the spirits of dead birds?"

He sat down and laughed.  "For a reasonable
man," he said, "you have some of the most extraordinary,
childlike views; but I ought not to laugh,
for after all how little do any of us know; but I will
tell you what I think.

"From the lowest life in the flower to the highest
created spirit in the universe, there is one law of
growth; life meets life, uniting and strengthening.
As one atom joining apparently with others becomes
what we call a molecule, and these molecules continue
to unite and form new substances, even thus do
lives join and mingle to form more perfect life."

"Why," I exclaimed, "do you mean to say that
my life is but the amalgamation of countless other
lives?"

"You do not," he replied, "express it quite in the
way I should; but you seem to understand me.
What we call attraction, fascination, and love are the
forces that draw the kindred elements together, and
Swedenborg was, I fancy, not far wrong when he
said, 'That the man and woman spirits become one
angel in death;' so will that angel also doubtless
meet another kindred spirit and unite.  Fancy if we
could look behind us and see the millions of gathered
lives that form our own.  Truly no man can harm
another without stabbing himself, for the whole creation
groaneth and travaileth in pain together, waiting
for the redemption of the body.  If," he continued,
"you have never seen things in this light before, go
and read your Bible; it is all there though veiled in
parable from the eyes not ready yet to see: listen to
the inspired words of men in all ages, and of all
centuries; they point to the same end: study science,
each new discovery is a continual verification of the
eternity of all things, and of continued progress
through unity to power.  But come, let us return to
the subject before us, so that I may get back as soon
as possible to my story.  You do not mind spending
the night here, do you?"

I replied that I would rather spend it there than in
bed, and he continued--

"These chemical and mechanical appliances have
as little interest to me as the books in the adjoining
room, for they were but stepping-stones across a
difficulty.  I soon discovered that as my spiritual
sense grew and strengthened through use, what we
term material aids became unnecessary, and even a
hindrance.  It is well, however, that they were not
destroyed, for they may be useful as lesson books to
you."

"Do you think," I asked, "that I shall ever attain
to any of your power?"

"No," he replied, "not in this life; perhaps in the
next.  You have, to begin with, not sufficient of the
feminine element in your character; and, moreover,
you have neither the youth nor the bodily strength
to make it safe for you to try.  You would either
die or become insane in the attempt.  The strain
upon both mind and body in such a work as this is
terrible; and the cause of my success has been owing
chiefly to the careful following out of Descartes'
instructions.  He says, 'I have been unable to verify
my theory owing to bodily weakness.  A man who
wishes to succeed must be strong, and in the flower
of youth, but let him beware of neglecting the
body while he is developing his powers.  A diseased
body can never be trusted, it tricks the mind,
makes it more difficult to distinguish falsehood from
truth, and will even be the cause of illusions fatal to
success.'

"The plan I adopted from the first, was this; the
moment my study was engrossing me too completely,
or there was any sign of mental strain, I threw up
the occupation, and instead of being idle, set my
body at work.  I found riding the best of all pursuits,
it exhausted me less than walking, and at the same
time freed my thoughts more completely.  Hunting,
as you know, I have never neglected, and after
days of work I have found in the hunting-field new
life.  I often start jaded and worn out, with the
animal in me groaning and gnashing its teeth; a
little more and it would turn and rend me.  I let it
loose, it feels the cool air, the soft and pleasant
movement of the horse, which is its willing servant.  At
sight of the hounds a trembling joy passes through
both my body and the beast; they rejoice and are
glad, they feel the icy wind dash by as the welcome
cry of a find wakens them to their true life.  The danger
of which my mind is dreamily conscious, stimulates
them like new wine, the sweat pours down, and carries
the venom from their blood.  Hour after hour my
body revels in delight; what folly it perpetrates so
as not to be out-distanced; how it plays with me,
rules me, laughs at my fears, and comes back after
perhaps nine hours, like a tired dog, happy and
obedient, ready for its food and its kennel!  For
days after such a treat it is my servant, faithful,
refreshed, and purified.  The mind takes it in hand,
sucks out its renewed strength, and rejoices.

"The man who shall dare to do what I have done,
must fight thus, with, not against, his body; must let
it rule him at times, so that he may rule it more
completely.  The reason why Britain keeps her
greatness, is owing more to her sportsmen than to her
merchants, statesmen, philosophers, or divines.  But
let us go and rest; I will send you to sleep, and you
shall see as in your dreams what I saw lying
insensible after Mr. Soudin left me in my room.  It
will save me the trouble of talking, and at the same
time be more interesting to you.  But before doing so,
I will ring for some coffee."

Saying this he touched a bell, and in two or three
minutes went to one of the panels, slipped it aside,
and brought out a tray of refreshments.

"I do not care," he said, "to let any one come in
here, so I have a lift, and if I wish to stop in this
part of the house all day I can do so undisturbed."

When we had finished our coffee, we both lay down
on the couches in the recess, and the following scenes
came to me while resting.

The first picture was very beautiful.  I looked out
into a bright moonlight night; some fleecy clouds
were hanging across the sky, seen through trees that
were now nearly bare of foliage.  There was a
pleasant sound of wind passing over the forest; the
rustling of withered leaves.  I stood close by a
footpath, and could hear steps approaching; the crack of
some withered branch trodden underfoot, the rustling
of a dress, the whispering of voices.  In another
moment two figures became indistinctly visible; they
were coming toward me.  As they approached I caught
part of their conversation.  The girl was speaking.

"I don't like it at all," she said; "I am frightened.
Why could not we be married in the ordinary way?
It is horrid not having a proper wedding."

"But, dearest," the man answered, "you see it is
impossible.  Your father, you say, has told you that
he will not hear of your marrying me because he has
got into his mind that I am poor, and he insists on
your marrying that fool Sydney, whom he thinks to
be as rich as Croesus."

"But," questioned the girl, "could we not try to
get his consent?  Could you not convince him that
after all you are well off?  I am sure he would rather
I married a lord, if only he did not think you were
quite poor.  Besides, as he is rich, it would not really
matter very much."

"It will be much easier, darling, to bring him
round after the wedding, when he sees there is no
help for it.  He will be as right as possible when
once it is all over, and I introduce his daughter to
him as Lady Vancome."

They were passing as he spoke, but it caused me no
feeling of surprise that as they came near they took
no notice of me.  I was conscious that though present
I was invisible, and though a witness, powerless to
act.  I recognized them before they came near, and
thought Vera's face more ethereally lovely seen in
this pale moonlight than it seemed possible for an
earthly face to be.  The lower and weaker feature
were in shadow, the eyes that looked up to her
companion were ennobled by a sadness which added
to their depth.

Vancome, who had his arm round the girl, was
evidently somewhat agitated.  Cowardice and weakness
were expressed in every feature.  He was more
what people used to call handsome, than what
in the present day would be considered worthy of
admiration.

The girl looked round into the wood, and visibly
trembling, said--"I don't like it at all.  Suppose
some one were to see us at the station, what would
they think?  Oh, Frank, let us go back."

She stopped just opposite where I stood, and looking
straight through me, cried--"It is horrible here!
There is something there!"  And she stretched
out her arm and pointed to where I stood, and her
hand seemed to go into my heart and cut me as
though her outstretched finger had been a poignard.

The man turned, and they both stood facing me.
"Don't be foolish!" he said, looking, however,
somewhat scared.  "There is nothing but a light patch
where the moonlight falls through the opening in the
trees."

"I thought for a moment," the girl replied, "that
Alan Sydney was standing quite close to us."

Vancome laughed.  "I fancied you meant a ghost,"
he replied.  "It would be a new experience to see
the spirit of a living man, who probably at the same
time is enjoying himself behind the scenes of some
London theatre.  Take my word for it, Sydney's
spirit is not likely to forsake the limelight goddess
to come wandering after the moonlight one.  But we
shall miss our train if you stand looking for ghosts,
and it will not take us long now to get out of this
wood if we walk quickly."

As they passed the girl said--"You are quite sure
we shall have no difficulty about the licence when we
get to Liverpool?"  But the man's reply was lost in
the distance, and the scene vanished.

Then there was, as it seemed, a long pause of
darkness, till all of a sudden I found myself in a
brightly lighted room alone.  I went to the window
and looked out upon a big city; the church clock
struck the hour of eight, and the streets were full
of clerks and workpeople, evidently on their way to
business; a newsboy was shouting out, "Post!"--"Mercury!"

While standing thus wondering, the door behind
me opened, and some persons entered the room.  I
tried to turn round and look at them, but could not.
The man, whom I recognized by his voice as
Vancome, said---"Yes, this will do very well, get some
breakfast for two as soon as possible.  We shall not
stop the night, as we leave this evening by the nine
o'clock boat for America."

While listening to these words I became conscious
that I was asleep, and that for some reason it was
most important for me to get up at once.  I struggled
to open my eyes, to turn, or do anything to rouse
myself.  At last with a desperate effort I struck out
my arm, and hitting it smartly against some object,
awoke.

"Well," said Sydney, "as we have had some rest,
I will go on with my story.  You have just seen what
passed whilst I lay unconscious in my room; and it
was a little after eight on the following morning that
I awoke with an effort similar to that which you have
just experienced, only of course the scenes affected
me far more than they did you; and I roused myself
with the distinct intention of hastening to Liverpool,
and trying if possible to rescue the girl.

"While in the act of giving instructions for my
things to be packed up, Mr. Soudin in a great state
of excitement dashed into the room.  He had just
had a telegram from his wife, saying that Vera had
on the afternoon of the previous day walked over to
see some friends.  The carriage had been sent to
fetch her, but the coachman brought back word that
she had started to walk home about seven o'clock;
and since that nothing had been seen or heard of her.

"'I am going to the north at once,' he said.  'Will
you come and help?'

"I replied that though anxious to help, I expected
to be of more service in taking steps independently.

"He tried to persuade me to alter my determination,
but seeing that I was fixed upon it, left to catch
his train.

"'It is possible,' I said, 'that you may see Vera
back to-morrow about this time; and if she comes,
deal kindly with her, and remember that nothing
which has happened will make any difference to my
intentions.'

"'I believe,' he replied, 'either that you are mad,
or know something of this.'

"'I may be mad,' I answered, 'but don't forget.'

"I arrived at Liverpool later than I expected, and
having no knowledge of the town, thought it would
be safer to discover which boat started at nine, and
watch that rather than risk hunting for the hotel.  I,
however, drove first to the house of a friend of mine,
Mrs. Freshfield, who lived at Woolton, a suburb a few
miles outside the city.  I briefly explained my position,
also that of the girl, and her kindly heart was soon
roused to help me if possible.

"'Why don't you communicate with the police?' she said.

"'I shall,' I replied, 'as a last resource, but hope to
be able to work without their assistance, so as to
avoid making any scandal.'

"She was also very anxious to know how the plot
had been discovered, but, not wishing to tell her, I
excused myself on the ground of time, and receiving
her promise to wait for me at a certain place near the
docks from eight to nine, I left, and hurried back to
the city to complete my arrangements.

"It was now past five, and already growing dusk,
as I went to a private detective office, and requested
to see the chief officer.  When told briefly the facts of
the case, he seemed very doubtful whether the law
could help me if the girl was leaving of her own will.

"I replied that if so the law was iniquitous, which
he seemed to think very probable; at the same time
the fact did not help us.  But when I pointed out
that this was a case in which money was of no
consequence, and that if it should cost £5000 it must be
done, he immediately altered his tone.

"'You have come to the right place,' he said, his
face visibly brightening, 'for we act for the public, not
for the Government, and money can do pretty well
anything.  Are you prepared to swear, if necessary,
to an indictable offence against this man?'

"I told him I would swear anything rather than
that harm should happen to the girl.

"'You will not mind leaving a guarantee in the
way of money?' he asked.

"I satisfied him on this point also.

"Finally it was arranged that if I could not get
Vera away secretly, he should be prepared to have
Vancome arrested.  He, however, warned me that we
were running a considerable risk, and let me fully
understand that he intended to deny all knowledge of
my real motives.

"Having settled this matter, I went down to the
docks, found out the vessel and waited.

"It was a beautiful night, calm and clear, with a
slight mist lying over the Mersey.  As I waited
watching the vessels pass and repass, the moon rose
and lit up the broad expanse of water.  The sands in
the direction of Waterloo were nearly covered, and
looking westward the river spread out as if to
welcome the opening sea.  I cursed the ocean as I
thought that it might so soon have been the means of
bearing away one I loved from every helping hand.
I pictured Vera when she realized the truth, looking
out over the cruel waste of water, helpless,
compromised, and too weak to struggle against her fate;
a fate which probably she would only half comprehend
or realize.  Some passengers were already on the
steamer.  She might even now be there.  I walked
across the landing-stage to the vessel, but could see
no sign of either of the fugitives.

"The time passed; I grew anxious.  Could there
be some mistake?  At last, utterly unnerved, I sat
down, and my heart cried out, 'Vera!  Vera! come,
oh, come! that I may save you.'

"A hand touched me on the shoulder.  I looked up,
the girl was standing over me; she had in her eyes
a strange far-away look as though she were walking
in her sleep.

"'You called me,' she said, 'but I must not wait,
for my husband told me on no account to leave the
berth until the ship had started.'

"I made no audible reply, but willing her to follow
me, left the ship.  Passing across the bridge I saw my
detective waiting.

"'Keep the money,' I whispered.

"He saluted, and we passed on, the girl still following
close behind me.  I led the way to where Mrs. Freshfield
had promised to wait, and found her in a
state of great excitement.  When, however, she saw
Vera a look of relief passed over her face, and the
kind-hearted woman went up, took the girl in her
arms and kissed her as if she had been a long-lost
child of her own.

"'Vera,' I said, bringing all my power to bear
upon her, 'I want you to go home with this lady at
once; do you understand?'

"'Yes, go home,' she answered in a weary,
uninterested voice.

"I took her hands in mine, bent over and kissed
her.  'Forget,' I whispered, 'all that has happened
in the last thirty hours, and hate, hate, hate Vancome.'

"I said good-bye to my friend, made her promise
to take Vera to her home at once, and left them.

"A frenzy of delight passed through me; for the
moment I was mad.  Though I had touched no
food for thirty hours, I did not experience any feeling
of hunger.  I was hungry only for revenge.  I would
go back to the ship, would see the man's look of
baffled rage and anger; would laugh at him, mock
him, torture him.  I began to run, and still in this
mood regained the landing-place, and pressing my
way past a crowd of people, who were leaving the
vessel, went on board.  Where was he?  I thought of
nothing else, cared for nothing, but to look at his
face, to taunt him.  I heard whistles blowing, shouts,
the motion of the engine, but cared for nothing.  I
would find him.  If the worst came to the worst it
would be possible to get off at Queenstown.  What
did anything matter now that Vera was safe!

"But with regard to Queenstown I was mistaken.
Vancome had planned his elopement some little time
before, and with more forethought and care than I
should have expected of him.  The vessel he had
chosen was making an experimental time journey,
with special pilots on board, and did not stop
anywhere this side of the Atlantic.

"While I was thus frantically searching for the
enemy, he was quietly enjoying a cigar in the smoking-saloon,
in the full confidence that Vera was in hiding,
according to instructions, in the state cabin, which he
had engaged.  When his cigar was finished and the
ship well on its way, he walked over to the cabin with
the intention of releasing his captive; but finding
she had already gone, and supposing that, the ship
being in motion, she had considered herself free, he
sauntered quietly up the ladder expecting to find her
on deck.  Thus it happened that we met at last face
to face.

"The moment I saw him my excitement left me,
and I became calm and collected.  He evidently
knew nothing as yet, and I enjoyed the pleasure of
playing with him before dealing the final blow.
Besides, it would be safer to keep him from knowing the
worst till we were out of the Mersey and in the open
sea, for I thought that probably the river pilot would
leave before long, and my foe might get permission
to accompany him on shore, in which case the safety
of my plans might be slightly endangered.  Assuming,
therefore, a natural surprise, I said--

"'Well, who would have expected to meet you here?'

"He glared at me for a moment, then, feeling that
it was necessary to say something, answered, 'You
cannot be more surprised than I am to see you, for I
thought you were in London.  But you must excuse
me a moment.'  He hurried forward, and I saw him
looking intently across the deck, scanning all the
passengers with the evident expectation of seeing Vera.

"I watched, with a smile on my face.  Having
satisfied himself that she was not on deck, he came
back to me, and I suggested that we should go into
the smoking-room.

"He thought for a moment, and then, evidently
fancying that it would be the safest plan to keep me
out of the way of discovering anything for the
present, assented.

"The room was unoccupied, and we sat down
opposite each other.  He was evidently debating as
to which was the best course to pursue.  He could
not keep Vera in hiding through the voyage, and
therefore was certain to be found out.  I could hardly
restrain my laughter at his view of the position.
What would he say when he discovered that her place
had been taken by me?  This suggested an idea.

"'I suppose,' I said, 'you cannot help me?  I came
on board at the last moment and have not yet engaged
a berth.  There is not a spare one in your cabin?'

"'*Damned if there is!*' he thought; but he only
said after a little hesitation, 'No, it is occupied.'

"'Now look here,' I continued, 'you will never
guess why I came here; it is such fun, you will enjoy
the situation, but you must keep it quiet.  I have run
off with some one else's wife!' and I burst out in
loud laughter.

"He looked relieved, patted me on the back, and
began to whistle.  'What about the cabin?' he said,
laughing.

"'Oh!' I replied (having in truth forgotten all
about it), 'that was my little joke.'

"'*Then,*' he thought, '*I need not mind about him
now, and may as well make a dean breast of it!*'  'I
hope you have not run off with mine,' he said.  'You
see I cannot now quite approve of these actions, I
am a married man myself.'

"'A married man!' I exclaimed, trying to look
more surprised than I felt, at what I supposed was a
lie.

"'Look at that,' he continued, and drew from his
pocket a copy of a marriage-licence dated that day at
a registry office in Liverpool.

"It was--I could not be mistaken, the names and
particulars were clear, though Vera's age had been
inaccurately stated as twenty-one.  I can see the
paper distinctly at this moment, every cursed line.
My brain reeled, and shouting out,--'My lie is true.
I have run away with some one else's wife--your
wife,' I fell forward on the floor insensible.

"On recovering I found that I had been placed in
a cabin by myself, and was under the doctor's hands.
It required but little power of thought-reading to
discover that he regarded me as an escaped and rather
dangerous lunatic, an opinion which I felt to be
not far from correct.  The position was ridiculous in
the extreme.  Following the dictates of my
partially-developed powers, I had formed an erroneous view;
rescued a girl against her will from her own husband,
and was now taking a needless voyage in her place to
America.  I wondered what Vancome thought of it
all, and had not long to wait before discovering, as he,
having obtained permission from the doctor, appeared
later on in the day.

"I hated him more than ever, but at the same time
was anxious to discuss matters.

"After closing the door, he sat down, saying, 'What
in the devil's name is the meaning of all this?'

"'Perhaps,' I said, 'you will tell me first of all
what you have done, then I will tell you what I have
done, and possibly the meaning may come.'

"'Firstly,' he exclaimed, 'will you explain how you
can have run off with my wife when you are here, and
she is not?  Where is she?'

"I felt aggravated, and therefore inclined to be
aggravating.  'I left her,' I answered, 'as you know is
generally the end of man's inconsistency in this case.'

"'This is ridiculous!' he replied, a dangerous light
coming into his eyes.  'If you don't take care you
will tempt me too far!'

"I felt nothing would please me more than to get
him to murder me, then after he had been hanged Vera
might go free.

"'I hope,' I said, 'you like your wedding trip,
you coward.  Who, half drunken with the father's
wine, made a stage-play scene for the benefit of his
child, when her very innocence should have protected
her?  Who lied about his private property, when he
was in reality a beggar and will soon be a bankrupt?
Who at last decided to marry in the hope of living
on his wife's fortune?'

"He had come nearer and was now standing over
me; his hand was on my throat; but for his natural
cowardice he would have strangled me.  His eyes
glared down with fiendish anger!

"'You devil!' he cried, 'for devil I believe you are!
Curse you!  Curse you!'

"'I have still a trifle of news left, it may be a
comfort for you to reflect upon it,' I said.  'Mr. Soudin
is as badly off as you are.  I heard the newsboy
shouting that an unlimited bank has failed in which he is
considerably interested.  Probably if your mortgagees
are merciful he may be bankrupt before you even now!'

"Vancome looked at me for a moment, then, seeming
satisfied that as I knew so much it might be safe to
rely upon me even in this, sank back in his chair.  The
last blow had tamed him.  He was not only robbed
of his wife, but what to him seemed far worse, utterly
ruined, with or without her; cut off from his
long-cherished hope of redeeming his fortune by marriage.
I felt toward him almost a sensation of pity.

"After a pause he muttered, 'I cannot believe it!
Some one told me that Soudin was very wealthy--a
regular miser, rolling in gold!  Look here,' he
continued, turning to me, but the anger had left his face.
'Tell me plainly, how do you know all these things?
How did you know we were here?  What have you
done with Vera?  And why in the name of fortune
are you travelling with me to America?'

"I should have been a good deal puzzled to reply
to the last question, and had no intention of answering
the three others, so I remained silent.  At this
moment the doctor entered, and I expressed a wish
to speak to him alone.  Vancome left us evidently
unwillingly.

"'I see from your manner,' I said to the doctor,
'that you believe me to be insane.  I must therefore
try to convince you that this is not the case, though
you were quite justified in accepting the view you did.
I came on board this ship hoping to find out
something of great importance.  During my search the
vessel started.  I then heard very bad news, and
having in my excitement not tasted food for many hours,
I fainted.  Will you let the captain know, however,
that I am well provided with money, and willing to
pay for the best accommodation possible?'

"I took out my pocket-book and handed him a card,
and at the same time drawing out a roll of notes which
represented over £2000.  I had brought this money
with me for the purpose of bribery, for had I found
it necessary to resort to that expedient, ready cash
would have been required.

"The sight of the money had more effect in
satisfying the doctor that he had not to deal with an
escaped lunatic than any words could have done;
but I noticed he was meditating on the probability of
my being an escaped thief instead.  However, having
apparently decided that such matters were out of his
line of business, and seeing a good chance of being
paid for his services, his manner changed, and he
became the friendly practitioner.

"I was soon supplied with a few requisites for the
journey and also moved to very comfortable quarters;
but I was most anxious to get an opportunity of
returning at once to England.  In the evening I
consulted the captain, but though I offered a large
reward if he could put me on a homebound vessel,
he declined to stop the ship on her trial trip.

"Fortune nevertheless favoured me.  We had been
talking for some time, and it was well on into the
night.  The sea was smooth, though a gentle westerly
breeze was blowing.  The passengers had retired for
the night.

"'How much did you say you were prepared to
give?' he asked presently.

"I saw he was wavering, and doubled the sum.

"'Well,' he said looking out, 'if I am not mistaken,
that is a Southampton schooner in the distance.
Will you swear to keep the matter dark if I get you
on board?'

"I assented.

"'Do you know any one on this vessel?' he then asked.

"'Only one man,' I replied, 'and he will be less
surprised at my disappearance than he was at my
appearance.  He believes I am a magician.'

"'We will chance it,' he said.  'You are not a
passenger, and the whole business can be done in ten
minutes.'

"He gave some instructions and signalling went on.
Then he crossed to one of the mates, with whom he
had a private conversation, which led to a boat being
got ready.  The schooner had tacked and was
coming quickly towards us.

"'It is all right,' the officer said.  'I know the
Captain of this ship, and my mate will explain to him
that you are willing to pay £100 for your trip to
Southampton.  He will keep the matter dark.  Good-bye!'

"The steamer had slackened, and we glided noiselessly
toward the sailing ship.  As the boat was lowered
I handed the speaker a handful of notes.  In less than
five minutes I was on board the schooner, and before
the week was out, in London."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER VI`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VI

.. vspace:: 2

"I found among the letters waiting attention, one
from Mr. Soudin, thanking me most warmly for my
action in saving his daughter from Lord Vancome,
to whom he referred in language that hardly bears
repetition.  It was a diplomatic letter, striving to
shield Vera as much as possible, and endeavouring
to make out that she had not only left home against
her will, but even hinting that she had been drugged,
as he said that since her return with Mrs. Freshfield
she had been unable to give any account of
what had happened, and that she evidently looked
upon Vancome with absolute detestation.  This
satisfied me that the influence which I had exercised
had been successful, and the girl remembered nothing
about the marriage.  It was also plain that her father
had no idea of the truth.  You may well conceive
that my position was both a painful and difficult one.
I decided to go at once to Scotland, and hoped that
during the journey I might be able to form some
plans for future action.

"There was also a note from Mr. Marsden, saying
that his scheme was progressing favourably, and
that he considered it would be better to make Lord
Vancome a bankrupt; he had got possession of all
his bills, and now only awaited instructions before
taking final action.

"Without replying to either of the letters, I
started for the North by the night train, and slept
nearly the whole time, instead of devoting it to
unravelling the entangled skein, which was probably
the better plan, for I was thoroughly tired.
Consequently I arrived at Heather Lodge refreshed, but
without having the least idea of what course to
pursue.

"Mr. Soudin had gone out, and I found Vera sitting
alone, engaged in reading a novel.  She seemed
pleased to see me, and we sat for some time talking
on trivial matters, which gave me an opportunity of
reading her thoughts, and thus finding out whether
the memory of her journey to Liverpool had returned.
With some relief I soon discovered that, though she
had a dim remembrance of having intended to run
away from home with Vancome, and of a journey
with some unknown lady, the intervening period was
still a blank; and, moreover, that she had been
persuaded even this remembrance was but a delusion
owing to illness.  After her return she had suffered
from a slight fever, brought on no doubt by the
excitement; and during recovery it was easy to
make her believe that what remembrance she retained
was simply the effect of delirium.  Though she now
disliked Vancome, it was not difficult to perceive that
she had not forgotten our former quarrel.  Her father
had apparently been urging her strongly to accept
my suit and had prevailed, but there was no sign
that she loved me; and this fact, considering the
strange position in which we were placed, ought to
have caused me more relief than it did.

"I found it impossible to convince my heart that,
considering the circumstances, such a husband had
any right over this girl; though at the same time
I fully realized how all hope of my marrying her
was at an end, and that my love must in future be
unselfish, desiring neither any return of affection nor
other reward.

"You may think that from the time I became
acquainted with the marriage, it was my duty to
stamp out all feeling of affection and accept this as
a sign that I had previously been mistaken in supposing
our lives were for all time to influence each other,
or that I was still responsible for the girl's future.  In
fact, considering her character, one so placed might
well, from a selfish point of view, have rejoiced in
regaining freedom from a burden that could only
bring pain and trouble through life.  Such views
have become the accepted canons of society, and in
most cases it would be foolish to fight against them.
Marriage in itself is a wise law fitted to the present
condition of our lower animal natures, and to tamper
with it is not only a dangerous, but a retrograde
step.  For it shadows forth the nobler union of souls,
and in some few cases may even bring a foretaste of
future joy.

"On the other hand, it is equally false to assume
that this legal or so-called religious tie has any
necessary spiritual significance; and while at the
present day the bond is often held too lightly, there
are some, who, conscious of nobler feelings and
aspirations, regard wedlock as a divine union of souls.
This view, though correct as an ideal, finds too seldom
its realization; hence arises no little confusion of
ideas and much unnecessary trouble of heart.  The
scoffers ask, with the Sadducees of old, which man's
wife shall such a one be in the resurrection, forgetting
that the body is nothing, and that the passions of the
body are nothing but the trivialities of a transitory
condition.  Such things are intended to seem
important to us whilst on earth; and bear an apparent
significance out of all proportion to their spiritual
importance.  Thus we live in a world full of
heaven-sent delusions.  No observation of other lives can
destroy them, for each man or woman must learn the
lesson by experience.

"Think of all that has been written and all that
has been said about love, and yet how year by year
we see the same picture reproduced.  When first a
girl attracts a youth, or may be a man of mature
years, what are his feelings?  If only he can get
her to consent to be his wife, he believes that his
whole existence must be changed to one of joy;
that in her company all other interests will be as
nothing; that it must be impossible to tire of her
presence, to be a moment absent from her without
pain, that they will in fact continue lovers to the end.
If he looks round on his married acquaintances it is
nothing to him that he can find no such state of
existence; others can never have felt as he feels, for
no one had like cause.  He may be half conscious
that he is being tricked by his emotions, but he prefers
not to question his mind on the subject.  Nature
is too strong for reason, and having her work to
accomplish, fulfils her mission."

I was surprised to hear Sydney speaking in this
way, and interrupted him by asking if he did not
believe in the possibility of an enduring and true love
on earth.

"Yes," he replied, "most certainly; but not in
this fascination lasting.  True love can only be
tested by those who have learned the lesson of
self-renunciation.  If you wish to know whether you love
or not, face these questions--Is it for myself this
possession is desired, or am I striving only for the
happiness of the one beloved?  Should she change,
and the beauty, if there is beauty, turn to the most
repulsive ugliness; her apparent saintliness to sin;
her affection to hatred, or her sanity to madness,
should I still love her?  If you can truly say this,
and have sufficient imagination to realize fully the
meaning of the change, yours is love; and if in after
times, when trial comes, your self-confidence leaves
you, such love may even then rest assured it is eternal,
because it is of God.  But we see this devotion more
often exhibited in the passion of parent for child
than in love between man and wife.  The reason of
this being that the latter relationship begins with the
expectation of a love to be returned, and the former
with a ministry of tenderness which can at the time
receive no active response.  It is ever owing to
seemingly adverse circumstances that the finer qualities
of man's nature are drawn forth, and I have more
reason to be thankful for the misery and perplexity
which my love for Vera brought into my life than
for all the hours of happiness which I have known.
Much, however, as we may appreciate these disguised
blessings in retrospect, it does not make them more
agreeable to pass through; and this time which I
spent at Heather Lodge was perhaps, with one
exception, the most miserable period of my life.

"I felt that it was absolutely necessary to take the
first opportunity of letting Mr. Soudin know the
truth.  As soon as he returned, and I had a chance
of speaking to him alone, I started on the unpleasant
task.  He listened patiently to the outline of the
story till I came to the marriage-licence, then turning
livid with anger he lost all self-control.

"'I don't believe it!' he said.  'It is outrageous--monstrous!
Why, the girl's not of age.  He would
have been bound to get my consent.  You must know
that the thing's out of the question!'

"When I explained that the age had been altered,
he grew still more furious.

"'I'll have him up for perjury!' he cried.  'Get
the marriage annulled, for after all it was never
consummated; the thing's preposterous.  He drugs the
girl, gets her into his power, commits perjury, and
hopes thereby to live on me for the rest of his life;
but he is mistaken; the thing shall be put right at
once!'

"As soon as he was a little calmer I tried to reason
with him, and show that it would be no easy matter
to prove that Vera was not a consenting party.

"'Had you not better,' I asked, 'go to Liverpool,
and see the registrar before whom the marriage took
place, and also examine the signatures?  A prosecution
for perjury might possibly fall upon your daughter
if you are not careful how you act.'

"At last he consented to take the course suggested,
on the condition that I did not leave until
his return, and the following morning he started for
Liverpool.

"I was left practically alone with Vera, her mother
being still confined nearly all day to her room.  I
decided to let my powers, as far as possible, lie
dormant, and to watch her only as I should have
done before the development of my new sense; to
see her as any other man might, and endeavour to
judge how much of her inner character was obvious
to those who came in contact with her in ordinary life.

"It is always easy thus to throw off a possession
that has been recently acquired, and it is often a
relief to do so.  My animal nature gained in
strength the moment it was released from the new
spiritual bondage.  Moreover, my companion seemed
conscious of a similar relief; I had never seen her
so bright and happy; she became at once a merry,
playful child, recklessly mischievous and fascinatingly
coquettish.

"In the afternoon, the day after my arrival, we
walked together over the moors to a little village by
the sea.  Though the autumn was now far advanced,
it was one of those Indian summer days in which
each act of breathing becomes a separate joy, when
every soft breath of wind helps to intoxicate the
brain.  I felt as if with every mile I walked a year
of life dropped from me, till, when we reached the
seashore, I had arrived at boyhood and had cast away
all care, all thoughts of the past.

"The girl beside me was no longer the wife of an
enemy, but my child-playfellow; our spirits acted
and reacted upon each other.  We were alone with
the seagulls and the waves.  The cries of the former
and the music of the latter harmonized with the
reckless exultation that overwhelmed us.  Barefooted we
waded in the chilly water, or chased each other over
the warm sand with laughter and shouting.  Among
the rocks and caves we hunted for curious
sea-creatures, sadly missing our childhood's buckets in
which to place the captives.  Near at hand was a
rocky basin, which became our aquarium; hither we
brought, with mingling sounds of exultation and fear,
the wriggling captives, pride in each new treasure
demanding appreciation from the less fortunate.

"The clear pool was soon teeming with live creatures
thus reluctantly brought into close contact, and through
the forest of delicate seaweed we watched some fierce
and deadly battles; whilst the more lymphatic species
lay around, allowing their bodies with equal
complacency to be made the stepping-stones to victory
or the shelter from defeat.

"Thus in childish pleasure the hours went by, till,
tired out with our play, we sat down side by side
to rest.

"'Whatever would people think if they could see
us?' Vera said, covering up her bare feet in the
warm sand.

"It may have been her action, or something in the
tone of her voice.  In a moment the happy, boyish
feeling left me.  The years began to hurry back, the
innocent pleasure to fade, and in its place the passion
of manhood came with overwhelming power, baffling
and mocking me.  I looked at my companion--child-playmate
no longer.  Her face was flushed, her uncovered
head a mass of soft, light, waving curls; her
eyes sparkled with merry mischief, but beneath the
mischief there was that look I had surprised before,
the reflection of my own feeling on the girl's nature;
but how differently did it affect me now!  When first I
had seen it, Vera had promised to be my wife; now she
was the wife of another.  It seemed almost incredible
that a mere legal formality, such as her marriage had
been, could so entirely alter our relationship; but
still stranger how the knowledge of this alteration
strengthened all the lower passions of my nature, at
the expense of the higher.  Every feeling that had
hitherto been sanctified by love was now sacrilege
against that love.  I made a desperate effort to regain
the mastery over my weakness; but, alas!  I had
kindled a new fire of temptation.

"Vera came close to me, and laying her hand on
mine, said--'Alan, I think that I will forgive you,
after all.  I like you better to-day than ever before.'

"What had I done?  My object having been to
help this girl, my want of success was pitiable.
Having deprived her of the knowledge of her marriage,
and caused her to hate her husband, I was now bringing
her once more beneath the influence of a passion
which could only end in misery and degradation.
Yet, as I looked at her, it seemed impossible to
withstand the temptation of taking her once more, if only
once, into my arms.  She was waiting for my kiss
of reconciliation; and more than this, of the torrent
of love long restrained.  I was powerless, and
knowing that no strength of my own could save me, with
one last cry for help, I gave over the contest.  At the
same instant I was free.

"Of all the strange mysteries connected with our
nature, nothing is more remarkable than what is
called the efficacy of prayer.  As long as a man fights
against his temptations he but increases their force,
especially in such a contest as this.  But should his
will be really against the temptation, a path is always
open.  Let him once acknowledge his own weakness,
and allow for a moment his spirit to cry for assistance,
and he will find himself lifted from the burden of the
body, in a way that those who have never experienced
the sensation would think impossible.  One thing
only is necessary, but that is essential: the cry must
be an honest desire of the heart, and not a weak
prompting of habit.

"It is not that strength to resist the evil is sent as
an answer to the prayer, but that the temptation is
utterly removed, the force of the body being, as it
were, for the time annihilated; so at least have I ever
found it, and so it proved in this case.  I could look
now at my companion without fear, and love her with
a love that I knew was innocent.  The very
remembrance of my past thoughts filled me with a
wondering horror.  Summoning all my strength of will, I
strove to recall to her mind the page which had been
obliterated, and to bring back her natural feeling
towards Vancome, which had changed to hatred.

"Whilst doing this, I repeated the story, hoping
thereby to assist her memory, but, from a then
unknown reason, I failed utterly, and the only impression
which she formed was that I had gone mad.  When
I tried to take her hand in mine so as to gain more
influence over her will, she rose and left me.

"I could see her in the distance evidently getting
ready to start for home.  I dared not follow her,
knowing that had I done so, she would in her fear
have run bare-headed and bare-footed over the moor,
rather than let me come near her.

"She, however, seemed undecided in her mind, and
for the first time that day I began to be conscious of
her thoughts.  Seeing that I had made no attempt to
follow her, or to exhibit any further signs of insanity,
the sudden fear had evidently diminished, and she
began to fancy that probably I had only been fooling
her for the pleasure of seeing if she could be made to
believe the story.  At length, being satisfied that this
was the explanation, she began to walk slowly towards
the place where I was sitting, and then called to me,
saying that it was time to go back.  I answered that
I was quite ready, but that it seemed a pity to go so
soon.  My voice still further reassuring her, she came
and looked over the rock, saying--

"'So you thought you could take me in with that
rubbish, did you?'

"'Well,' I replied, 'that was my intention, but as
it's evidently of no use, I must give in.  Your
imagination is not so easily influenced as I thought.'

"'I should think not,' she said.  'But you acted
very well, and I really thought for the moment you
had gone mad.  It was very nasty of you to spoil our
happy day in that manner.  I suppose you did it in
revenge.'

"'No, I did not, dear,' I answered.  'But come and
sit down.  We will say no more about it.'

"She did as I asked her, protesting all the while
that I was a brute; but in five minutes I had managed
to change the subject, and to get her to take my
hand.  Then without speaking I willed her to sleep.
Slowly she leant further back; her head sank down,
and in less than a minute she was quite unconscious.

"There would, I now knew, be no difficulty in
impressing on her mind what had previously been
obliterated, and moreover, there was plenty of time to
consider whether it might not be well to keep her still
in ignorance of some part of her experience with
Vancome.  But thinking the matter over, I decided
it would not under the circumstances be right to
interfere with the past.  So I willed her to remember
all, and to awake with the same feelings towards her
husband as those which she felt before she left the
ship; moreover, that she should not only understand
what course I had pursued, but my reason for pursuing
it, and my ignorance of the marriage.

"In her hypnotic condition she was able to answer
my questions, and I felt satisfied that when she
recovered, she would be able clearly to recall the past.

"Once more I laid my hand over her eyes, and bade
her sleep, it being easier and safer to recall the patient
to a natural condition, from a state of placid, rather
than active, mesmerism.  But on trying to rouse her,
I was again destined to failure.  It was impossible
to bring her back to consciousness, or even to influence
her now in any way.  She lay in one of those
cataleptic trances, which no power then known could
break, and which form the chief danger connected
with all such experiments.  Even now, though I
should have little difficulty in dealing with a case of
this kind, I should be loath, except in emergency, or
where the life of the body was endangered, to recall
the spirit which is for the time free from its bodily
trammels.  But in those days I was unable to do so.

"At length alarmed, I took her in my arms and
carried her to the little fishing village, where with
some difficulty I managed to find a vehicle to drive
back to Heather Lodge.  It is not necessary for me
to go into the details of the two anxious days which
followed.  During this time all the efforts, not only
of the local doctor, but of two consulting physicians,
had no effect in rousing Vera from her unnatural
sleep.  On the third day, however, she awoke, and
seemed little the worse for her experience.

"Mr. Soudin had, in the meantime, returned in a
state of the greatest despondency, and as soon as the
news of his daughter's recovery had relieved my mind
of an anxiety, which had made it impossible for me
to think of other matters, I had a long talk with him.

"His pride and reserve were broken, and I was
relieved to find that he intended to make a full
confession of his present monetary difficulties.  In
Liverpool his worst fears were realized.  Not only had he
seen Vera's signature, but the registrar had told him
that as far as it was possible to judge, his daughter
acted without the slightest constraint, and had seemed
perfectly reasonable and collected.  'She had given
her age as twenty-one, on oath, and had answered all
his questions rationally.  A solicitor, when consulted,
had given Mr. Soudin little hope of the marriage
being annulled, and had warned him that while the
action would probably lead to no good, it might
possibly end in his daughter and son-in-law being
arrested for perjury.  If, however, he continued, she
possessed means of her own, it might be wise to make
an application to have this money settled upon her.

"'Money!' cried Mr. Soudin, after repeating the
lawyer's words, 'it is little use troubling about that.
Not only has she not a penny, but I may as well tell
you at once she never will have.  I am ruined!' and
saying this he broke down, burying his face in his hands.

"'I knew this,' I replied, 'some time ago.  You
might as well have shown sufficient confidence in me
to mention it before; knowing that I should, for your
child's sake, have been only too glad to help you.
But I suppose it seemed safer to let the marriage
take place first.'

"'It's all very well,' he gasped, still shaken with
the sobs which he could not suppress, 'for you to
talk in that way now that the marriage is impossible,
and you are free to leave us all in our misery!
Generosity, I have found, is only to be trusted when
the personal interest of the giver is securely tied up
with that of the recipient.'

"I felt inclined to retort that he, in common with
most men, judged others from the standpoint which
he had adopted for personal usage, but the abject
misery of the man, and the fact that he was the
father of Vera, restrained me, and I said--

"'It is useless to talk of the past, which is
irrevocable.  The question to decide is what can be done
in the future.'

"'The workhouse is open,' he muttered, 'and I
can hardly see how the matter can interest you.
Vancome is a beggar--we are all beggars.  A curse
has come upon us since you first entered the house,
and I sometimes think that you brought it.  You
seem to possess some damnable power which I
neither understand nor wish any longer to experience.
It will be a relief to know that you have left the
house.'

"'I feel sure you will later on regret such an
accusation,' I answered, 'considering that you bought
your bank shares before you ever saw me, and that the
bank has been insolvent for years.  Moreover, as you
know, I did all in my power to prevent your daughter
from marrying Lord Vancome.  I have, however, a
proposition to make.  It seems quite clear that I
cannot marry Vera, but there is no reason why I
should not be able to help her.  She is now Lady
Vancome, and though her husband is penniless, the
property which he once owned is in my hands, and
will before long be legally transferred to me.  I have
thought the matter carefully over, and decided on
certain conditions to settle these estates upon your
daughter for life.  The income which she will derive
from them will be sufficient not only to enable her
to keep up Vancome's late home, but also to live
there very comfortably.'

"My companion was staring at me in blank amazement,
and at last he said--'But to be candid, what
are you to gain by this sacrifice?  You can hardly
expect me to believe that you intend to hand over
property worth £100,000 for the benefit of a man
you hate.'

"I did not reply for a moment; it was not the
man's words but his thoughts which made me mad
with rage; for I saw that he had not only placed
the worst motive on my action, but that in his
extremity he was prepared to accept my offer even
at the price of his daughter's honour.

"Seeing that I was silent, he continued--'Of course
you will have to pay Vancome an allowance for
keeping out of the way.'  Then a bright idea seemed
to strike him, and he continued--'Why not pay him
a good round sum to run off with some one else, and
let us get a divorce?  It is only a matter of price,
and desertion is as good a plea as cruelty.'

"'This may be your idea of what is best,' I said,
'but somehow it does not appeal to me, nor would
it fit in with my plans.  I am going to consult my
lawyer; and if it should be necessary, so as to make
it easy for your daughter to protect herself, as well
as the property, from her husband, I may have to
make Vancome an allowance.  But should Vera desire
it, I shall place no obstacle in the way of his
returning to his old home; my only wish is to leave her
independent.  As soon as these arrangements are
made, I shall go abroad, and it is hardly probable
you will see me again for some years.'

"Having said this, and feeling it would be
impossible to restrain my temper any longer, I left the
room.  Had I remained with Mr. Soudin I should
most likely have read some of the plans which he
doubtless then was formulating, and so have been
able to guard Vera more wisely, and prevent much
of the evil which followed.

"I felt utterly depressed and puzzled.  Little as I
had cared for or believed in this man, the coarse
selfishness of his nature, the want of even natural
affection nauseated me.  Life itself, mankind, the
Creator of all things, seem degraded by the very
existence of such a being.  As the unselfish love of
a father for his child is the chosen illustration of
Godhead, so one in whom there is no sign of this
love stands on the outer edge of darkness; doubly
damned by the chaos into which he has wandered,
and the reckless disregard of that one pure ray which
might have been his salvation.

"The next day, before leaving for London, I had a
long talk with Vera.  She was now able to remember
all that had passed during her absence from home,
and was evidently very nervous, wondering how I
should receive her after what had happened.

"'Mr. Sydney,' she began, 'I suppose you hate
me, and perhaps your hatred is deserved.  I can only
say that I am very sorry for acting towards you in
this way, and wish you good-bye.'

"'I am not angry with you, Vera,' I replied.  'We
all must live to a certain extent as our natures lead
us.  Tell me, do you love your husband?'

"'I am not sure,' she answered; 'I suppose so, or
I should not have consented to run away with him;
but you see it seems long ago, and as I knew him
for so short a time, it is difficult to be certain.  It
was wrong of you to make me forget all about the
marriage, but you thought you were doing it for
the best.  How could you fancy that I should
have gone with him if we had not been married first?'

"'I thought he might have deceived you in some
way,' I said.  'But I acknowledge that my act was
wrong, and ask your forgiveness.  I have done all
that is possible to make amends, but your father will
explain about these details; and remember I shall
always be ready to help you in any way.  You will
not forget, will you, that whatever happens I am your
friend, and if you send for me I will come at once?'

"I was placing all the restraint I could on my
manner, but I felt sick and giddy with the strain.
At no time before had I loved this girl as now, when
I had to leave her.  She seemed to be conscious of
this, but did not take the right way to help me, for
coming nearer, and laying her hand on my arm, she
said--

"'Alan, must you go?  I want you to be near
me.  When you are by, I feel stronger and better,
and oh! at times I am so lonely; the world seems so
cold, so big, so evil, and I can trust you.  Do stop,
any way, till my husband comes back; that is the
least you might do, considering that it was through
your action we were parted.'

"'I dare not!' I answered.  'If it is pain to part
now, how much worse it would be for me then!  Can
you not see also that it would be taking an unfair
advantage of your husband?  What I did at first, was
done ignorantly, and it was necessary after that to
undo as much of the evil as possible, but now I ought
to go.'

"'Oh!  I don't know what I shall do!' she cried,
and the tears began to come into her eyes.

"I might have been excused for thinking that at
last she loved me; but I was not mistaken, I knew
her nature too well.  Such a girl might weep upon
her lover's neck, feeling for the moment as though
her heart were breaking; and the next week under
other influence throw him over for some one near at
hand, with the most formal apology, and feeling
hardly a sensation of pain.  I felt sure that as soon
as I had left, she would forget, but the knowledge
did not bring, as perhaps it should have done, relief;
rather it added to my pain.  What hold could
any one have upon such an undeveloped character?
In all such cases we can only wait till the spirit
is born.  A flower is beautiful, we see it opening
its delicate coloured petals in the sunlight; the
fairy butterfly is hovering near, bearing the germ
of fruition, but it passes by, and we must wait.  As
some blossoms, once as beautiful as their more fortunate
neighbours, fall to the ground, having apparently
missed, though we know not why, the purpose of
their existence here, so some men and women live
and die, having missed the object of their lives.  The
angel of love touches them not; he hovers near, they
feel the breath from his wings, but the birth of the
spirit is reserved for a future seed-time, and the
harvest is a failure.

"I left Scotland, and after making the money
arrangements referred to, threw my whole heart
and mind into my work, trying to drown other
thoughts by the interest which each added power
brought.  Up to this time, as you will have seen, my
gift was a mixed blessing, half-developed, and
therefore more likely to lead to evil than to good; but
now I began to make progress, to feel my feet a
little; every week brought new and startling
discoveries, power which I had hardly dared to hope
for; wisdom that humbled me to the dust.  But as
the story of my year's work abroad, and the events
that happened to Vera during the same period in
England will take me some time to relate, I shall
leave them till your next visit.  I have already tired
you enough, we had better now rest a few hours,
and if you like I will send you to sleep by telling
a short fairy story.  It has been a habit of mine
since boyhood to mentally talk myself into
dream-land, and without doubt you will find my tale
have an equally soothing effect upon your own mind."

So I lay back, courting sleep, whilst Sydney told
me this fairy story.

"In a world like, yet unlike, our own, might once
have been found men fashioned as are the people
of earth, save that they dwelt in profound silence;
they heard neither the sweet singing of birds, nor the
roar of their mighty torrents, nor the sweet murmuring
of the streams.  Communication of thought was
carried from one to the other by the movement of the
lips, by the sense of touch, or by writing; for though
their world was full of sound, they as yet had not the
gift of hearing.  The time had not come when they
should listen to the voices of the other spirits who
wandered unseen in their midst, for the songs of
the fairy folk contained much of the wisdom which it
was better for the deaf and dumb to discover for
themselves through the lessons of life.  Yet at times,
as the years rolled by, from every part of their world
came messages of growing superstitions, of a professed
consciousness of something which their written
language failed clearly to convey, and of impressions
which had been experienced, but which were outside
the region of science.  The wise men were greatly
indignant at the growth of this seeming folly; they
challenged the dreamers to appear before them, and
prove the truth of their statements.  Then one came
forward, an old man, and he made signs to those
around; and this was the interpretation--

"'Behold! as I stood among the hills, the heavens
grew black around me, and great drops of rain fell on
either side; out of these dark clouds there passed
downwards to the earth a great fork-shaped flame
which fell on a lofty tree; as it touched the great
branches they split asunder, falling to the ground and
leaving behind only a broken and shattered trunk.'

"And the wise men answered, 'Though such things
happen but seldom, and in but few parts of the
world, there is nothing new in what you have
told us.'

"But the man continued, 'It is not of that I came
to speak; wonderful as it seemeth to me, even though
it may have happened in such manner before, and
though you may have given the mystery a name.
But when this flash had passed, I felt, yet I did not
feel, something strike me; it was as though I had
received some mighty blow, yet nothing touched me,
and my head throbbed with pain, and my thoughts
became confused.'

"But the wise men laughing, replied, 'It seemeth
to us that the confusion of thought hath still
continued.'

"Then the old man brought forth a piece of flat
metal, and a great iron rod which he used for some
work; and he began once more to address his
audience.

"'Yet,' he said, 'I have felt this sensation before,
but not so strongly, even when I have struck these
two, one against the other,' and he thereupon hit the
metal plate a great blow.  'It is there!' he cried;
'once more I felt it pass through my brain.'

"Some of those present seemed also to feel a like
sensation, and one rose up, addressing the assembly
thus--

"'For many years reports of strange sensations
have come to us from all countries and people;
moreover, these reports all bear a great resemblance
to each other.  Is it not well that we should
investigate the matter more fully than we have done
hitherto?'

"But the greater number of those present was
opposed to him, answering, that already these
so-called impressions had been tested from time to time
by scientific research, and that it had been proved
beyond question that they were all founded on delusion,
as they could not by any possibility have reached
the brain through the sense of touch or sight or smell;
and that, therefore, necessarily they did not reach it
at all.

"So the man returned to his own place; but some
of the common people, who read the report and had
known similar impressions, were strengthened in a
belief, which was gaining ground year by year, namely,
that the wise men might perhaps not know everything,
and that the learned of the future might even
laugh at the learned of to-day, as the latter now
mocked their predecessors.

"So the years went by, and the reports of wonders
became more numerous and more confusing.  Some
said that they had language conveyed to them, which
as yet they could hardly understand, and that this
happened even when their eyes were closed and no
person was near to them.  A few even believed that
they could partially understand this language, and
these were placed under restraint as madmen.

"During all this turmoil, a child was born, which
grew up fair and beautiful to look upon.  None taught
him, yet he became exceeding wise, though his
knowledge was not the knowledge of the savants.  He was
born with the power of hearing developed, and soon
learned the fairy language; and the bright spirits
taught him more wisdom than was to be found in all
the books of his world.  But when he tried to convey
to those around the glory of sound, the sweetness of
the fairies' songs, the whispering melody of the leaves
when the wind played with them, or the ceaseless
music of the waves, he found that there were no
words in the language capable of expressing his
meaning, and had to try by parables to give even a
faint idea of the inexpressible.

"Moreover, most of his companions mocked him,
but a few listened, even those who had some foretaste
of his gift, and these believed that he was a god.

"As his fame spread abroad, men came from the
ends of the earth to learn, if possible, the language
that needed no signs, that passed mysteriously and
invisibly from brain to brain.  He found it possible
to awaken in a few of these the dormant sense which
all possessed, and such were able to work miracles
among their fellows.

"And the savants stormed, and then when they
found it impossible any longer to ignore the new
power, they themselves began to give names to the
mysteries; and having done this they were consoled,
considering that they had thereby exorcised the
supernatural.

"But the waves beat no longer unheard upon the
beach; and the birds are loved by many for their
voices as well as for their plumage.  The mother
hears her child's cry, and the lover the footstep of
the beloved.

"Some, however, are still deaf, and others have not
yet learned the language which is breathed so sweetly
in the music of the fairies' songs."





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.. _`CHAPTER VII`:

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   PART II

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   CHAPTER VII

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It was some weeks before Alan Sydney again returned
to the story of his life.  We often met, however,
during this interval, both at his house and at mine.
He seemed anxious to let me become better acquainted
with his views and strange philosophy before describing
any more of his experiences.  So interesting did
I find these discussions that, though still wishing to
hear the conclusion of the tale, I did not press him to
continue it.  One evening, however, our conversation
led back to the subject.  We had been for some time
discussing Buddhism; I had pointed out that many
of the conclusions at which he had arrived resembled
in certain ways the views professed by Eastern adepts.

"Truth is to be found in every faith," he replied,
"and these occult philosophers have cultivated one
side of knowledge which has been overlooked by
European scientists.  At the same time any one who
has taken the trouble personally to examine the
foundation on which the reports of marvellous powers
possessed by certain Orientals are based will, I feel
sure, have arrived at the following conclusions--

"Firstly, the metaphysical knowledge of these men
is far in advance of their physical power to make use
of it.  In other words, they know many secret laws
of nature, but usually fail in manipulating these laws
to any useful purpose, often to any purpose at all.
The reason for this is obvious.  They have cultivated
one part only of the sixth sense, and have done even
this at the expense both of body and mind; instead of
perfecting every faculty and keeping their personality
evenly balanced, they have become deformed.  It is
as if a man hitherto deaf and suddenly conscious of
the sense of hearing, should shut himself tip in a dark
room and refuse to receive any impressions save those
conveyed by sound; he would probably make considerable
progress in hearing, but he would necessarily
suffer deterioration in his other faculties.

"The knowledge and foretaste of power, which,
through bodily and mental weakness, they can seldom
exercise, have led many of the more unscrupulous seers
to resort to trickery.  Now and again they are able
to perform what men call a miracle, and probably
every wonder that we read of has at one time or another
been performed, more or less accidentally, by some
Eastern ascetic, but knowing the powers that do exist,
and being unable to control them at will, they too
frequently, either for profit or fame, turn for assistance
to the most barefaced impostures.

"The spiritualists are not free from the same
reproach.  It is safe to assume that as any one who
possesses even a slight knowledge of how to make use
of the powers of a spiritual sense, will neither require
money nor desire fame, all spiritualistic or theosophic
exhibitions, which have either of these ends in view,
should be regarded with distrust.  At the same time
they should be interesting as exhibiting a craving on
the part of the performer and also of his audience for
manifestations of unrevealed yet partially conceived
truths.

"Trickery is only powerful when it apes reality.
The love of the mysterious is after all a craving for
felt possibilities.  A conjurer, scoffing at the
supernatural which he strives to imitate, would lose his
occupation if he possessed sufficient eloquence to
convince his audience that there was no truth
foreshadowed by means of his dexterity.  As the
girl-child loves to play with her doll because the maternal
instinct lies undeveloped in her breast, so do men love
to play with magic, foretasting therein a part of the
power which some day shall be perfected.  They both
know better, but for the moment prefer a true illuminating
fancy to a false disillusionizing fact.  Yet when
some motive of self-interest provokes the deception,
only harm can come; the parable is then turned into
the lie, the prophet into the charlatan.

"Not long after my arrival in India I met a man
who interested me greatly.  Up to this time I had
little knowledge of Buddhism, and the outcome which
I had seen of this religion had given me so far an
unfavourable impression.

"Mr. Kanwick was of Scotch descent, though he
had been born in Calcutta, and lived in India the
greater part of his life.  When we met he was a
wealthy bachelor of about fifty-five years of age, with
no occupation to tie him down.  His knowledge of
Oriental subjects was well founded, for he had spent
most of his life in studying the manners, dialects,
and religions of Asia.

"He was at this time engaged in writing a book on
the Vedic language and religion, and I travelled with
him in the East for many months, passing from one
place to another.  We visited many of the countries in
Central Asia, and whilst he was engaged in studying
one of the oldest and purest forms of worship, I was
busy perfecting a power which, even in the earliest
times, the Vedic philosophers seemed to have reached
after.  Were I to describe the strange experiences
through which we passed, how, disguised, we found
our way into sacred shrines never before visited by
Europeans, or the various dangers we encountered, in
many of which we narrowly escaped death, it would
occupy all the time we are likely to have together for
the next six months.  Aided by the sixth sense, by
free use of our wealth, and by my companion's
knowledge of the various dialects and customs of
the people, we were able to overcome difficulties
which would have been impossibilities to ordinary
travellers.  One evening, however, we met with an
experience which brought my travels to an abrupt
termination, and in which my companion lost his life.

"We had been staying a few days in a small town,
and, having grown over-confident, we determined to
visit a temple which was situated about five miles
away.  It was a foolhardy enterprise, for not only had
no unbeliever ever been permitted to approach this
place, but none save the priests of a special caste were
allowed even to enter the sacred enclosure in which it
had been built.  I must, however, tell you how we
came to find out this place, for it was so situated that
but for an accident we might have lived for years in
the neighbourhood without suspecting its existence.

"The country here is of very curious formation.
On either side of the city perpendicular rocks rise out
of the plain forming miniature table-lands, some hardly
larger than a tomb, some with room enough on them
for small farms, with well-marked natural boundaries,
sheer precipices varying from fifty to over three
hundred feet.  The surface of these rocks is very irregular,
and often thickly coated with soil in which grow many
tropical trees.

"In a deep hollow on one of the largest and most
wooded of these plateaus this temple has been built,
but owing to its situation it is quite impossible to see
any part of it until the top of the surrounding rock
has been reached.

"Now we had as a guide a high-caste Brahmin
named Hinma.  We had adopted a method of paying
him by results, which had proved so far highly
satisfactory; the more information he gave us, or the more
interesting the place to which he led us, the greater
the number of rupees he received at the end of the
month.  It so happened that for some weeks past
the value of his services had been small, and when he
received his pay I saw that he was dissatisfied, and
read this pass through his mind:

"'*If I only could show the temple at Aphar!  But
it is forbidden.  I dare not even mention its existence;
moreover, it would be absolutely impossible for me, and
still more for the foreigners, to get even a distant sight
of the place.*'

"I answered his thought aloud.  'Why are you
afraid to speak to me of this temple?  Do you not
yet know that we are the all-powerful to whom silver
is as nothing, and against whom none dare lift their
hands?'

"'The Sahib is as a god among men,' he replied,
'but the god of this temple is more powerful than he.
Thou seest into the hidden thoughts of men, but he
sees all things, and his vengeance is terrible.  None
save his special servants may see his dwelling and live.
Moreover to mention the name thereof is to cause
his anger!'

"So great was the man's fear of this deity that it
took me an hour before I could get the information
required, and then it was chiefly owing to the fact that
his thoughts were less under his control than his
tongue.

"I reported my discovery to Kanwick, and on the
following morning, unaccompanied by our guide, we
went to reconnoitre, and if possible to devise some
plan by which we might at least get a glimpse of this
mysterious abode of the god.

"There was little difficulty in finding the rocky citadel
which concealed this temple.  We walked all round
the foot of the precipice which cut it off from the
plain.  The cliffs which rose above us varied from two
hundred to three hundred feet in height, and I judged
that the surface on the top of them must extend over
at least one hundred acres.  But it seemed absolutely
impossible to reach the higher land, though we
examined the sides of the rock most carefully.  There
was no indication of a path which even a goat could
climb; whoever ascended or descended must do so
apparently by the aid of a rope or ladder let down
from above.  The plain on the side furthest from the
town was thickly wooded, and not wishing to excite
the curiosity of any one who might be watching us, we
sat down in the shadow of some trees to talk the
matter over.  The very mystery of the place tempted
us the more to make some desperate effort to
overcome the difficulty of exploration.

"We were sitting about two hundred yards from the
cliff, by the side of a stream which, we had noticed,
flowed from a fissure in the rock.  Whilst thus resting
and talking, a strange thing happened.  The noisy
stream which flowed at our feet suddenly became
silent; we looked down in surprise to find that
now only a little trickle of water passed over its
rocky bed.  My companion jumped up in excitement
and looked towards the crevice from which
the water came.  Signing to me to rise quietly, he
pointed to the cliff which we could see through a gap
in the trees.  From out the fissure in the rock which
a few minutes before was filled with water, we saw two
men pass, clad in the yellow robes of mendicant
priests.  As they came out of the channel and made
their way into the wood, the water once more dashed
out of the rock with more than usual force, so that in
another minute the stream at our feet was a roaring
torrent.

"'The key is in our hands if we can use it,' my
friend said as soon as he had satisfied himself that the
priests were out of hearing.  'That is the gateway,
and no doubt the inhabitants have some arrangement
inside by which they can for a short time divert the
water into a reservoir, and thereby open the passage
or close it at will.'

"'Yes,' I replied, 'but I cannot agree with you that
we have the key; they seem to keep that safely
inside.  If we want to get through we must wait
patiently until they open the door for their friends,
and then take French leave.  Probably we shall soon
wish we had kept outside.  What do you think of
doing?'

"'I shall get in at all risk,' he answered.  'It is too
good an opportunity to lose; but let us go back now
and make our plans, we can do nothing more at
present, and if we are noticed our presence may cause
suspicion.'

"During our evening meal we discussed the situation.
I must own that I tried to persuade Kanwick
to give up the idea of forcing an entrance into these
sacred precincts.  Cut off as we should be from all
possibility of rescue, the idea seemed foolhardy in the
extreme; but seeing that my friend had determined
to go, I decided to share the risk.

"As soon as it was dark we agreed to start; and
watch the entrance, as our only chance of slipping
through the tunnel unobserved would be during the
night-time.

"We had been in our place of concealment about
two hours, and it must have been nearly twelve o'clock
when we heard steps approach.  The night, fortunately
for our purposes, was dark, as the moon had not
yet risen.  It was impossible therefore for us to see
anything, but I judged from the sound that the man,
whoever he might be, was alone.  He passed about a
hundred yards from our hiding-place, and the noise of
the stream made it impossible for my companion to
distinguish the footsteps.  Had I not by this time
been able to concentrate my sense of hearing on any
particular sound, I should have been equally helpless;
as it was, we had the advantage of being able to follow
the stream without fear of detection.

"When we came to the outskirts of the wood and
were about ten yards from the cliff, we paused.  I
could see the figure of a man standing by the side of
the crevice, and it seemed to me that he was groping
for something on the surface of the rock.  In another
moment the water began to sink, and the figure
disappeared into the gully through which the stream had
now ceased to flow.  We ran quickly to the spot, and
with no little feeling of dread, began to follow the
priest through the dark channel.  Fortunately he had
struck a light which he held before him, or we
certainly should either have been drowned or swept
back into the plain, for instead of following the bed
of the stream, he had turned up a steep narrow
passage to the right, and was now disappearing round
a sharp turning.  The moment he was out of sight
we hastened after him up the incline, and were only
just in time.  There was a rush of water behind
us, which in a moment rose to our knees; the path
through which we had entered was once more the bed
of a boiling torrent, but for the time being we were
safe.  A few more steps and we were out of reach of
the water, standing in pitch darkness on the dry rock
which formed the footway of a winding tunnel.

"We waited a few moments, fearing to go further
without a light, and thinking it safer to let our guide
get some way ahead before we struck a match.  We
had thus far accomplished our purpose successfully, but
I fancy neither of us felt very comfortable.  To return
was now impossible, and if the other end of this tunnel
should be closed we might find ourselves like rats
caught in a hole, and either be starved to death, or
have to wait until we were found by the next party
of priests, when our fate would probably be as bad or
even worse.  I felt for my pistol, and then by the
light of a wax vesta we began to grope our way up
the winding staircase which had been cut into the
rock.  We must have used about ten matches when a
puff of wind extinguished the one last lighted, and
taking this as a sign that we were near the mouth
of the tunnel, we decided to finish our journey in the
dark.

"I was a little ahead of my companion, and had
felt my way carefully over eight or ten more steps,
when my hand touched the stem of a tree, and
looking up I could see the stars above me through some
thick foliage.  I slipped aside into the underwood,
and in a few moments Kanwick was by my side.
The wind blew freshly against our heated faces, and
it was with no little feeling of pleasure we realized
that our first great danger was past, and though we
might be chained to a rock, we were at least chained
outside, not inside.

"We waited for a short time, uncertain what course
to pursue.  As we thus stood talking in whispers, the
moon rose, flooding the scene around with light.

"We were on the wooded side of a steep slope
which evidently led up to the precipitous edge of the
cliff.  Some hundred feet below in a lovely glen, the
bottom of which must have been nearly on a level
with the surrounding plain, a stream flowed, and in
one part widened out into a small lake.  Out of the
centre of this lake rose the snow-white marble walls of
the temple.  It is almost impossible to describe the
beauty of this building, so unlike is its style of
architecture to anything else I have ever seen.  It is
quite circular, and has been built on arches which are
supported by seventy square massive columns that
rise out of the lake.  On the top of these arches is
what may be called the ground-floor of the structure.
Round the outside of this level platform, at equal
distances apart, are seven hundred marble pillars,
thirty feet in height, and carved so as to resemble the
trunks of trees, very irregular in shape but of about
equal girth.  Resting on these pillars is another platform,
in the centre of which is also built a similar structure
of about half the size of the one on which it stands.
This building again supports a third, still smaller, on
the roof of which rise fourteen columns in a circle.
From the top of each of these spring three boughs,
one towards the centre, and one on either side, the
side boughs meeting those from the adjacent columns,
forming arches, and the centre boughs joining
together in a kind of open-work dome.  The details
were of course indistinct, seen in the moonlight, but
the exquisite proportion of every part, which is after
all the chief charm, was clearly visible; the
surroundings added also a kind of spiritual beauty to the
scene, for as the moon rose the surface of the lake
was divided by a silver line of light, the tropical
foliage around cast a fairyland of shadows on the
water, and from the temple rose the soft sound of
music, the first chord of which had broken the silence
of night when the moon's rays fell upon the marble
dome.

"'The dream of my life is fulfilled,' my companion
whispered as we looked out on the lovely scene.
'This is without doubt the temple of the moon, of
which I once read an account in an old manuscript.
It is reported to have been built by Zoroaster, and to
have been kept in perfect repair up to the date when
the manuscript was written.  But I had supposed it
to have been destroyed centuries ago, and there we
see it to-day perfect in all its original loveliness.  No
doubt its preservation is due to its inaccessible
position, and the care with which it has been watched
over by the priests.  Truly if the Oriental people know
nothing else, they know how to preserve a secret.  I
am, however, inclined to think, from the dress of the
priests we saw this morning, that the followers of
Buddha must have now taken possession of it; but in
this borderland of many religions, all founded more
or less on Brahminism, we often find a combination of
religious thoughts which more resembles the earlier
faith, and this may prove to be the centre of some
such creed; we shall doubtless soon have an
opportunity of finding out.'

"Hardly had he finished speaking, when down the
steps which led from the temple to the lake, a
procession of white-robed priests could be seen moving
slowly, and a long, curiously-shaped boat glided out
from where it had been concealed by the trees.  In a
few moments it had reached the steps and the priests
entered it.  Then through the night air rose the
sound of singing which harmonized with the music as
the boat slowly glided out of our sight behind the
massive columns on which the temple was built.
Seven times the boat made a circle round the building,
and then, with the priests still on board, turned
towards the trees beneath us and was once more hidden
from sight; the music and singing stopped, and all
was again in silence.

"'They are coming this way,' I said.  'What had
we better do?'

"'Move further from the entrance,' Kanwick
answered, 'and keep as quiet as possible.'

"We crept with little noise to a thicket about fifty
paces from the tunnel, but as though guided by some
superior power set on our discovery, the procession
came straight on to where we lay concealed.  When
they had reached our hiding-place the priests spread
out, forming a circle round us, so that escape was
impossible, and a voice spoke as follows, in Persian--

("I am quick at learning languages, and as Persian
is by far the most useful in this part of the East, I had
taken some trouble to learn it in our travels, so I was
able to understand what was said to us.)

"'Strangers, who have dared to enter the sacred
enclosure in which rests the shrine where the followers
of the true religion worship, in the name of Brahm,
the only god, ruler of heaven and earth, we command
you to come forth!  Should you have been led here
by his divine ordinance, then are you blessed, and
shall be welcome to his holy shrine.  Should
presumptuous curiosity have brought you hither, your
fate shall be even as the Almighty directs.'

"We both felt it would be useless to attempt flight,
and folly to resort to force, so getting up, we went in
the direction from which the voice proceeded.  There,
standing just inside the ring of priests, was a tall and
venerable-looking man; his hair and beard were
white; his complexion, for a Persian, was strangely
fair; his features showed nobility and strength; his
expression purity and kindliness.  Simply telling us
to follow, he turned into a path that led along the side
of the hill, and which kept about the same level above
the lake.  In a few minutes we came to the mouth of
a cave, and entering it passed through a short passage
into a lofty cavern.  The sides of this cavern had
been so cut away as to form a perfect circular chamber,
the domed roof of which was covered with mosaic of
various-coloured marbles formed into strange devices
and pictures.  The floor on which we stood was the
natural rock highly polished.  From the golden altar
in the centre of the cave a bright light cast various
colours on the scene around, only upon the ivory
throne which stood opposite the entrance the rays fell
very pure and white.  On all the other objects the
colours were fitful, changing from time to time into
every shade which can be seen in the rainbow.

"When we had all entered, the high priest who had
bidden us follow him, having taken his seat upon the
throne, spoke once more.

"'Followers of the Almighty, whom he has gathered
together from all lands, and taught from all creeds the
syllables of his holy word till the time came for you
to be drawn to his holy temple, behold a new thing
has come to pass.  For the first time without warning
and without welcome, whether through guile or led
by the wisdom of the Highest, we have two strange
children of the Great Father in our midst.  As all who
enter here by freedom of our will, and with full
knowledge of the trial awaiting them, must pass an ordeal
of light, so must these strangers, of whom we know
nothing, but who have been sent to us for some great
purpose.  Are your minds with my mind?'

"And the priests standing round answered, 'We are
all of one spirit, even of the spirit of the Highest, who
speaketh by the lips of his servant.'

"Then the high priest turned to us and said, 'By
some influence you have been drawn to the fountain
of wisdom, but it must yet be seen if you are worthy
to receive the knowledge which shall make you free.
Having forced your way into this sacred enclosure, it
is now too late to retrace your steps; you must go
onward to a nobler life, or pass into that state which
men call death.  But have no fear, the destinies of all
men are decreed.  Should you die it is but the sign
that your new body awaits the spirit.  Moreover, here
death is robbed of pain, and the vision of the holy
temple shall purify your spirit in the life hereafter.'

"Then pointing to my companion, he bade him go
to the altar, and standing before it act even as his
spirit directed.

"Kanwick stepped fearlessly up the marble steps.
As he did so a great flame burst up, at the sight of
which he shrank back, and in a moment the cavern
was in pitch darkness, but there was no sound.  Then
in that awful stillness I knew all, for the thoughts of
those around me spoke even as the thought of one
man.  I knew that my friend was dead, and how he
had died, and why, and a great sorrow came over me.
Yet hardly had I time to think before the room was
lighted as before, but there was no sign of the dead
body.

"When bidden to walk up to the altar, though I felt
no fear for my own safety, my limbs trembled as they
passed over a large black slab of marble, for I knew
that beneath this revolving stone at some unfathomed
depth lay the body of Kanwick.  There was a hidden
meaning in the priest's words, 'It is too late to retrace
your steps.'  When the fire again burst forth, instead
of moving back to avoid it, I threw myself across the
altar into the midst of the fire and immediately became
insensible.

"On recovering consciousness I found that I was
lying in a small room beautifully decorated; it was
just such an apartment as you may find in any wealthy
Persian's house.  I felt drowsy, and had some little
difficulty in recalling the scene in the cavern.  The
clothing previously worn by me had been removed,
and I was now dressed in a red robe, similar in fashion
to that worn by the priests.  There was no trace
on my body of any effect from the fire, which had
doubtless been extinguished at the moment I had
thrown myself forward, and I now know that my
insensibility was caused by the powerful narcotic
fumes which at the moment the flame bursts forth,
rise from the altar and make death to the unsuccessful
painless, even as the priest had promised.

"I was under the impression that my ordeal was
now over, and that I should be admitted at once into
the priesthood, but this was not the case.  I had been
lying in this dreamy state for perhaps twenty minutes,
when one of the Persian hangings was pushed aside,
and a young girl entered the room.  She was a
Circassian, very fair and beautifully formed; in her hand
she carried a golden cup full of wine which she
handed to me, saying in Persian--

"'Drink, beloved of God, the wine of joy.'

"But as I held out my hand for the cup, and was
about to drink it, being parched with thirst, a feeling
of fear restrained me, and I placed it at my side.

"What could this girl be doing here?  Might she
not possess some knowledge that it would be worth
my while to find out?  Her dress was befitting a
priestess of Venus, and strangely out of keeping with
all that I had observed before.  Unless I was greatly
mistaken in my judgment of faces, the priests whom
I had seen were men who had overcome passion,
and whose thoughts were absorbed in striving after
spiritual purity and perfection.  How came it then
that this young girl should be in their midst, and
why was she sent to me?

"'At whose bidding,' I asked, 'do you bring this
cup of wine?'

"'It has been sent,' she replied, 'from the little
temple where live the daughters of the moon; the
queen bade me bear it to thee as an offering of love,
and she has appointed me to be thy servant, to minister
to thy wants, and to obey thy will, even if I may find
grace in thy sight.'

"I was very much perplexed.  As far as I could
make out, this girl knew no more of the meaning of
her visit than I did, and I was certain that no evil
thought was in her heart.

"'What,' I said, 'if I reject the cup of joy and send
thee back?'

"She hung her head, then kneeling down by my
side and looking beseechingly at me answered--

"'Thou wouldst not send me from thee; I will do
whatsoever thou desirest, and serve thee faithfully.
As the moon reflects the glory of the sun, so is it dark
with me if I may not see thy face!--as the flower
withers without light, so must I droop if hidden from
thy presence.  If thou but drink the cup which the
queen offers, thou wilt then know the joy of love.'

"As she said this I suddenly became conscious that
she was repeating a lesson, acting a part, the meaning
of which she did not understand; and with this
knowledge, all danger which the temptation might have
had for me was removed.  Beginning to have some
idea of the truth, I looked straight into her eyes and
said--

"'Who taught you this lesson?  Who told you to
say this to me?'

"Her part had been doubtless well prepared, but
this question was not one among those for which she
had an answer ready, and after hesitating a moment
she spoke the truth.

"'The priest of temptation.'

"'And what would you have done had I drunk the
wine and bidden you stay with me?' I asked.

"'I should have stayed,' she answered simply, and
her thoughts followed her words.

"Then I said, 'Return to him who sent you, and
speak these words--"He, to whom you sent me, said--there
are forces spiritual and forces material against
which all must contend ere they reach the borderland
of wisdom, but woe unto those who use the innocent
children of the Highest as brands to kindle the
slumbering embers of passion!"'

"The girl would have pleaded with me again, but I
silenced her, saying, 'Go, and if he bid you to return,
you may do so.'

"I was not long left in solitude, for in a few minutes
a priest in yellow robes entered the room.  He was
not one of those I had previously seen.  His face was
clean-shaven, and he did not look to be much over
forty years of age; his features were refined, but rather
hard; his expression noble, but cold.  He bowed
down as he entered the room, and then addressed
me in these words--

"'Thou who art a god amongst the children of men,
wiser than the wisest, pure as are the waters in the
lake of Gitem, in whom the spirit of the Almighty is
reflected as in the crystal mirror of Tor, we beseech
thee to hear the prayer of thy servants.  We, the
priests of the Most High, seeing that thou hast power
beyond the sons of men, would offer thee worship in
the temple.'

"As he spoke, two other priests entered, one bearing
a yellow robe richly embroidered with gold and
covered with jewels, and the other a crystal crown,
from which proceeded a strange mysterious light
which would have cast round the head of the wearer
a radiant halo.  As I pictured the effect of one thus
robed and crowned entering the temple, a scene,
doubtless called up in the mind of one of the priests,
at the same moment flashed across my brain.  I saw
men standing robed in white, and in the centre of
these I seemed to lie, dressed in the kingly garb, and
crowned with the shining crystal crown, but my
forehead was covered with the dew of death, and there
was a look of pity on the faces of those around.

"Then I realized that this was but a new temptation,
and with some slight show of anger answered---

"'The fools of the earth desire to be clad in fine
raiment, and to feel for a moment the glory of earthly
power, but to those who have once seen the light which
proceeds from true wisdom, riches and honour are as
dust, the shouts of men as the hum of insects, and
the kingdoms of earth as ant-heaps.  If there are
among you men who have attained to even a slight
knowledge in the mystery of life, take, I pray you,
this message back to them from me: "I would rather
be a disciple at the feet of my Master, than rule over
a dominion of fools.  If there be none here worthy to
teach me, then is the wisdom of which you boast but
the froth of foolishness, and your power but the low
cunning of the savage."'

"When I had finished speaking, the priest without
answering turned, and followed by his two attendants
left the room.  The curtain fell back over the entrance,
and I was once more alone.

"After this food and coffee were brought me, and
feeling tired I lay down and slept through the rest of
this eventful day.

"When I awoke a light was burning in the room,
and sitting by my side was the high priest himself.
As I looked into this man's noble face I felt certain
that my trials were over.  It was impossible to believe
that he would descend to act the part of tempter;
and in this view I was correct.

"'You have,' he said, 'passed through the three
temptations which for centuries have been used to try
those who are admitted to the white-robed order of
priesthood, the trials of perseverance, purity, and
meekness.  In future, as you are one of us, no secret
may be kept from you, and any special wisdom
you possess should be freely taught to all.  Your
case is, however, one of unusual interest, as you are
the first man who has been admitted into our ranks
without many years of careful preparation.  We have
in various parts of the world disciples, whose business
it is to train those they may consider likely to become
fitted for the high calling, but it is not often that any
of these converts attain to the highest order, which
you have now reached.'

"'Tell me,' I said, 'to what creed you belong.'

"'To no creed,' he replied.  'In this temple at one
time the followers of Zoroaster worshipped; then it
fell into the hands of the Buddhists, and became one
of their most sacred shrines.  But the wise, gathered
together as they were here, soon learned to cast off
the errors which spring up in a mixed community,
and three hundred years ago one Zifanta became
high priest.  He was a man possessed of unusual
power, not such as the scattered mystics possess,
which can only be employed at certain times, and
under the most favourable circumstances.  He was
able to leave the body at will, and to converse with
the spirits of the dead, whereby he acquired great
wisdom and worked mighty miracles on earth.  He,
moreover, changed the religion of his followers,
bidding them to seek in every creed and among all
people the truth which Brahm, the one and only God,
whispers into the hearts of his faithful children, who
are scattered over the face of the earth.  He preached
against the subjugation of the body after the manner
employed by the Buddhist adepts, saying that the
body should not be regarded as the enemy of the
spirit, but rather for the time being as its helpmate.
He affirmed that without the aid of matter the spirit
on earth was powerless; for as the wing-feathers of
a bird plucked from the pinions are scattered hither
and thither by every fitful breeze, so is matter helpless
without the forces of the spirit; but as a bird deprived
of its plumage can no longer leave the earth, and
becomes the prey of any prowling beast, so the spirit,
when the body is injured or weakened, becomes a
prey to passing delusions, and is unable to accomplish
any noble work.  Therefore, among our followers,
have we many grades.  Had you fallen in the second
trial, preferring the love of woman to entire
devotion to wisdom, the girl you saw might have become
your wife, and you would have joined the order of
disciples, who live where they will, and act for us in
the outer world.'

"'But what,' I asked, 'if I had failed in the third
trial?'

"'Any one who allows the crystal crown to be
placed upon his head must die, for without humility
it is impossible to worship the Almighty, or to rule
the powers of earth; and this trial is applied to all,
whether they fail in the second trial, or whether they
succeed, for it is equally important for the disciple to
be free from pride as it is for the priest.'

"'But how did that girl come to be here?' I asked.

"'According to our doctrine,' he replied, 'men and
women are equal in the sight of Brahm, and without
the female power no great progress can be made;
but here among those who are struggling after the
higher life, the priest and priestess live without carnal
love, and for this cause it is essential to test all who
are admitted to the white-robed order.  The girl you
saw is, however, a novice, one of those who are being
trained, and it may be that she will go back into the
world and marry one of the disciples, or she may,
after certain trials, be deemed worthy of the white
robe of virginity.'

"'But,' I replied, 'does not this seem rather a
careless, if not unholy, way of bringing a man and woman
together, and thereby perhaps deciding their future
life, even though they may be quite unfitted for each
other?'

"'What do you fancy,' he answered, 'is the guiding
influence that as a rule draws a man and woman
together?  Sometimes, but rarely, spiritual attraction;
more often animal fascination.  We do not, however,
decide lightly, but after great care, and we believe
that in our selection we are guided by higher power.
So far the marriages which have taken place have
been greatly blessed.  It is a sign, probably, that this
girl who was rejected by you is destined to become
a priestess, but at present she knows not the meaning
of love, and so it is impossible to say.  Innocence is
not regarded here, as it is too often in the world, as
a sign of purity, for innocence is a negative, holiness
a positive, quality.  But come, in a quarter of an
hour the moon will rise, and it is time to go to the
temple.'

"I followed my guide out of the house and through
a grove of trees, till we came to the edge of the lake.
A boat was waiting which, when we had entered,
carried us silently without any apparent means of
progress, to the temple steps, and after we had landed,
as silently returned to its former place.  When we
had walked up the steps and passed between the
marble pillars, I saw that a wide-open colonnade
extended round a circular inner shrine, which was
enclosed with a solid wall.  In this wall, and opposite
the steps, was a beautiful carved archway, the entrance
to which was closed with folding-doors of embossed
silver.  As we drew near, they opened; at the same
moment the moon rose, and I heard again those soft
strains of music which had reached me the preceding
night whilst I lay watching from the hill.  I will try
to give you some idea of the scene which was
presented to me as I followed the high priest into the
temple.

"At first the light was so dim that I found it
difficult to distinguish objects clearly; but as the moon
rose higher, and my eyes became accustomed to the
light, the full beauty of the building was disclosed.
Although, from outside, the temple seemed divided
into three floors, the dome of this inner shrine
extended to the summit of the building.  The second
and third double rows of columns, through which the
moonlight now poured, supported the inner dome,
and formed covered colonnades from which it was
possible either to look down into the temple, or out upon
the lake and woods around.  As in the Taj of Agra,
the walls were covered with writing formed of crystals
and other more or less precious stones, while the floor
was covered with marble mosaic worked into various
designs.  In the centre was a clear deep pool, from
the surface of which rose seven thin columns of water,
one rising fifty feet, and the others which surrounded
it about thirty, before they fell in light spray into the
circular basin.  There were about a hundred persons
present, all robed in loose white tunics; some were
standing, but the greater number were reclining, or
sitting upon tiers of broad marble steps.

"With the exception of myself, there were only
two present whose dress in any way distinguished
them from the others; one was the high priest, who
wore round his waist a golden girdle set with what
appeared to be precious stones; and the other a
woman who was standing near him, on whose breast
lay a jewel cut in the shape of a heart, from which
proceeded a pale soft light.  The woman, whom I
rightly judged to be the high priestess, must have
been sixty years of age; she was tall and still
beautifully proportioned; her hair was silvery white, her
complexion smooth and clear; but at the time I hardly
noticed any of these details, so absorbed had I become
in watching the varying expressions on her face.  She
was standing in shadow, but the light from the luminous
jewel on her breast lit up her features so that they
were clearly visible.

"I have never seen any other face so radiant with
divine love, meekness, and purity, so full of gentle
power and trustful calm.  A strong impulse came
over me, and rising from my seat I went and knelt
down before her; as I did so she bent and kissed me
on the forehead; then taking my hand, she brought
me to some steps which led to the central basin, and
bade me go down into the water.  The music ceased,
the fountains stopped, and then through the silence
that followed she spoke aloud, so that all the assembly,
who had risen, could hear.

"'Father of all, grant that as this water changes the
blood-red robe of thy child into the garment of purity,
so may Thy spirit purify his heart, changing fear to
trust, passion to love, and pride to humility, until as a
pure and crystal mirror he may reflect on earth Thy
beauty and Thy light, even as yonder moon, now that
the sun is hidden from our eyes, reflects the glory
which man may no longer behold.'

"From every side came the response, 'Grant this
our prayer, O Father of all!'

"When I rose out of the water, I was almost
dazzled by the lustrous whiteness of my robe, which
had somehow been robbed of its scarlet colour;
moreover, both my spirit and body seemed
strengthened and purified.  Then the high priest
came near and welcomed me in the name of all
present, saying--

"'Child of the Most High, gladly do we, thy brothers
and sisters, welcome thee to our family of priesthood;
may thy coming aid us in the endless search for truth;
may thy power, added to our power, hasten the
glorious time when the order of the universe shall no
longer be arrested by man's blindness, but the will
of the Almighty be performed on earth even as in the
kingdoms that are around the earth.'

"As one by one the priests and priestesses came near
to greet me, I noticed that there appeared to be
about an equal number of men and women present;
most of these were advanced in years, but among
them were some who could not have been much
over twenty.  On the faces of all, whether old or
young, fair or dark, the same calm expression of trust,
purity, power, and meekness was stamped.

"The moon had now risen, and its light fell upon
the temple floor; on this spot two of the priests laid
a thick rug and cushions on which one of the youngest
girls lay down.  The music once more began to play,
but now very softly.  It was a strange and beautiful
picture; the lovely girl with her long dark hair falling
over the white robe, lying thus in the soft light; the
priests and priestesses standing round in partial shadow;
the noble proportions of the temple, the lace-work of
arches and pillars between which the moon's rays fell.
But I had little time to think of all these things, for in a
moment I saw--but not, as I know now, through the
medium of the bodily eye--the spiritual form of the
girl rise from the body, and as the dew is drawn from
the earth, pass upward and then vanish from sight.

"Ajar, the high priest, who was standing beside me,
said, 'You are conscious that the spirit of Mintor the
priestess has left her body for a time, and passed to
some other sphere?'

"And I answered, 'Yes, I saw it pass upward.'

"'It is confusing,' he replied, 'to use the word see,
for the eye, which is an organ of the body, receives no
impression from the spiritual form.  The spiritual
perception we call *viam*, and the verb *view* with us is
used for all impressions which reach the mind
independently of the bodily organs.  I am glad that you
possess this gift so far developed, as there are but few
present who have yet attained the power, except
under certain favourable conditions.  Those who are
worthy to wear the white robe have each some special
spiritual gift, but these gifts vary greatly.  Some can
converse with those at a distance; some *view* what is
passing in the world around; others, as in the case of
Mintor, can leave the body and pass into the spirit-world.
This is the most coveted of all gifts, as from
those who possess it we can learn new wisdom.  The
founder of our faith had still a greater power.  He
could, on leaving the body, dissolve it into gaseous
form, and his spirit, whithersoever it went, was able to
draw from nature the needed material, and to take
human form wherever or whenever it pleased; but
since he left us, few have been able to do this, and
never with safety, for under certain conditions they
lost the power, and having as it were no root upon
the earth, their spirits were drawn to other spheres
and returned no more.  The cause of this is, we
know, physical weakness, and he who shall again
succeed must possess a body equally developed with
his spirit; such a one I believe you to be, and it is
possible you may succeed, should you be willing
to undergo the training that is necessary.  But we
expect to receive from Mintor, when her spirit returns,
some guidance on the matter.'

"Having said this, he took me by the hand and led
me up to the place where the body of the girl lay as
though in deep sleep; then all those present knelt
down and seemed to be engaged in prayer.

"'The strength of the prayers of all present are
with thee,' he continued.  'Kneel down and take both
of Mintor's hands in thine; see whether it may be
possible for thy spirit to join hers in the life beyond,
for in the spirit kingdom only can that knowledge be
received which can give power over the world of
matter.'

"I did as bidden, and the light seemed to become
more and more powerful, then all grew dark, but
through the darkness I heard a voice saying, 'Come.'  A
great pain passed over my body and I was free.

"It would be quite impossible for me to give you
any true idea of the exquisite delight I experienced
when now for the first time conscious of untrammelled
life.  No one would believe how much pain is
inseparable from every movement of even the healthiest
body until he has once been freed from the burden.
We gauge pain and pleasure simply by the sensations
that are above or below the average of existence;
when less than usually burdened, we call life happy;
if more than usually tried, we call it painful.  As a
bird confined from birth in a tiny cage is unconscious
of its cramped suffering, so the spirit of man having
no remembrance of freedom, regards its present house
with toleration, and is even unwilling to be released.
I could hardly feel surprised now that unselfishness
is a necessary condition of spiritual growth, as the
love of others could alone draw a free spirit back to
its chains.

"Of what I passed through during this and similar
experiences I shall now say nothing.  After I am
dead you will find a sealed paper, on the cover of
which is written 'A spiritual autobiography.  If you
feel it wise to open and read it, or even to publish
part or all of it, you can do so, for by that time you
will have my influence to guide you, and I shall be
able to judge better which course is the wisest for you
to take.'

"I shall not continue my story any further this
evening, as you are anxious to ask me some questions,
and it is already late."

"There is one thing," I replied, "which I cannot
understand, namely, the death of your companion.
Considering the nobility and kindly disposition of
these priests, the tests of worthiness seem almost cruel
and barbarous."

"Your feeling," Sydney answered, "is very similar
to that which I experienced at the time, and though I
have not dwelt on the subject for fear of interrupting
the narrative, the death of my friend was not only a
deep grief to me, but also caused a shock from which
it was some time before I could recover; but after
my spiritual freedom in the temple I was able to
understand things better.  Life, which we prize so
dearly, is looked upon by those who have the highest
knowledge, not as a pleasure, but as a necessary and
painful lesson.  Death is an upward movement into a
more perfect condition; moreover, through the
knowledge which these men possessed, they considered
themselves but as merciful instruments for saving
pain.  The duration of life is not determined by an
accident to the body, but solely by growth of the
spirit.  When a man or woman has become fitted for
another sphere, the outward growth must be cast off.
Sometimes this is done slowly, through disease;
sometimes in a moment through what men call accident;
but in either case the thing is inevitable.  If
men only knew it, they could shorten or lengthen life
by retarding or aiding the growth of the spirit, but in
that way only."

"Do you," I asked, "then imply that the more
slowly a man learns his lesson the longer he lives?"

"Sometimes," he answered, "but there is another
reason for death.  An evil bodily habit often retards
the proper growth of the spirit, in which case the soul
has to be re-incarnated.  How often do we see some
man with a fine and noble disposition utterly ruined
by one bodily vice, that, though hateful to him, has
become too powerful for his will.  The fight up to a
certain point is useful, and often lasts many years, but
a time comes when the spirit begins to suffer, and then
the end is near.  I can often tell very nearly how
much longer a man will live, by reading his inmost
thoughts.  From a superficial view, deterioration
seems frequently to set in long before the end; but
this is owing to the fact that we judge by outward
signs.  As long as a man can cry from his soul, if
only in his better moments, to be delivered, he is
learning, if no other lesson, that of humility."

"Then there is one other question," I said.  "Can
it be right for one man to try to lead another into
temptation?"

"That is a very difficult question to answer," he
replied, "and one which I have spent many hours in
discussing with Ajar the high priest.  There is much
to be said on both sides.  Of course in a state of
perfection it would be unnecessary, and one can easily
picture a case in which as a lesser of two evils it might
be justifiable; but I believe under these circumstances
it was a mistake, and the practice is now discontinued
altogether, with many others which were relics of a
past superstition."

"Does this community still exist?" I asked.

"It does, and is likely to continue to do so," Sydney
replied.  "From this centre flows forth the beginning
of a new faith, which is slowly, under many names,
spreading over the earth.  It is from rumours of this
hidden power that arise many of the mythical stories
of Eastern magic; but only those fitted to know the
truth will ever be allowed to come near the shrine, for
the powers of the earth are nothing against the powers
of the spirit."

"Do you not often miss the companionship which
you must have found among these people?" I asked.

"I spend much of my time with them still," he
answered.  "Strange as it may seem to you, who are
for the present bound down by the limitation of space,
it is as easy for me to visit them as it is to come to
your house.  Distance is unknown in the spirit-world,
and even whilst man remains on earth, as soon as he
is able to control his spiritual perceptions, the
influence of the body becomes daily less noticeable.  But
you will understand this better later on."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER VIII`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VIII

.. vspace:: 2

When I next met Sydney after the conversation
given in the previous chapter, he seemed to me far
from well.  His face was pale, and his eyes shone
with unnatural brightness.

"You are tired to-night," I said, when we were
again sitting together in his laboratory.  "Do not
trouble to go on with your story unless you feel
inclined to do so."

"I am not too tired to talk," he replied, "but
have been trying an experiment which fatigues the
body; I can rest while continuing the account of
my experiences.  It will, however, be necessary to
pass rather briefly over the time spent at Aphar,
which is the name given to the rocky plateau on
which the temple stands.  So much of my life was
connected with purely spiritual experiences, the full
account of which you will some day have the
opportunity of reading, that it will be well to confine
myself at present only to those matters which are
necessary for the full understanding of my subsequent
life in England, and to the powers which during this
time I developed and perfected.

"Each time that my spirit left the body and went,
either by itself or in company with other spirits, into
the world of unseen life which surrounds us here I
gained more and more knowledge, until at last it was
considered safe for me to try that most difficult of
all experiments, the casting off for the time being of
those materials which form the body, in the hope of
being able to recall similar elements at will in
whatever place the spirit might wish to regain its bodily
form.  I think it highly probable, however, that I
should not so soon have risked the danger, had it not
been for a certain knowledge gained during one of
my hours of spiritual freedom.

"I should explain that in the trance condition,
when the soul is free to wander untrammelled, and
to come into communion with those who are invisible
to mortal eyes, it is also equally possible to visit
those who still live upon earth, though they will not
be conscious of your presence, unless they also possess
some of the powers of the sixth sense.

"I had a strong desire to see Vera again, and to
find out if the arrangements made for her future
had worked satisfactorily.  It was not long,
therefore, before I took the opportunity of discovering
this by the aid of my new gift, and I was horrified
at finding that not only were things far from satisfactory,
but that unless I could interfere, a still more
serious evil would probably arise.

"Now though in this state I could watch all that
happened, I was powerless to act; but if I once dared
risk death by destroying my body, it would be possible
for me to draw the needed particles together in
England or elsewhere; and it was the thought of
Vera's danger that chiefly induced me to run the
risk.  Before doing so, I laid the whole case before
the high priest, and he decided that the matter should
be fully discussed in the temple on the following
evening, and the opinion of those present taken; for
it was to the interest of all that the experiment should
be successful, and even necessary, as he pointed out,
that I should be aided by whatever help they
collectively might be able to offer.

"When we were gathered together, I stood up and
briefly told my reasons for wishing to again return
to my own land.  It was not necessary to use many
words to such an audience.  Some were able to
read my inmost thoughts; some to see the place
and people I wished to visit; some even to recall
every detail of my past life.  There was, however,
not one there who could foretell the future, not
one who knew if I should return to them again, for
even the higher spirits know not what shall be.
One and only One can penetrate the dark cloud
which hangs over futurity.  The greater the knowledge
we have, the more easy do we find it to forecast the
probable course of events.  The parent can prophesy
to his child, and the wise reveal to the foolish many
things that seem hidden, for nature moves by law;
but neither man nor spirit is able to do more than
this.  Yet I realized that a feeling of confidence was
in each heart, and that I should be aided by all the
united power present.  For myself, I cared little
whether I failed or not: only my wish to help Vera,
and the hope that I might be of use to others, made
me anxious to return to the body.

"A solemn silence followed, after which it was
decided that I should not go forth alone.  Two of
those present were chosen to accompany me in spirit,
while their bodies were entranced; and the others
would remain in the temple watching us, that if it
were possible to aid me in any way, assistance might
be given.

"At last the moment arrived, and Luloor and
Karman, the two who had been chosen to accompany
me, lay down, and as their bodies seemed to pass
from wakeful activity into deathlike slumber, I
became conscious of their spiritual presences lingering
over me, waiting for the time when I should join
them.  Not only were they present, but the temple
was thronged with countless spirits ready to welcome
me into the world of freedom which lies so close, and
yet so far away from our material earth.

"It is not possible to describe in language, nor
would I do so even if possible, how the spirit may
disperse these various chemical bonds which form its
vesture here.  To one watching, the form seems to
dissolve as the various elements pass into the air,
even as when by the influence of intense heat the
solid metal becomes transformed into invisible gases.

"The views which many people, even though well
educated, hold with regard to matter are most
extraordinary.  Without acknowledging it, they consider
anything that is solid as on quite a distinct plane
from that which is liquid or gaseous, and though they
are well aware of the fact that it requires but a
comparatively slight alteration in temperature to turn
this solid earth into a ball of gas, even this knowledge
does not really affect their unconscious prejudice.  So
again with regard to the views held about the body:
though even a child can tell you that the body is for
ever changing, how few can realize when they meet
some loved friend who has been absent a few years
that the hand they touch is not the same they touched
at parting; that the eye which looks into theirs is a
strange one; and that not one single particle of the
body before them have they ever seen before!  The
spirit alone remains.  How many bodies do we bury
before the final funeral day comes round?  Why
should we care more for the last fragments than for
the lesser fragments gone before?  We gather from
the water, earth, and air, directly or indirectly, all our
spirit's clothing.  We use these gifts a little time, and
then return them to the givers.  In man's present
state the will acts unconsciously, our animal instincts
drawing slowly such particles as they require.  With
a higher knowledge the spirit acts more directly upon
matter, ruling it, and with conscious power attracting
or repelling the elements at will; but there is no
more violation of natural law in such seeming miracles
than there is in the machinery which can turn out in
less than a second some work which in years gone
by may have taken a man days of labour to accomplish.

"It is, of course, the same with the material covering
of the body, save that to gather together particles
such as are required for clothing is far simpler and
easier than to draw those required for the more
complicated formation of the human form.

"For instance, there were many present among the
priests who could bring together any combinations of
gaseous matters and convert them into whatsoever
they wished that had not life.  Thus even gold
was considered here of no value.  They could create
the outer semblance of some of the lower forms of
life, though in no case is it possible to give the spirit
of life--even in its lowest form, such as is the plants,
for this divine gift is eternal, and cometh and goeth
by the will of the Creator alone.

"But to return to the scene in the temple.  As I
stood in the midst of the white-robed assembly of
mortals, encircled by the countless host of spirit
forms, the fear of destroying my one link to the
earth passed away, and I began to free myself from
the bondage of the body; not as I had hitherto done,
by quitting it, but by force of will and through knowledge
taught me in the spirit-world.  I let the particles
which formed it free, changing them into those few
elementary substances from which, through a
rearrangement of atoms, our complicated structure is
composed.  Thus, while those around could still
notice no change in the apparently sleeping forms of
Luloor and Karman, my body had become invisible.
The great experiment had so far proved successful,
though it still remained a matter of uncertainty
whether I should be able to regain my material form.

"It had been arranged beforehand, in order better
to dispel the anxiety of those who were watching,
and to avoid any additional risk, that on this first
occasion my spirit should not wander far, but return
soon and recall, if possible, its material shape.  I
believe that it was owing to this precaution that I
was successful, for not only was I able thus to receive
the aid of every member of the society, but the
shorter the time that the spirit is in freedom, the less
difficult is it to return to a bodily existence.  It will
suffice for the present to say that I succeeded, and
from that day continually made fresh experiments,
staying away longer, and returning to the body at
various places, each time at a greater distance from
the temple.

"At first my spirit was always accompanied by
Luloor and Karman, but as I grew more confident, I
began to dispense first with one and then with both
my companions.  At last, without difficulty I could
take up a new form in any part of the world, and
in one sense the limitations of time and space were
partially removed.

"It has been necessary for me to dwell thus briefly
on my life at Aphar to enable you to understand
my further relations with Vera; but I have purposely
avoided going into any unnecessary details, and do
not intend to refer again to the matter at present.
Indeed, if it had been possible to make myself
intelligible without mentioning the subject, I should have
preferred it.  But it would have been hopeless otherwise
to explain the power which I acquired, and the
entire alteration in my views of life which dated from
this time; for this experience changed and revolutionized
my character in such a way that it would have
been impossible for you to follow my further actions
with any degree of comprehension.

"I propose now to let you have an account of what
was taking place in England during my absence, but
I shall let Vera tell it to you herself, in her own
words, or rather it shall seem to you that this is so.
But remember that the girl will appear to you as she
was at the time, not only in appearance, but in
thought and character."

Even as Alan Sydney spoke I found myself in
complete darkness; then I heard Vera's voice.

"I have come," she said, "to tell you the story of
my life after Alan left me and went to India."

As she was speaking the light once more fell softly
on the room; my late companion had gone, and I
was alone save for the presence of the beautiful girl,
whose weak yet lovely face I have already endeavoured
to describe.





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.. _`CHAPTER IX`:

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   PART III

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   CHAPTER IX

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"Listen!" Vera said, moving forward and sitting
down on the couch beside me.  "It is a strange
experience.  My position, to begin with, was unusual and
somewhat upsetting to a girl of only eighteen.  I was
married to Lord Vancome, a man I did not even like,
who had moreover disappeared; while the man I
admired and trusted had also left England, after
giving me a large fortune.  I was in possession of
Somerville, my husband's ancestral home, and of all
his estates, neither of which had he power to enter
without my consent.  My father, whom I had always
believed to be wealthy, would also soon be dependent
upon my generosity.

"The day that Alan left, his lawyer arrived from
London, and explained the position to me.  Being
married, I had become freed from all parental control;
the estates and money were tied up in such a manner
that my husband could not touch them; and, to my
surprise, I found out from the conversation that a
thousand pounds a year would be paid to Lord Vancome
as long as he took no steps to interfere with my
inclinations, but that should he at any time take legal
action to compel me to live with him, this payment
would be stopped.

"The lawyer also explained how, in the event of
my husband taking this step, which seemed very
improbable, the law could be easily avoided by a
person who was, like myself, in possession of a large
private fortune.

"Having made all these complicated details as plain
as possible, and after advising me to consult him
before taking any important step, he asked to see
my father.

"What passed at this interview I do not know, but
from that day I was treated by my parents in a way
differing considerably from anything hitherto
experienced.  I was flattered, petted, and allowed to do
exactly what I pleased without comment or rebuke.

"We soon decided to leave Heather Lodge, and
spend a short time in London, after which I had made
up my mind to go with my parents and live at
Somerville.  Nothing of importance happened during
our stay in town.  My father was busily engaged in
making arrangements with his creditors, whilst I spent
most of my time in the new delight of shopping on
my own account.

"Somerville had been bought, together with all the
old pictures, tapestries, and furniture which had
belonged to my husband's family, so that I was spared
the expense of furnishing a large house.  But there
were, nevertheless, opportunities for extravagance
open even in this direction, to say nothing of dress
and jewellery, so that the days passed pleasantly.

"It was not till May that I first saw my new home,
and even then I left London with regret.  My father
had gone down two or three times to see that
everything was in order.  Servants had been engaged, and
the place was quite comfortable when we arrived.

"Somerville is a fine old house, but unfortunately
the man who had decided upon the position chose it
with more regard to appearance than health.  In the
park around, which covers about a thousand acres,
there are hundreds of what modern builders would call
'eligible and imposing sites,' yet this perverse man
placed his building in a hollow, surrounded on three
sides by rising ground, opening only to the south.
The slopes are covered with magnificent trees; a
stream rushes down behind the building and falls over
a beautiful waterfall into a lake.  This expanse of
water, the foliage and enclosing hills, make the
situation relaxing, and in summer time the air is very
oppressive.

"I was, however, at first much too delighted with
the place to think of these defects.  We arrived on
a beautiful evening, bright, yet cool; the sunset made
a lovely background for the trees.  Through gaps in
the dark foliage the red light fell in patterns on the
moss-covered stone roofing of the house, or was reflected
from the surface of the lake.  The birds were singing
gaily, their song mingling pleasantly with the sound
of falling water.  There had been heavy rain, and the
air was full of the sweet, yet bitter, smell of earth,
decaying leaves, and spring flowers.

"The house, which had been built during the reign
of Charles I., was a long, low, stone building, with
mullioned windows.  It gave the idea of being larger
than it really was, but owing to its moderate
proportions, the rooms were very comfortable.  There was
little oak to be seen in the house, the panelling
and furniture throughout being of mahogany, which
was nearly black with age.  The walls were covered
with tapestry, pictures, armour, and many relics of
bygone sport.

"While looking round I thought of my husband,
and tried to picture him as a child playing in the old
rooms.  For a moment I wished that he were there
and could tell me the stories connected with some of
the relics.

"'Father,' I said, 'we shall, after all, have to ask
Vancome down, if only to learn something about my
new family history.'

"A look of annoyance passed over my father's face,
and he answered crossly--

"'Nonsense, child!  I hope you will not think of
such a thing!  There is an old housekeeper who has
been here for goodness knows how many years; I
kept her on that she might be useful.  Whatever you
want to know Mrs. King will no doubt be able to tell
you.'  Then, apparently remembering the altered
position of affairs, his voice changed as he continued,
'Well, dearest, and what do you think of your new
home?  It is a lovely place for a young girl to
be mistress of, and if sensible she will be in no
hurry to hand it over to any spendthrift master.
Should you require a little knowledge or advice, who
can give it you better than your father?  In me, little
one, you will find a man who is willing to take the
trouble and responsibility off your hands, and at the
same time leave you free to do just as you choose.'

"This was not the first time that I had noticed how
strongly my father was opposed to the idea of any
meeting taking place between my husband and myself.
I am now inclined to fancy that the reason we left
London at the commencement of the season was
owing more to his influence than to my own
inclination.  He had always been picturing to me the
delights of country life in my new home; and it is
quite possible that the fear of Vancome returning to
London had a good deal to do with his action.  Nor
did he confine himself to this course only.  Every
story he could rake up which presented my husband
in a vile or ridiculous light was repeated to me, and
I have since found out that many of these reports
were highly coloured.  My mother, in a feeble way,
backed him up.

"'Darling,' she said to me on the night of our
arrival, when I went up to her room to kiss her before
going to bed; 'what a lucky girl you are!  Marriage
is not by any means all that you young people think,
even if by some rare chance you do secure a good
husband.  To be tied down to one man, and have
to put up with all his little fads, jealousies, or
tempers; never to be able to call a day your own, or
to make friends of one of the other sex without the
possibility of a scene!  Well, most of us have to take
the chance of this kind of life at the best, or go
unprovided for; while you, owing to the generosity
of Alan Sydney, have, without any of the disadvantages,
everything you can desire--wealth, freedom, and
position.  With such a fortune the world is at your
feet, if only you keep that scamp of a husband of
yours at arm's-length.  Without your consent he can
do nothing, but if you once allow him to get a footing
here again, good-bye to your happiness, your money,
and your power.  Do not forget what I have said,
dearest, and run away now, for I am very much done
up after my journey.'

"As I lay in bed that night I thought over what
my mother had said.  How changed were these
opinions now from those she had expressed a year
ago!  Then it seemed that marriage was the one aim
of a girl's life; that love had some meaning, though
she had always told me that love and poverty never
long exist hand-in-hand.  But what glowing pictures
she had painted of wealthy married life!  Now we
had ascended to a higher plane still, and I found the
three degrees of comparison--first, love and poverty;
then love and riches; and best of all, riches without
love.  I was, however, rather doubtful if this last stage
would satisfy me for long, though I failed to see any
remedy.  Alas!  I loved the wrong man, and regretted
deeply the folly which had persuaded me to throw
him over on that unlucky night.

"But it was useless to dwell on the past; so, trying
to fancy that I was as fortunate as my parents seemed
to think, I cried a little, and fell asleep, wondering
what I was crying about.

"That night I had a most unpleasant dream.  I
thought I heard a sound as of some one moving
in the house, and though trembling with fear, I got
out of bed and went to the door to listen.  Some one
was evidently coming along the landing which led
to my room.  After trying the handle to make sure
that my door was locked, I turned round with the
intention of getting into bed, but found, much to my
dismay, that I was no longer in my own room, but in
the hall down-stairs.  In front of me on the further
wall hung a picture--a portrait of myself.  The eyes
seemed turned to me with a look of deep, pitiful
interest.  While standing thus in wonder, the door
behind me opened.  I turned, yet though the sound
of footsteps passed me and went on toward the
picture, I could see no one.

"Then it seemed to me as though this invisible
presence cut with a knife round the edges of the
canvas, and the painting fell forward with its face on
the floor, leaving a deep black hole through which
the stars could be seen to glimmer in the heaven,
whilst at the same minute a gust of cold wind came
into the room.

"But worse was to follow, for through this strange
doorway into the outer night, three horrible winged
creatures like bats entered with noiseless flight,
followed by a large owl.  These foul vampires fluttered
around me, and as I fiercely fought at the winged
brutes, striving to drive them from me, the owl, which
had settled on the picture-frame, sat blinking its eyes
and rolling its head from side to side.  At last,
utterly exhausted, I sank down upon the ground, and
the hideous creatures fell upon me, biting through my
thin covering, and staining the white linen with my
blood.

"Then through the dark opening a snow-white dove
passed, as a streak of moonlight, into the room and
fluttered over me, and its soft eyes were turned to mine.
No sooner, however, did the vampires become conscious
of its presence, than leaving me with one accord
they rose upward and tried to seize it.  Scarcely had
their loathly forms, however, come in contact with the
white fluttering wings, than, as though struck by some
flash of unseen lightning, they fell lifeless on my breast;
and at the horror of their dead touch I awoke!  Yet
even as I looked around my room the blinking eyes
and nodding head of the owl seemed still before me.

"I sat up, listening, and stared into the darkness.
The sound of footsteps and the opening and shutting
of doors could be distinctly heard.  It had doubtless
been such sounds that had in some way influenced my
dream.

"I was now wide-awake, and could distinguish my
father's voice speaking to one of the servants, so all
fear of the supernatural vanished.  I struck a match,
and drawing a warm wrapper over me went out on to
the landing to discover the cause of the disturbance.
I had barely opened my door before a maid with
blanched face came hurrying towards me.

"'Please, my lady,' she said, 'Mr. Soudin wants
you in your mother's room at once;' and not waiting
for me to ask a question she hurried on.

"Frightened by the girl's expression, I ran down
the passage, but on reaching my mother's door,
hesitated.  It was partially opened, and I could hear the
sound of rambling speech.  Then for a moment there
was silence, but as I entered a piercing cry made me
hasten forward.

"The fire cast a lurid light over the room, throwing
shadows now here, now there, upon the objects around.
My father stood beside the bed, his face turned from
me, as he held a glass in one hand and with the other
supported my mother, who was sitting up surrounded
with pillows.  Her face was deadly pale, her eyes
fixed as though upon some horrible vision.

"I am afraid that I never loved my parents, though
it is not easy to say why, for in a certain sense they
had always been kind to me.  They had fed, clothed,
and educated, but never really made a companion of
me.  My father was always either engaged in business
or pleasure, and my presence as a rule seemed to
irritate him.  My mother had, almost before I can
remember, given up interest in any one; she spent her
time chiefly in reading novels, and gave as a reason
for thus neglecting her duties the bad health and
excessive nervousness which made every movement or
sound torture to her.  Before marriage she had been
a recognized beauty, and for many years enjoyed the
gaiety of social life; but at last she had fallen under
the influence of some preacher who had thoroughly
frightened her.  Then for a time she devoted herself
to various charitable undertakings, and found religious
dissipation in attending conferences and comparing
sensations with those who were similarly affected.  But
this enthusiasm did not last.  Finally, she developed
a distinct form of hysteria, all her time being devoted
either to her health or books, the latter romances
either of religious or purely sensational emotion.

"As a child I had been left to nurses and
governesses, seldom allowed to enter my mother's room,
and whenever the opportunity occurred, it was quite
apparent that I was there on sufferance, and that the
sooner I left the better it would be for every one
concerned.  When old enough I was sent to school,
and as I was nearly seventeen when I left, you can
fancy that my associations with home life were not
strong.  But though my love may have been weak,
it did not prevent me from feeling both pity and
terror as I looked on my mother.

"Up to this time I had never been brought face
to face either with acute suffering or death.  As I
stood in helpless perplexity, her rambling words still
more alarmed me.

"'I see it all!' she cried.  'Damned! after all I
am damned!--Look! the road is broad, and hedged
in on both sides with flowers--let me get out of it.--Ah!
I cannot!--The thorns cut into my flesh,
look--look!--did I not say so?--The smoke is rising
there in the distance;--it is coming this way, a great
cloud sweeping over me--suffocating me.'

"With a terrible cry she struggled violently for a
moment with her hands, tearing wildly at her throat;
then with an awful groan she fell back dead!

"I will not dwell upon what followed, or how my
father, who had never seemed to care for her in life,
now that she was gone referred to her as the only
bond which had bound him to earth.  He, however,
soon grew resigned to what he called 'the mysterious
dispensations of Providence.'  I had, moreover, during
the weeks that followed, to put up with what was to
me an exceedingly painful form of retrospection on his
part, which usually took place after dinner.

"'My dear,' he would begin, 'if only we could
foresee the future, how differently should we act!
Many a time have I felt peevish and irritable because
your sainted mother was unable to fulfil those duties
which her station in life required.  It is true that at
times I considered there was little excuse for this
neglect; but I have been chastened, greatly
chastened for such suspicion.  A divine Providence has
torn from me the jewel which I failed to value, and I
must now wander alone through this valley of tears.
But resignation, my child--resignation!  In vain do
we kick against the pricks, and draw our sword to
contend with fate.  Let us rather ponder on the lesson
thus given us, that we may be purged from our evil
ways!'

"This sort of talk would continue for some time;
the more depressed he became, the more necessary he
seemed to find it to continue filling up and emptying
his glass, till at last the tears of emotion mingled
with the port, and he sank back in his easy chair, to
meditate, I suppose, with his eyes shut.

"During the day he seemed fairly cheerful, and
spent much of his time with the gamekeepers; for,
as he explained to me, it was absolutely necessary for
the place to be properly kept up, so that when the
shooting season came round, I might be able to
entertain my friends.  No doubt he meant his friends, but
that was the way he put it.

"While he was thus busying himself with outdoor
matters, I had the indoor arrangements to attend to,
which threw me much in the way of Mrs. King.  She
was a dear old character; but had my father known
her sentiments, it is probable that he would never
have engaged her.

"She entirely refused to accept the present position
of things, and treated my separation from Vancome
as a little temporary joke, which it was her duty to
bring to an end as speedily as possible.

"'My dear lady,' she said one day, after giving
me a more than usually long piece of family history,
'I shall be glad when Master Frank--my lord,
I mean--comes back.  Such a nice young man as
he is, too, and the prettiest child he was for miles
round.  You should just have seen the way as every
one did spoil him.  There were no resisting of his
pretty ways.  A bit larky, I know, but bless your
heart, boys ain't worth much if they don't show
spirit!  Pity it were his poor dear father and mother
both died afore he was a bit older; for though my
lord, as was, did give him a free hand, he wouldn't
have let him gamble away the old place, so that his
wife, bless her, had to buy it back again--not he!'

"'But you don't think I am going to live with him
again?' I said.  'It is true that in a foolish moment
I married him, but then things were different; I
didn't know what he was like, and very likely you
have no idea of what he is now.  You should hear
of the way he goes on in London!  It is not the
gambling I mind so much, though that is bad
enough; but the actresses and ballet-girls with whom
he associates--oh! it is simply awful!'

"'Oh! my poor, dear, innocent lady!--whoever can
have gone a-talking to you about such things!  But,
bless your heart! you believe an old woman, there
ain't no real badness in Master Frank.  He always
was a bit too fond perhaps of a pretty face, but then
all of 'em is much the same.  It is the girl's fault, I
reckon, nine times out of ten; and many's the day
I've had to bustle off some young minx of a
housemaid, or maybe even a scullery wench, for the way
they'd carry on, and he no more than a boy of
fifteen!  I ain't got any patience, that I haven't, with
the girls of the present day!  No self-respect, or
keeping in their place.  Why, I've even heard 'em
a'quarrelling as to which he were fondest of, and
which he had kissed last.  But I soon had the hussies
out of the house in those days!  And I got pretty
careful about the choice of their successors; they
weren't overdone with good looks the next lot, I can
tell you!  Well, you see, when a young man goes
out like into the world, he has got to sow his wild
oats a bit afore he settles down; but you take an old
woman's word for it, the young lord's good at heart,
and happy you'll make me when I see the two of
you together.  Ay! and when I hold the young lord
that is to be in these arms, as I did his father nigh on
twenty-seven years ago!'

"After this manner and, as I got to know her
better, in an even more familiar strain, did the old
housekeeper do her best to alter my decision.  Her
arguments might have lacked logic, but she was a
clever old thing in her way, and the love which she
really felt for her young lord was more powerful than
her justification of his faults.  The stories of his
childhood, picked doubtless out of many less attractive,
were always in his favour, and showed his bravery,
affection, and brightness.  What, however, influenced
me more than anything else were her pictures of the
romantic side of married life, which differed entirely
from anything I had been led to fancy.  She would
conclude a long rambling discourse on the subject in
this manner--

"'Ah! little can you know what a woman misses
as never has a chance of being loved--never can turn
her mind back to the joys which come flocking down
on a bride.  Thanks be to heaven!  I knowed it,
though it weren't for long.  But when I looks at an
old maid, why I feels just fit to cry.  To have gone
through life and not know nothing about it!  Never
to have felt that there was one man as loved you,
and would have done anything to call you his own--to
feel each year as it goes by that your chance is
getting less of waking out of this sort of half-and-half
existence, and beginning to live!  It is just this.
A girl as isn't married ain't natural; and things as
ain't natural ain't good in no ways.  We was told to
be fruitful and multiply, and replenish the earth, and
they as can and don't, is to my mind going right
dead against Scripture!'"





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.. _`CHAPTER X`:

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   CHAPTER X

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"Two months passed, and it is probable that soon
I might have tired of the monotony of this existence,
had not my school-friend, Amy Howell, come to stay
with me.  She was one of a large family, and her
father, a country clergyman, having recently lost money,
had now some difficulty in making both ends meet.

"At school we had been great friends; she was a
year older than myself, and as great a contrast in
appearance as in disposition.  Her short, black, and
rather coarse hair curled round a pretty forehead;
she had a dark, clear complexion--the colour of
cream in which a few drops of coffee have been mixed;
a bright, deep colour; full, pretty-shaped, pouting
lips, ever ready and ever seeming ready for kisses;
while the natural gaiety of her nature peeped through
the thick lashes which partially concealed her large
hazel eyes.

"She possessed a fortunate knack of always being
able to make herself agreeable, and of appearing to
take an interest in any subject that might arise.  Her
enemies called her insincere, a flatterer, and
time-server; but I cannot say that I ever noticed these
faults myself.  Her worst enemy could not have called
her dull.

"She soon became a great favourite with my father,
who found her a sympathetic listener to his woes
whenever he felt disposed to air them.  Mrs. King
could not speak too highly of her, and the servants
were unanimous in their praise of her consideration
and kindness.

"'It is surprising why people are ever nasty,' she
said to me one day, when I was commenting on her
popularity.  'It is so easy to make people like you
if you only try.  To be cross with others makes one
cross with oneself.  Now you, for instance, are always
kind, and think what a happy life you have!'

"'I don't know so much about my kindness,' I
answered; 'any way, it's quite a different thing from
yours.  Now look at the way you got over old Mrs. Scott
yesterday; I simply can't bear the woman, with
her conceited vulgarity!--and her patronizing manner
puts all my bristles up.  I feel I could scratch her!
While if she had been your lover instead of an ugly
old woman, you could hardly have appeared more
affectionate!'

"'Well, perhaps I'm not quite so naturally truthful
as you are, dear,' she said.  'I do not like her myself,
but why should we show it?  It's so nice to be liked;
and you never know when it may be to your advantage
to make a friend, and I'm sure it is never any good
to make an enemy.  She might set some one against
me whom I might really like.  Besides, the truth is
this--I cannot help it.  Whenever I see a person, male
or female, young or old, a distinct inclination comes
over me to purr.  I want them to take notice of me,
and stroke my back; so if they do not start at once
I'm obliged to rub softly against their feet, and let
them know I require a caress.  I read a book once
about the transmigration of souls, or something of
that kind, which said that people have been animals
once.  It's rather a funny idea!  I like to fancy what
each person has passed through in a previous
existence.  I think I must have died an untimely death
as a kitten, and have to work out the rest of the
purring stage here.'

"'What do you think I looked like in the last
stage?' I asked.

"'Oh, I think you were a fawn, and it is that which
makes you shun that old spotted leopardess, so that
you feel inclined to retire into the next cover, you
poor little timid thing, hiding away even from your
husband!'

"'Why, you don't think I'm afraid of him,' I
asked, 'do you?'

"'Well, how can I tell?  If I had a husband I
rather fancy I should be wanting to have him handy.
Wouldn't I just make him wild about me!  Of course
I know how you feel, and the way he has acted.
No doubt you are quite right; but I should want to
make him sorry that he couldn't take me in his arms;
and shouldn't I just make him jealous!  Look at
your position.  Don't I wish that I had your chances!
He can't come unless you let him, so you can do as
you please; ask a lot of nice people to the house, and
enjoy yourself.  I should flirt a little perhaps!  It's
wrong; but you know I don't set up to be good, and
I'm certain it would be impossible for me to resist
the temptation.  Then I'd take care to let him know
all about it.  Yes, dear, that would be the way to
punish him--drive him mad with jealousy!  You
may be quite certain that he manages to find out
all about your doings, and I call it just pampering
him the way you go on.  He knows you're quite
safe, no doubt.  Mr. Sydney's gone to India; you
are shut up with your father and your school-friend,
while he is free to enjoy himself, and knows that one
day he will be forgiven, and can well afford to wait.'

"'He is quite mistaken if he thinks that, I can tell
you!' I answered rather angrily, being annoyed with
the way she had put the case.

"'That may be,' she said, jumping up and giving
me a kiss; 'but men are so conceited, dearest, and
when he hears that you are moping here--they are
sure to tell him you are moping, because women are
always supposed to mope in the eyes of the male sex
when deprived of their company--he'll believe it.
Besides, think what people will say--that your husband
was tired of you in less than a week, and that you
are waiting here in solitude till he sees well to return.
No, if I were you, he and the world should see that
you don't want him, and that there are plenty of
people dying to fall in love with you.  Men never
care for what they can have--at least, so it's said.
But if you leave the thing to me, I'll answer for it
we will bring him as a beggar to these gates before
many months are over, and he will cry to be let in
on any terms!'

"'But I won't have him on any terms,' I said.
'Nothing would induce me to live with him.'

"'Oh! that doesn't matter at all,' she replied,
'so long as we bring him to the door.  There is no
fun shutting the portal to one who thinks the place
not worth an assault.  People never believe in the
old maid's desire for celibacy, unless she produces her
proposals.  That is why I intend to make all my
lovers propose by letter; then when I'm an old maid,
I shall have them framed and hung round the room,
with photographs of the best-looking, and incomes of
the wealthiest underneath.'

"I have given this conversation rather fully, as it
may help you to understand my friend's character,
and also how the changes in our manner of life, of
which I am going to tell you, came about; for this
talk, and many on the same subject, no doubt
influenced me more than I fancied at the time.

"I was bitterly angry with my husband, and the
fact that he had made no sign of wishing to see me
aggravated the feeling.  I heard from my father that
he had returned, and pictured him enjoying his life
in town.  The idea that he imagined that I was
quietly waiting his coming, was unbearable, and after
a little opposition, I eventually adopted the plan which
Amy suggested.

"Somerville is about five miles from the Cathedral
City of L----.  It is a gay little place, owing chiefly
to the barracks, which are situated about a mile on
our side of the town.  The large number of officers
quartered there at this time favoured our plan.

"I left all the arrangements to Amy; her brain was
better fitted for the work, and she wasted no time in
setting about her task.  She persuaded my father it
was absolutely necessary for his health, that he should
have some congenial company to assist him with the
port, and to cheer him up during his smoke.  She
showed such pity for his lonely state that, one
evening when I happened to come into the room rather
suddenly I found her kneeling at his side, and if I
am not mistaken, she was even allowing him to give
her a fatherly kiss.  I don't remember feeling envious,
but it vexed me, and she evidently noticed that I
was annoyed, for before we parted that night, she
said--

"'Your poor old father seemed so overcome when
I spoke of his lonely evenings, that I could not help
showing a little sympathy; but I think I've worked
it all right.  At first he said that he wanted no
change--that he was contented in his present position.
That was just when you came in.  But when you left
us alone together again, I tried another plan.  I can
see he does not like the idea of Lord Vancome coming
back here, so I pointed out that if you were deprived
of all society you would perhaps get tired of this kind
of life, and want to change it.  He then questioned
me about you, and I incidentally mentioned that you
had recently complained of never seeing any one, and
that you had spoken on more than one occasion of
your husband.  That roused him.  'She must have
society,' he said, 'you're quite right, my dear.  I will
see to it.  I will ask one or two of the young fellows
over from the barracks.  There is Captain Frint, and
Major Jackson, both capital fellows.  I've played
whist with them once or twice at the Conservative
Club in L----.'

"I told her that she was a bad girl, and that she
had no right to have spoken about me in that way;
but she only laughed and kissed me, saying I was a
sweet, pretty little innocent, who would turn the
heads of fifty captains.  Then she tripped off to her
room, humming to herself--

   |  'Where are you going, my pretty maid?'
   |

"I fell asleep trying to answer the question.

"My father kept his word.  The next morning he
said that if I had no objection he was going to invite
some friends over to dine, so that he might have a
little whist in the evening.  On the following Thursday
evening they came: Colonel Collins, Major Jackson,
and Captain Frint.

"As soon as Amy and I were alone together in the
drawing-room, I asked her what she thought of the
selection.

"'A 1,' she replied.  'The old Colonel seems a dull
old boy, but Captain Frint will do for you splendidly
as a start, while the Major shall be taken in hand by
your humble servant.  He looks a bit dangerous; it
will be safer, therefore, if I take the risk, as should he
be troublesome, it is easier for me to slip out of his
clutches, but as you live here it might be awkward.
Does the plan suit you?'

"'I don't know that I quite understand what you
mean,' I replied; 'but I certainly prefer Captain Frint
to the Major, and as for the old Colonel, he is quite
impossible; he wouldn't make a bridegroom of eighty
jealous!'

"Thus in comparative innocence we set the ball
rolling, which was to carry both of us to the very
border of destruction.

"The whist party did not come off that evening.
Through the influence of the younger men, it was
turned into a card-game which could include six.  We
played for money, and though the stakes were low
I was rather uncomfortable about Amy, as I knew she
could ill afford to lose even a small sum.  Fortune,
however, favoured her, and she rose from the table
two or three pounds richer for the night's play; while,
chiefly owing to my ignorance of the game, and a
certain recklessness, I was a considerable loser.

"It was a bright moonlight night, and as my father
and the Colonel seemed anxious to continue playing
cards, we left them to try their luck at piquet,
allowing ourselves to be persuaded by the younger men to
go out for a stroll.  At first we kept close together,
but Amy soon carried the Major off to show him some
view of the waterfall, and I found myself alone with
Captain Frint.

"We walked for some time in silence; my companion
seemed absorbed in thought, and I took the opportunity
of studying his face carefully.  His skin, which
was clear and pale, in this light looked unnaturally
white.  His features were well formed, and finely cut,
while the intensity of shadow added to the effect,
giving his face a statuesque coldness and nobility; his
head was uncovered, and I noticed from the first, how
well-shaped was its outline: his forehead, which was
naturally broad, seemed even larger than it really was,
as the hair had receded from the temples.  The lower
part of the face was disappointing, the jaw too small,
the mouth and chin effeminate.

"I was thus taking stock of my companion, when
he turned and our eyes met.

"'How rude you will think me, Lady Vancome!' he
said; 'the scene here is so like fairyland, that for a
few moments I forgot my own existence, though
conscious of yours.  I'm rather given to these fits of
absent-mindedness, which are evidently caused by some defect
of the brain, for if anything interests me, my faculties
go to sleep.  I was just wondering whether fancy was
not the only reality, and science a very dull fairy tale,
for when our companions disappeared round the corner,
they left me in sole possession of the Garden of Eden.'

"'Had it not been for the inconvenient presence of
Eve, whom you were doubtless trying to forget.'  I
said this thoughtlessly; then, seeing the trap in which
I had so easily been caught, I felt a hot blush pass
over me as I continued--'But don't let me disturb you,
Captain Frint.  I would on no account interrupt your
pleasant dream, and will join the others.'

"'Don't go,' he said, putting out his hand as though
to stop me.  'Eden without Eve was found too dull
for Adam, and I should be deprived even of his
occupation.  There are no beasts here to name.'

"'You can let loose your inventive faculty,' I said,
'and when you have finished with the animals you
can invent Eve.  You see, as fancy is the only reality,
there can be no difficulty in the matter.'

"'But even fancy,' he replied, 'requires inspiration,
and if you leave me, its light will be extinguished.
Don't you know that as it takes two to quarrel, it
takes two for inspiration--the inspirer and the
inspired?  Even children don't care to play alone.  Do
you not sometimes find it dull in this lovely home
of yours?  But I forgot, you have a companion,
and I should fancy a bright and lively one.  I
suppose, however, that your husband will soon be back
now: I heard that he was suddenly called away to
America shortly after your marriage.  It must have
been very annoying to both of you!'

"What could I say?  It had never occurred to me
before that sooner or later it would be necessary to
explain things.  It was quite evident that whether I
did so or not, people would soon hear of my husband's
return to England.  It seemed therefore better to
give my own version rather than allow some worse
report to get about, so I answered--

"'I would rather not go into the matter, but
perhaps I ought to say that my marriage was a mistake,
and that I think it very improbable that you will ever
see Lord Vancome here!'

"Captain Frint looked at me for a moment,
evidently so taken aback that he was unable to speak.
It was quite plain that no report of the scandal had
hitherto reached him.  Then his manner changed:
the half flippant tone in which he had before spoken
was no longer noticeable as he said--

"'I am very sorry indeed.  I had no idea of your
trouble, or of course should not have referred to the
subject.  I hope you will forgive me.'

"'There is nothing to forgive,' I said.  'You must
have known some time, and now I shall feel more
comfortable when we meet.  But do not let others
know what I have told you; for though it is sure to
come out, there is no occasion to make one's private
affairs public while it is possible to keep them quiet.'

"'You may trust me,' he answered; 'and I shall
always consider it a favour to be allowed to help you
at any time and in any way.  You have, I know, your
father, but there are occasions perhaps when a younger
man might be of some service.  In any case I hope
you will look upon me as your friend.'

"As he was speaking I heard the sound of laughter,
and Amy called out to know where we were hiding.
When she and her companion came up, she assured
us that they had been looking all over the place to
find us, which, considering that we had never moved
from the terrace, seemed rather ridiculous.

"As I was never fond of sleeping alone, I had
recently persuaded Amy to share my room, and this
gave us extra time for conversation.  As soon as the
maid had left us on this eventful evening, I asked
Amy what she thought of the first result of her
scheme.

"'Capital!' she replied, 'things could not be moving
better.  Your father has a companion who suits him,
so have I, and from what I could see you appear to
be getting on fairly well.'

"When I told her what had passed, she laughed,
saying that I was a born flirt with all my seeming
artlessness, and that to arrive at the Adam and Eve
stage the first evening was fairly good; but to end
in private confidence about my relations with my
husband was even better.

"I asked her how she got on with the Major, saying
that she seemed pretty merry on her return.

"'Oh! he's just delightful!' she replied, 'but such
a humbug!  He tried to talk in epigrams, but as
he is not over good at it, and endeavours to make
them complimentary, the result was ludicrous.  This is
the kind of thing, you know.'  And she mimicked his
voice and rather affected drawl.  'Nature is only
natural when cultivated, and in your presence I feel
that woman is only cultivated when natural.--As a
girl puts on reserve she drops refinement.--The sound
of gentle laughter is a sign of gentle breeding; the
suggestion of prudery the seal of plutocracy; the
coyness of the lips shows a canker in the life.'  When
he got to this point I thought it best to turn back.
On our return journey he perpetrated the following
atrocity--'Two minus two is represented by the circle
of eternal content: two plus two by a right angle
which some unkindly fate has crossed.'

"'The great advantage of this kind of conversation
is that you never have any occasion to understand it
unless you like; the worst of the habit that it
sometimes tempts the man to risk a remark which he dare
not produce without its swaddling-bands.  He must
exhaust his brain terribly with the effort, and no
doubt this is the reason that those who go in for this
kind of affectation often seem so terribly stupid.'"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XI`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XI

.. vspace:: 2

"During the following month we made many new
acquaintances, but the Major and Captain Frint were
by far our most frequent visitors.  Either Amy got
over her dislike to epigrams, or her companion, on
becoming more familiar with her, dropped the
affectation, for they seemed fast friends.

"Captain Frint, on the other hand, while seeming
anxious to be with me, was strangely reserved, and
the restraint which he obviously kept over his feelings
piqued and irritated me.  Whatever women may say
to the contrary, I fancy that they seldom like a man
to show that he is able to keep his admiration too
completely under control.  It tends rather to awaken
a distrust in the force of attraction, and we would
rather that he at times forgot himself sufficiently to
enable us to rebuke and chastise him.

"From what I could gather, Amy had nothing to
complain of in this respect from her admirer; in fact
she told me that there was some difficulty in keeping
him within reasonable bounds.  Her kitten-like
nature probably encouraged him to show more
familiarity than he might otherwise have thought
prudent.  As he was very wealthy I could not help
wishing that Amy's attractions might prove strong
enough to lead to a proposal before very long; and
this scheme of mine seemed sufficient justification for
the encouragement of intimacy between them.

"In following out this plan it was of course
necessary that I should be thrown more often in the
company of his friend than otherwise might have
been considered prudent, for though accepting Amy's
suggestion to a certain extent, I had no intention of
going beyond a little harmless flirtation.

"It had been arranged that on a certain day, we
four, accompanied by my father, should ride over to
Hanston Castle, a ruin which was locally considered
of great interest.  On the day fixed my father had
an attack of gout which prevented his coming, but as
I was now competent to act as chaperon, we did not
think it necessary to alter our plans.

"It was a lovely summer morning on which our
military escort arrived.  We had decided to start
early and lunch at a small inn near the Castle; spend
some little time wandering about, and return as soon
as the air was sufficiently cool to make riding
pleasant.  We found it very hot going over, and I felt
quite done up before we had come to the end of our
twelve miles' ride.  Everything was in readiness for
us at the inn, thanks to the forethought of our
companions, who had sent over some provisions beforehand.

"It was too hot, however, to enjoy even the
excellent cold lunch provided, but the iced champagne
was like nectar after our exertion.  It may be that
without knowing it we all drank more freely than
usual.  Personally, as we wandered round the old
ruin afterwards, I felt conscious of more dreamy
contentment than usual, and it struck me that Amy
showed even more than her wonted spirits.

"But I was not able to criticize her for long as she
challenged the Major to a race, declaring that he
could not catch her before she reached the flag-staff
on the top of the Castle.  As neither Captain Frint
nor I felt inclined for violent exertion of this kind,
we wandered on round the battlements till a shady
corner tempted us to sit down and rest.

"Whether it was the wine or the exercise I do not
know, but as I threw myself down on the soft grass
in this shady spot I felt a reckless delight in
existence never before known.  The place was absolutely
secluded; a massive, moss-covered wall rose above us
on the left; on our right was the buttress round which
we had just passed, while in the empty moat in front
some magnificent trees were growing, the foliage of
which provided us with welcome shade.

"My companion sat down beside me, and after
offering a cigarette, which I accepted, lighted one
himself.  For a few moments we smoked in silence,
then a desire came over me to make this man who
had lately seemed so cold, acknowledge that he was
my slave.  Not that I cared for him, but rather
because I was interested to know the meaning of
his late behaviour.  I felt convinced that he was
fascinated by me, and yet since the first evening of
our acquaintance he had never said one word which
could justify me in this opinion.  Had it not been
that whenever I turned in his direction I found that he
was watching with that unmistakable look in his eyes
which speaks so plainly, I might have imagined that
I was wrong.

"Little by little I tried to draw him on to
confession, guided by an instinct which most women
possess, and which requires neither study nor thought.
Often this instinct guides by ways that would seem
diametrically opposed to the purpose, but which have,
when followed out, the desired effect; for it is by
subtle and unstudied opposition that men can most
easily be overcome, and for this reason an artless girl,
often without knowing it, exerts a power where the
most skilful coquette would utterly fail.  Nature in
such cases, is a better teacher than experience, and
many girls are blamed for leading men on by artifice
who have never even thought on the subject.

"In the present case, however, I was not unconscious,
though I allowed my natural instinct to guide
me, but for some little time with small success; for
though after each veiled attack my companion's face
grew paler, and the look of repressed feeling was
more plainly noticeable on his features, yet he
continued to talk on trivial subjects, and all attempts to
turn the conversation into a personal channel were
adroitly set aside, though with manifest effort on his
part.

"Probably when nature planned men and women
it failed to make allowance for what are now called
considerations of honour, and possibly this may have
been the cause of my difficulty.  Trusting, therefore,
that it might be more easy to arrive at the desired
point by starting on another path, I said--

"'Are not men supposed to be more honourable
than women?'

"'I do not know,' he replied; 'but as men have
more temptations to dishonour, they have more
opportunity of showing off the quality and gaining
credit; yet I fancy that the great battles are lost or
won more often in private than in public.  The noble
deed that the world hears of is often the impulse of
a moment--some unconscious act of heroism; there
are many who can do great deeds under the inspiration
of the hour, but how few can safely meet temptation
day by day successfully, in moments of weakness
as well as in times of strength!  The day may come
when the sword of honour is forgotten, and the man
falls even before knowing that he is in the presence
of danger.'

"'You are very solemn and dull to-day.  What
has happened?  Are you ill?'  As I said this I put
out my hand and just touched his arm.  'Can I not
help you in any way?  Tell me, what has been
disturbing you so much lately?  We are friends, you
know, and friendship is a poor thing where there is
no confidence.  Besides, if you remember, I have
already confided in you once.'

"He was trembling visibly, and looking up into his
face, I knew that I had conquered.

"'I cannot tell you this,' he said; 'do not ask me.'

"'Oh, very well!' I replied, pretending not to
understand him.  'Of course a girl's sympathy is not
likely to be any use to you.  It was absurd of me to
fancy that it might be, and very probably you think
I am not to be trusted.'

"'It is cruel of you to say that,' he replied.  'There
is no one I would sooner trust.  There is no one
whose sympathy I long for more.  But cannot you
understand that there are some things that I may
have no right to speak to you about--have no right
to feel, perhaps; but our feelings we cannot always
control, though our words we can.'

"'Oh, I don't want you to make me your confidant
about anything which you consider I had better not
hear,' I said, purposely still seeming to misunderstand
him.  'Of course I can quite see that you may have
something on your conscience which it would not do
for you to tell me.  However, I am sorry.'

"'It is not that I've done anything that could
not be told to a woman,' he replied, getting up from
the ground and standing over me.  'Oh! why cannot
you understand that it is to you, and you only, that
I may not speak, because to tell you would be to
make things worse, not better?'

"'Whatever are you talking about?' I cried.  'Tell
me at once what you mean.  You have said either too
much or too little, and I am justified in asking you
to explain fully; or if you prefer to keep your secret
from me, it must be at the cost of our friendship.'

"'Vera,' he said, bending over me, 'have you not
seen--do you not know that I love you?  Love
you so deeply that, had it been possible, I should long
ago have torn myself away from the scene of temptation;
but oh! my love, I could not!  I have striven
to hide my feelings so that you might never know,
and I, fool that I am! believed it was possible.  All
I asked was to be near you, to worship you; and
what is the result?  You will now despise and hate
me.  Had you loved your husband it would have
been different, for till I knew that he had treated you
badly--till I felt that you were in the sight of heaven
not really his wife--I only admired you, and thought
what a fortunate man he must be.  But when you
trusted me with this sorrow, a new feeling sprang
up--a fire that could not be quenched.  Oh, I know how
vile I must seem in thus taking advantage of your
confidence.  Have I not thought over it day and
night, saying to myself it is her very loneliness which
should make the thought of love impossible!  But
I deceived myself with that old and oft-repeated
deception of friendship, of self-renunciation, of living
for you.  Oh, Vera, I could not help it.  If you could
only know how sweet, how lovely you are, you would
forgive.'

"He knelt down and kissed me on the forehead;
then, apparently losing all further power of control,
before I could decide what to say or do, he put his
arm round me and kissed me on the lips and on the
eyes.  I leapt up, terrified by his passion, and
conscious of a strange mixture of anger and pride:
anger that he should have dared thus to insult me;
pride that my beauty should so far overcome his
reserve and honour.

"'Captain Frint!' I said, trembling so that I could
hardly speak, 'I hate you--hate you!  I thought you
were a man to be trusted.  I hope we shall never
meet again.'

"He stood before me, looking on the ground.  His
face was deadly pale; his features were drawn and
pinched as though he were suffering from acute bodily
pain.

"'You are right,' he said at last, though in so low
a tone that I could barely catch the words.  'I am
a brute--the vilest of men!  There is no excuse, so
I will not make things worse by speaking.  The only
thing that is possible I will do.  You shall not see
me again after to-day.'

"As he spoke I could hear the strange sound which
his parched lips made while he stammered out the
words.  When he had finished, for a moment I thought
he would have fainted, but after a pause he seemed
to recover somewhat, and continued--

"'Vera, you can never know how I have tried to
be honourable, and though you will not believe me,
had I foreseen that this could have happened, I would
willingly have suffered the pain of parting from you
before, rather than thus have given you cause for
hating me.  Oh, to think that I, who worship you so,
should have dared to profane those pure, sweet lips,
have dared to offer you my cursed love!  Why is
fate so cruel?  If we had met a year ago, that which
is now sin might have been so different!  I cannot
tell--I dare not even think of it--you might have
loved me!  This law which now separates us would
have come no longer like the angel of death between
us, and what is a curse would have proved a blessing!
Hell, the eternity of which stretches before me, might
have been changed to the gate of heaven.  Why are
things so ordered that fate has made my love poison,
and turned that which should have been the greatest
of earth's blessings into a curse?  I must never see
you again--must try even not to think of you.  To
do the latter is impossible, but the former I will do.'

"There was no mistake possible.  The words he
spoke were not caused by an exaggerated impulse
of the moment; still less was he acting a part.  He
loved me, as I thought no one had ever done before,
unselfishly yet passionately.  I felt certain that if I
said nothing, he would keep his word, and that this
would be the last time I should have an opportunity
of speaking to him.  I did not like the idea of thus
losing his companionship, but what was to be done?
After thinking a minute, I said--

"'Captain Frint, I am very sorry that this should
have happened.  I quite thought that you had too
much respect for me to act in the way you have
done--even though you cared for me.  I suppose that
what you suggest is best, if you feel that your power
of self-control is so weak that you cannot see without
insulting the girl you profess to love.  This being so,
it is certainly imperative that you should go; but
you must remember that if you suddenly give up
calling, and act in the way proposed, people will
probably talk.  I can hardly think that you are so
weak as, in the excitement of the moment, you fancy,
and therefore if you will promise faithfully never to
forget yourself in this way again, I will forgive you
this once, though mind, never again.  Come,' I
continued, holding out my hand, 'let us be friends--mind,
friends and nothing more.  You must get over
this silly fancy.  There are plenty of nicer girls than
I am, unmarried and waiting for you.  To one of
these you can express all those pretty sentiments
without a prick of conscience.'

"'Thank you,' he said, 'I will promise not to forget,
but can never hope to follow your advice.  Do you
think it would be possible to change so easily?  You
do not understand, and perhaps it is better you should
not, how deeply I feel; but your forgiveness is the
more generous, as this very depth of feeling is my
only possible excuse.'

"We sat without speaking for a few minutes, and
then he suggested that we had better go and look for
our companions.

"After wandering about for some little time we
found them comfortably reclining against a buttress
on one of the towers.  As we went up the winding
steps we could hear them talking about the view.
Amy, I thought, had evidently less occasion for a
chaperon than had her qualified protector; but I
was more doubtful about this point after having seen
her face, which was flushed and showed signs of an
unusual, though suppressed, excitement.  The Major
has proposed, I thought.

"I had no opportunity of finding out if this
surmise were correct till I went up to our room that
evening; and even then Amy, instead of answering
my question, at first persisted in hearing what Captain
Frint had been saying to me.

"'He looked like a ghost when you came up,' she
said; 'whatever had you been doing to the poor man?'

"So I had to tell her, and was glad to find that she
quite approved of my action, saying that it would
have been a great mistake if I had let him go, and
that it was only fair to punish him for his impertinence
by a little extra tantalization.

"'If he had gone,' she said, 'he would have soon
forgotten and taken up with some one else.  Now you
can keep him miserable as long as you like, for he is
a safe man, you see, even as I told you.'

"I should have felt disposed to argue the point, for
her way of speaking annoyed me, but at the moment
I was too anxious to hear her experience, so I said
that it was her turn now to explain.

"'There is not very much to tell,' she answered;
'you came up at rather an inconvenient moment.
Our friend had been giving me a long discourse on
love, which rather perplexed me.  At last he became
more personal, and was saying that he loved me to
distraction, but that for some reason he dared not at
the moment ask my love in return--when we heard
your footsteps down below, and he at once changed
the subject.'

"'I am sorry we came so soon,' I said.  'What did
he mean, I wonder?'

"'That is the curious part of it,' said Amy.  And
we spent half-an-hour trying to make various guesses,
but not one of them came near to the mark, as we
discovered later on.

"As time passed, I grew more and more annoyed
with my admirer.  He was polite, respectful, and
reserved, but decidedly uninteresting, and evidently
so afraid of falling again, and showing his love for
me, that he became stiff and formal the moment we
were alone together.

"Why, I thought, cannot men be more reasonable?
There surely is some line between frigidity and fire.
Moreover, as I got over my alarm at his first outburst
of affection, I began rather to desire some sign of my
influence, and even tried now and again to break
through his reserve by indirect reference to what had
passed between us, but for some time without avail.

"This piqued me, and one evening when we were
alone together, I was seized with a mad impulse to
make him break his promise.

"'I am glad to see,' I began, 'that you have got
over your difficulty so easily.  You know I told you
at the time that you under-rated your power, and
exaggerated your feeling.  Certainly there has been
no sign lately of a repetition of your fault.  In fact
I am inclined to think that you are even rather tired
of my company.'

"'You are mistaken,' he answered; 'there is one
way, and one way only which I dare take.  If I were
to go ever so little beyond it I might go too far and
again offend you.  It is possible to be friendly with
those we care little for, and to be cold to those we
love; but to be intimate without showing our true
feeling with one we care for above all others is, I
believe, impossible.  The strain would be too great.
Some time or other the line would be crossed, the
veil torn aside.'

"'But,' I asked, 'don't you think you are making
a good deal out of a little?  Suppose you do like me,
would it not be better to accept the position and
have done with it?  Face facts bravely.  I do not
love you, and in any case cannot marry you; but
there is no reason why we should not be good friends.
What more can you want?  It's no good being cross
because you cannot have the impossible.  You are
worse than the love-sick maiden who fell in love with
the man in the moon, for she was content to look at
her idol, and you are not even satisfied with being
able to talk to and see yours, but must needs sulk.'

"'You must know that it is not that,' he said.  'I
am not cross, but I am afraid of myself.  You cannot
know how ashamed I felt after that day in the Castle,
and as you were so forgiving and allowed me to see you
again, it is doubly necessary for me to be on my
guard.'

"'Well, you have been very good since,' I said, 'and
as it is evident that you are to be trusted, for the future
you may be a little more natural, and not quite so stiff
and proper.  You may be quite certain that I shall
not for a moment allow you to go too far.  But I
cannot see why a man and a girl cannot be friends
without the ridiculous idea they are bound to fall
in love.  I really believe it was nothing else than this
on your part, and you must make up your mind to
get over it.  To help you to do this I am going to be
quite open and frank with you.  I shall treat you as a
companion whom I like, and you can forget I am a
girl, and treat me in the same way.'

"'I will try,' he said, 'but am rather doubtful of
success.  If you were not so pretty it would be
easier.'

"'Pretty--Oh! rubbish!' I replied; 'whatever has
that, even if it were true, got to do with the matter?
You can make up your mind if you like, with the
help of that powerful imagination of yours, that I am
as ugly as sin.  Don't you think you can?'

"I looked full in his face; for a moment his eyes
met mine, then he turned away as I rattled on--

"'Don't you think it would be rather nice if you
made up your mind to dismiss all this foolish nonsense
about love, and were to try the experiment of true
friendship?  You could say to yourself, "Here is a girl
that I like, who is willing to be friends with me,
but nothing more; I will show her what an unselfish
friendship means."  If you will try and do that, I, for
my part, will forget all about the past, and be very
nice to you.  I shall be very strict, but at the same
time endeavour not to take offence at little things,
especially if I see you are trying to be good.  Now
what do you say to that?'

"'Say?' he replied.  'Why, that you are far too
good and noble to have anything to do with me.
That if after what you have said I fail to show you
true friendship, I am unworthy to be called a man!
But, Vera----'  He stopped, the word had evidently
escaped him accidentally.

"'Well,' I broke in, 'I don't call that a very good
beginning; but after all, there is no particular reason
why friends should not call each other by their
Christian names.'

"'I forgot,' he stammered, 'I so often think of you
by that name that it slipped out by accident.'

"'Well, never mind, I promised not to be too
strict,' I answered.  'But you must take care not to
forget when we are in public, because you see people
are so bad they cannot understand true friendship;
but to show you that I have forgiven you, I will just
for once call you Albert.  It's rather a nice name, and
seems to suit you.  I think men, when they have been
a long time away from home, must feel rather lonely
if they never hear their Christian name.  I suppose
no one now calls you that, do they?'

"'No,' he answered, 'and if you will sometimes, I
shall be glad to think that no one else ever would.'

"I put my hand up as if to cover his mouth, saying,
'Hush! you are already on the verge of transgression.
Now, in future, when you are talking you must watch
me very carefully.  If I put my hand to my lips you
will know that you have said something which is
objected to.  If I am seriously angry, I shall put up
both my hands.  Now don't forget!'

"The weeks of early summer passed quickly and
pleasantly by.  It is true that my conscience
occasionally troubled me, for the agreement which I
had made with Captain Frint did not work out exactly
as intended.  Our friendship at times would have been
open to misconception had some unseen observer been
present.  I will do my companion the justice he
deserves, by saying at once that he seemed to strive
against his love; moreover, his conscience troubled
him, I fancy, more than mine disturbed me, and
after each outburst of demonstration he suffered
apparently from a deep fit of remorse, which struck
me as rather amusing than otherwise.

"But familiarity bred contempt, and little by little
we both got more callous over what I tried to justify
as playing at love-making.  It was some time before
I had any idea that this play was likely to become
serious as far as my own feelings were concerned; but
after a time a suspicion arose in my mind which I tried
to stifle, that some great change had taken place in
my heart.  I found that life had begun to assume a
different aspect.  Time no longer hung heavily on
my hands, but was divided into about equal periods
of depression and exultation.  My thoughts were
running on one subject--the man who loved me.

"Then for the first time I began to realize the
hopeless position in which we were placed, for though I
believed that to live such a life as we now enjoyed would
continue to satisfy me, yet even this was manifestly
impossible; and I felt regret that we had drifted thus
far upon a path which could only lead to the sorrow of
parting.  Up to this time any consideration for my
companion's feelings in the matter had never occurred
to me; but now I understood, and was more sorry for
him than for myself.  I had come across his path, and
perhaps ruined his life.  He had struggled nobly
against his passion, while I had refused to let him go,
and without any intention of returning his devotion
had kept him from escaping the temptation.  Now it
seemed that I was being entangled in a like web, and
it was impossible to see what would be the end
of it all.

"Amy surprised me very much one morning by
saying that she should be obliged to go home at the
end of the week.  She expressed great regret at
leaving, but at the same time gave a reason for her return
which, though unanswerable, was to me unsatisfactory.
I felt convinced that she had some further object in
view, which she did not care to mention.  For a few
weeks past our talks had been less confidential, partly
owing to the fact that as I grew to care more for
Captain Frint, I was less anxious to speak about him;
and also that when we discussed the Major, while
professing to have nothing further to communicate, Amy
seemed desirous of avoiding the subject.

"On the Monday after she left I heard that Major
Jackson had gone home on leave, and this seemed
partially to explain her sudden change of plans."





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   CHAPTER XII

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"I shall not attempt any explanation of a remarkable
experience which happened some little time
after Amy left, but shall give you a brief account of it.

"One lovely evening near the close of summer,
sitting alone in the garden, dreamily listening to
the soft hum of the insects and the distant murmur
of the water, I was suddenly roused by the sound
of a footstep, and turning toward the direction from
which the sound came, I saw, greatly to my
astonishment, Alan Sydney.

"At first sight I could hardly believe my senses,
for though, after all, there was nothing so very
extraordinary in his having returned to England, yet I
fancied that he had gone away for some years, and I
had lately hardly ever even thought about him.

"He was much changed, though it is not easy to
describe in what way the alteration struck me.  I
had always been rather afraid of him, and I felt the
fear now even more strongly than in the past.  Yet
his face, as he came nearer, bore no expression of
severity, but only kindliness and pity.

"'You are surprised to see me, Vera,' he said;
'but you know I promised always to help you, and
have, therefore, come now.'

"'I am delighted to see you back,' I answered,
holding out my hand to him.  'But why did you not
write?  My father will be delighted!  You must come
and see him at once.'

"'Not now,' he replied, 'I only came to talk to
you, and must go directly.  Moreover, I do not wish
you even to mention that you have seen me.'

"Saying this he sat down by my side, and I,
wondering greatly why he had come, said--

"'Oh!  I shall not hear of your going!  You must
tell me all about your travels.  But, first of all, what
made you fancy that I required your help now?
You have already done so much for me it is difficult
to imagine what further assistance so lucky a girl can
need.'

"'Perhaps,' he said, 'I have done too much.  It is
often the case that those who would help, by their
very effort to do so, only hinder.  But tell me, are
you happy?'

"As he said this he looked into my eyes, and there
was something in his look which seemed to open my
heart so that I could see what I had never fully
known before.  I tried to speak, but could not; then
burying my face in my hands I wept.  He placed
his hand upon my head, and at his touch a feeling of
rest and calm stole over me.

"Then he said--'Vera, why will you turn into the
way of trouble?  I have tried again and again to
save you, but it is impossible to help one who
wilfully, or even heedlessly, chooses that road which can
only lead to sorrow.  Every step taken over it has to
be retrodden, and the smooth pathway will then be
overgrown with thorns; the light of passion will
have died out, and in weariness and darkness each
step must be one of uncertainty and pain.  I know
how you have endeavoured to blind your eyes by
false reasoning which can never help you, but the day
of self-revelation always comes.  You would argue
that it is not your fault if men fall in love with your
beauty, and that, placed in your position, it is more
than usually difficult to act.  But there is one thing
that can always guide us--if, leaving our own position
out of the question, and, caring nothing about our
own salvation or our own end, we think but of
others--of how each action will affect their lives.
"Love and do as you like," said one of earth's noblest
men.  But it must be true love.

"There is a man who, in a limited sense, loves you,
and whom, though in a still more limited sense, you
love.  He has tried nobly, considering his weakness,
to keep that love pure, and when he found that his
lower nature rebelled against his higher, he was willing,
even anxious, to suffer the pain of separation rather
than harm you.  How knowing this, did you act?  Did
you consider him?  Did you think--if I let him go on
I shall be his eternal curse?  He is now honourable,
but he will become mean.  Have you any idea what
this implies to a man?  When he is with you he may
forget; but think of the solitary hours when he sees
himself as he is, and knows that he is damning the
girl he loves!  If there is any nobleness in his nature,
he must conquer his passion, or destroy his conscience.
And each day it becomes more difficult to do the
former--more imperative to do the latter.  And you,
consciously or unconsciously, have taken the very
course which makes the path most difficult for him.
Professing not to care for his love, you have well-nigh
made it a point of honour that he should not leave
you, whilst under the pretence of friendship you have
taken every means to increase his infatuation.  Already
the infection of his feeling has influenced your nature.
What will be the end?  One of three things must
happen.  He will conquer either himself, or you, or
the battle will destroy him.  There is no other
way open if you continue to act as you are doing
now.  The first would be the best, but whether
it is now possible I doubt.  Either of the other
alternatives must lead to his utter misery and yours.  Do
not blind your eyes, Vera!  You do not know how
soon the fatal moment may come when it will be too
late.  And remember, do not think about yourself or
your own safety--that will never help you.  Think of
the man who loves you, and save him.'

"He stopped speaking, and for a few moments I
was so overcome by his words that I did not move,
but still sat with bent head, my face covered in my
hands.  When I looked up he was no longer by me.

"It was growing dusk, and I could not see him.
I called his name, but there was no answer.  He had
gone!  Shame prevented me from trying to find him.
No wonder, if he knew all this, that he wished to
have nothing further to do with one so vile!

"It is surprising how hateful actions seem when
placed in words, which, when only hid in the heart,
trouble us little.  If there be a God who can read the
inmost thoughts, how great must be His love, or how
overwhelming His contempt for us!"

As Vera said this I found myself in darkness.  The
vision had gone, and being very tired I slept.





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   PART IV

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   CHAPTER XIII

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I have already mentioned that Alan Sydney was
fond of hunting, and it so happened that a few days
after the incidents related in the last chapter I
overtook him riding to the meet.  Since hearing his
experience in India, and seeing more of his remarkable
power, it seemed strange to me that a man with
his advantages should still care for hunting, or even
continue to live in the way he did at all.  I took this
opportunity of asking him some questions on the
subject.

"I will try to explain to you," he said, "what seems,
but is not, a contradiction in my life.  One of the
strongest powers which influences character is
association.  What a man once loves and cares for leaves
him very slowly, and even death, as we call it, namely,
the change in our surroundings, does not destroy the
tendency of the past.  No doubt it is owing to this
that so often we see traces of the beast nature in man.
Of all tendencies the desire to hunt, a necessary
instinct of the lower creation, is most noticeable.  It
was doubtless this instinct that influenced me when
young, as it has influenced so many; and I have
explained to you before that I still find the sport of
great service in taming and controlling my body."

"But," I said, "your body must by this time be
under such complete control that it would seem
unnecessary."

"There you are mistaken," he replied.  "As long
as the spirit is bound to earth it must be held more
or less under the influence of animal instincts and
animal requirements, which, if not rightly regulated,
would react on the higher nature.  It is quite true
that, if I wished, it would now be only too easy to
quit this material prison; but I have work to do here,
and if my spirit once became free from earthly bonds
it would never be able to take them up again, or
influence the world through material agencies.
Moreover, every new power gives added interest to each
action of life; and I can assure you, that even in
hunting there is ample opportunity for study, and
even in some cases for gaining valuable experience."

"In what way do you mean?" I asked.

"Firstly," he answered, "there is the pleasure of
watching man's influence over the lower orders of
life.  Now it may seem strange to you, but it is far
more difficult to influence a beast than it is a man.
The power of will passes more reluctantly from me
to my horse than it does from me to you; and long
after I could make any man act in the way I wished,
I was still unable perfectly to influence the will of
a single lower animal.  Yet for all that, there are men
who have little or no power over human beings, able
to exercise quite unconsciously a remarkable influence
over beasts.  This opens out a subject of great
interest, which is more easily studied while hunting
than at any other time.  I have for some years
perfected my control over horses, but it does not in
the least detract from my interest in watching the
unconscious action of other minds on the animals
which they fancy they guide only by bodily force.
You will see that I ride, as others, with bit and bridle,
because I do not wish to cause attention, but they
are unnecessary.  This horse is absolutely untrained.
I have never been upon its back before, and have
good reason to know that it has never been hunted.
I selected it simply because it has great bodily strength
and endurance, together with the capacity, though
not the training, for hunting."

We were in a lonely part of the country, and I
asked Sydney to give me some example of his power
over this untrained horse.  He laid the reins upon
its neck, and then told me to mention anything which
I wished to see the animal do.

"You can choose any likely or unlikely movement
possible for a horse," he said; "only I should prefer
that it did not roll."

There was a big six-barred gate at the right of us,
and I said, "Let him jump that."

I had scarcely spoken before the horse turned, faced
the gate, and cleared the top bar by about two inches.

"Come back over the hedge," I said.  The horse did so.

"I should not care to jump into a hard road in that
way with a loose rein," I remarked.

"No," Sydney replied, "it would not be wise; for
though if a horse jumps perfectly there is no danger,
yet often on landing a tight rein is useful.  If,
however, you watch the riders out to-day, you will see
that two-thirds of their horses would jump better if
they were left to their own devices.  So many riders
give the horse a check, not as he lands, but while
he is in the air; and this causes more accidents than
most people imagine."

I then tried the horse in other ways, making it rear
and kick, getting it to open the gate by lifting it with
its teeth, and to do many other curious movements,
which showed that its entire body was absolutely
under the control of its rider's thought.

"With such a horse," I said, "you could do anything
in the hunting-field, but I have seldom noticed
you much to the fore when out with us, though of
course every one knows that you ride well."

"I have two reasons," he answered, "for not leading;
as there would in that case be no opportunity of
studying others, and also, that it seems to me hardly
fair.  There is no danger to me in facing any possible
obstacle, however tricky or difficult, and I might lead
others to follow who, through no fault of their own,
would very probably come to grief."

We had by this time overtaken two other riders,
and our private conversation was at an end.

I shall never forget that day.  We had a most
brilliant run, and I kept close to Sydney on purpose to
watch his horse.  Now that I had a key to the
mystery, it was easy to notice the human instinct that
guided its every movement.  The country was difficult,
or I should have found the occupation even more
absorbing; as it was, much of my time was taken up
in looking after my own animal, which unfortunately
by no means always took its jumps in the way I
desired.

We had been galloping at a great pace for
twenty-five minutes, and many of the riders were now far
behind, when I noticed that we were approaching
some fairly stiff rails, on the further side of which
there was a broad, deep ditch full of water.  If there
is one obstacle to which I object more than another,
it is a combination of this description.

Three or four of the horses cleared it in safety, but
a girl, riding just in front of Sydney, was unable to
get her horse in hand.  Consequently, instead of
clearing the top rail the animal came with its full
weight into the obstruction, broke the top bar, and
getting its legs entangled in the lower timber, turned
completely over into the water.  So entirely were the
horse's fore-legs fixed in the lower bars, that the girl
seemed in great danger of being drowned.

It is not easy to imagine a more awful position.  To
be pressed down with one's head beneath the water by
a horse's weight, at the same time knowing that it
is impossible to do anything to assist the animal in
freeing itself!

Sydney had taken in the position, and I saw his
horse dash forward at full speed.  When it came close
to the broken rail, it swung quickly round, and striking
the lower bars with a violent kick, sent the pieces
flying in different directions.  It thus freed the struggling
horse, and then without a moment's pause plunged
into the water.  Sydney was now able to seize the
lady's bridle, and for a moment everything seemed in
confusion; then the rescuer's horse made a gallant
plunge, reared up in the water and fell backward
between the broken rails.  The daring attempt was
successful; the weight of the falling horse had given
just the impetus Sydney required to lift the other
animal and to free its rider, and amid the cheers of
those who had now gathered round, the lady was
borne in safety to the bank, terribly frightened, though
uninjured.

I hastened up to see if Sydney was hurt, but though
his horse fell backwards, it had not even bruised him,
owing to the skilful way in which at the last moment
he had slipped aside.  He now stood on the bank with a
piece of the girl's broken bridle in his hand, and the
bits of timber strewn round him.

As we rode home later in the day, he surprised me
by saying--

"It was a foolish action, and I feel ashamed of
having given way to the momentary instinct which
prompted it."

"What! saving the girl's life?" I said.

"No," he replied, "but the way I did it.  You can
easily fancy that I possessed other and simpler means
of saving her without attracting attention to myself.
But it is very difficult at times to check the inclination
which we all have for exciting bodily action."

"Well," I answered, "I do not think, considering
the power you possess, any one could accuse you of
making a display of it.  Why, the breaking of the
bars by your horse's feet was, I fancy, unnoticed by
any one except myself.  Others probably thought
they had given way under the strain; while even your
horse's rearing up and falling backwards would be
considered only a fortunate accident."

"That is quite true," he replied, "I was not thinking
of display, to which weakness my nature at present
tends very slightly; but rather that for the time being
I allowed my body to do what my will could have
effected better without its assistance.  However, this
is its day out, and perhaps it was only fair."

I have mentioned this incident to show that Sydney,
even while he possessed faculties so remarkable
that one might have expected his body to influence
his mind no longer, at times still allowed the former
to hold temporary sway.  He always impressed this
point most strongly upon me, saying that those who
profess most emphatically that they have the power
to ignore material things, are, often, without
knowing it, under the most serious bodily servitude, the
servitude of disease; and that though it is quite
true that the body should be brought into subjection
to the spirit, this can only be done by keeping
it always, as far as possible, in perfect action and
health.





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.. _`CHAPTER XIV`:

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   CHAPTER XIV

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I was sitting alone in my study one morning about
two days after our run, busily engaged in writing an
account of it, when I found that Sydney was standing
beside me.  I started up, his presence taking me by
surprise.

"I never heard you come in," I said.

"No," he answered, "I have been at Aphar since
we last met, and seeing that you were alone I
returned here instead of going to my house.  As we
are neither of us busy to-day, I thought you might like
to hear the continuation of my story."

We talked for some time about various subjects
which led back eventually to the experiences which
Vera had related to me.

"Tell me," I said, "was the girl really present?  Or
was this simply a delusion which you threw over me?"

"It is rather difficult to explain," he replied.  "Vera
was neither with you in body nor in spirit, yet it was
her past nature that spoke, called up by the force of
my will, even as it was her past form that you saw.
I cannot fully explain this even to you, for in common
with others you hold a false estimation of what people
call time.  Past, present, and future are convenient
terms for men to use; but as a fact there are no such
limitations, though it may be as difficult to comprehend
this as it is to try and think of a universe that
had no beginning and shall have no end.  Many
people accept the truth of this latter mystery, but
would laugh at the possibility of the former; yet
they are inseparably knit together.  It is this which
makes what we call sinning so terrible; it is the
inability to understand this mystery that has led to
some of the revolting views which are held in
connection with the eternity of punishment and the
indestructibility of Satan.  But to continue my story.

"Though I made the strongest appeal possible, in
the hope of saving Vera from the trouble which must
follow if she still continued to allow her lower nature
to rule her, I at the same time felt convinced that
her moral power was not sufficiently developed to
withstand the temptation.  Impressed as she was
at the time, this feeling was too likely to be transient.
Future events proved that this view was correct.
Whatever struggle Vera may have made at first, the
effect was not noticeable after a few week's' time, and
I knew that all my watchfulness would be required
to prevent some great misfortune.  It would have
been easy to remove Captain Frint out of the way of
temptation, either by what you might call hypnotism
or in many other ways; but I was guided now by an
influence which showed me that such actions can only
delay the growth of nature.  Under certain circumstances
they may be justifiable, but should be employed
only as a special opiate.  For as in certain cases
chloroform may be used on the body to prevent pain,
but when the cause of the evil is not removed, proves
only a dangerous means of delaying its effects, so the
temporary destruction of another's will-power can only
be right if employed in a special emergency.

"Though my chief interest was centred in Vera, I
felt far more compassion in this case for her lover.
It was a sad sight to see the terrible battle that at
this time raged in his heart.  One night while my
body lay entranced, I visited him in spirit.  How
few of us suspect the double nature which lies
concealed behind the superficial manner of any man or
woman we meet.  That proud bearing, that laughing
face, that self-confident ease of manner, what may lie
beneath each of these, those only who read the heart
can say.

"The man was on his bed; his face was deathly
white and damp with the dew of agony.  He was
speaking in that low, terrible accent of despair which
some persons in moments of mental pain utter when
alone, if they think that none can hear them.  There
is something very strange and weird in such soliloquy:
as a rule we talk for effect, but in moments like these
the words follow the mind, disregarding all rules of
coherency or consistency.  Part of the cause of this
confusion is that the mind, acting more quickly than
speech, leaves a sentence often unfinished.

"'Oh! that I might die!' he cried.  'Now--even
now--I have no power--Vera, I shall harm you--you
whom I love more than life--I have harmed you--I
see it day by day--little actions show it--and, oh God!
I dare not think of it--where is the end?--what can
all this lead to?--misery!  Oh! my mother--you who
taught me to love that which is noble--to hate and
scorn a weak and unmanly action--can you see me
now?  Do you watch me hour by hour, learning to
despise and hate me?--Oh! that I could die and go
to you--or if death is but the end--if there is no
awakening, how peaceful to close one's eyes and know
no more!  It will kill me--kill me--when every spark
of good that once was in my heart is gone--But why
not now?  I am going mad!--Things all seem
confused--right and wrong--honour and dishonour--love
and hate have no meaning--Vera, when I see
you, I forget--I am happy--wildly, madly happy--yet
I know not why.  You belong to another, and
I hate him.  Oh! we are friends--only friends--and
love is no earthly passion, but a communion of
souls--What a farce--what folly!  Would a soul feel as I
do?  it is a mockery--there is no soul anywhere--I
doubt if there is a God.  We are apes, dancing for
the amusement of an audience of fiends!  Oh!  Vera,
what have I said?  That there is no spirit in you--it
is impossible--I am the fiend who would drive the
pure angel of your spirit into hell!'

"Thus did the wretched man ramble on until,
exhausted by the excitement of remorse, he lay down
and fell into a troubled sleep.  While watching him
I was conscious of a spiritual presence beside me,
and knew that there had been another witness of his
agony.  The spirit of a woman was present, and I
saw her, as it were, bending over him, and knew
that it was his mother.  What unending, untiring love
was here!  That pure affection which Saint Paul tried
to explain when writing to the Corinthians by the
word [Greek: agápê], which taketh not account of evil, but
covering all things, believing all things, hoping all
things, and enduring all things, never faileth!

"I felt deeply concerned about the fate of this man,
after what I had just seen and heard.  His mental
weakness, his morbid and excited rambling showed
plainly that his mind was unhinged, and was beginning
to give way under the strain put upon it.  Moreover,
to one who knew even as little as I did of the spirit
world, the presence of his mother indicated some
coming change in his existence, probably his death;
for though there are exceptions, it is not often that
the spirits of the dead are allowed to watch over the
living: and this is a loving order of Providence, for as
they cannot influence material things, their knowledge
could only cause them useless suffering and be of
little value to those they love.  Sometimes, however,
for the purifying of the souls of the dead, they are
permitted to witness the misery of the loved when it is
the outcome of their own selfishness on earth.  And
this is verily the Gehenna, or place of purification
spoken of, in which the worm dieth not and the fire
is not quenched."

I stopped Sydney at this point to ask him a
question.  "You," I said, "often mention passages from
the Bible.  Tell me what you think about this book."

"I think," he replied, "that much of it is the word
of God echoed on the mind of man, and that it is
terribly neglected and sadly misunderstood.  It is so
written that all who will, may understand it as far as
their mind is at one with the author.  The purer, the
wiser, the holier a man becomes, the more will it continue
to reveal, till it shall stand out at last the miracle
of miracles--the Book which contains all the mysteries
of earth, yet is capable at the same time of concealing
them from those who are not yet ready to receive the
knowledge; for it follows its own teaching, and casts
not its pearls before swine.  To the beast nature it
gives the bit, bridle, and lash, till they shall be guided
by these to higher ground and purer air; but to the
unselfish and pure, it is the true revelation of the Word
of God.  Of course it has had to go through the
treatment, which an uncivilized humanity bestows on all
spiritual gifts--the curse of worship.  Once men had
an elephant god, then a sun or moon god, and many
have now a paper-and-ink god.  For the animal
nature clings to matter, and to good solid matter that
it understands.  Hence the extraordinary dislike
which so-called believers in the Bible show for anything
which is called spiritualistic or scientific; whereas
the book they worship is, without exception, in the
right interpretation of the word, the great book on
spiritualism, and the most advanced treatise ever
written on the higher branches of a science, to which
the world at present is only feeling its way.  It
is the funniest sight in creation to see pigmy man
getting angry, and struggling fiercely to protect the
Word of God from His works; but after all, though it
does not help the book, it may help its would-be
protector, for he means kindly by his patronage, and
cannot be expected to foresee with what reverence the
greater wisdom of the future will hold the book of
knowledge.

"But I had better continue my story now, and leave
this subject, which opens out so many fields of thought,
that there is no saying where we may wander.

"I knew that Captain Frint had been invited,
together with some other of Mr. Soudin's friends, to
stop at Somerville as soon as the shooting
commenced, and I looked forward to this time with
considerable anxiety.  Vera would then be thrown much
into her lover's society, and if she wished it, doubtless
would be able often to attract him away from the
sport, in which case they would be alone together.
In the meantime I was watching Amy Howell's actions,
yet without feeling that I had the right to interfere.

"Much had passed between this girl and Major
Jackson, toward the end of her stay at Somerville,
of which Vera knew nothing.  The Major was, as you
have already heard, wealthy, but this money had only
been left quite recently, by an uncle who, up to this
time, had given him a liberal allowance.  The story is
not very interesting.  Sir Ralph Cane, after the death
of his widowed sister, adopted her only child, William
Jackson.  The boy was brought up with his bachelor
uncle, and became the presumptive heir to his property.
The uncle, however, had a perfect mania against
marriage, and told his nephew that if ever he took a wife,
he must give up all hope of inheriting a fortune.  This
restriction did not trouble young Jackson at the time,
nor in fact for many years; but while he was quartered
with his regiment, in an out-of-the-way part of Ireland,
he met a young girl with whom he imagined he was
desperately in love, and married her privately.  When
Mr. Hancock, the girl's father, who was an
unprincipled scoundrel, found that his daughter was
married, and heard of the reason for secrecy, he
commended the young Captain's prudence, and agreed to
help him in every way to keep the marriage a secret
till Sir Ralph Cane's death.  As the old man was
then seventy-six, he might have been expected to
leave them free at any moment; but he nevertheless
kept them practically separated for ten years.  They
had only one child, a boy, who was born seven years
after the marriage, and was therefore at the time of
which I am speaking, three years old.  It is probable
that if Major Jackson had not met Amy, he would
have sent for his wife, though he no longer cared for
her; and there is still less doubt that had his
father-in-law been alive, he would have been compelled to
do this, whether he wished or not.  As it was, he
made no mention of his uncle's death in the letters he
wrote to Ireland, and his wife being in so out-of-the-way
a part, had little chance of learning the news.
Yet though the Major was infatuated, he had no
intention of being prosecuted for bigamy, and after
consideration decided to put his version of the case
before Amy, and chance the result.  He had been
working up to this point when Vera discovered him
at the Castle (an account of which incident you have
heard), and it was some little time before he had
another opportunity.  When Amy heard the news
she was not only much upset, but very angry.  In a
way she cared for this man, though his wealth was
probably the chief attraction.  The thought of having
to give up all her bright dreams of ease, and
comfort, and return to her poverty-stricken home, was
very bitter.  Major Jackson had fully expected an
outburst of indignation, and was, or appeared to be,
duly repentant for the way in which he had acted.
He pretended that he had no hope of getting her to
consent to his plans, which were that he should retire
from the army, gather his wealth together, and with
it and the girl he loved leave the country.  He
persuaded her that his wife would be sure to get a
divorce, especially if he consented to make her a
liberal allowance on this condition; that he would
then be able to marry Amy, and she would be an
honest woman, able to live in society without reproach.
In fact, he talked much the usual nonsense, going
only as far into the regions of improbability as he
thought safe.  For though the girl was unprincipled,
she was no fool.

"To make this unpleasant account as short as
possible, he eventually succeeded.  Amy decided to
return home for the purpose of getting certain things
together which she might require, and he was
ostensibly turning all his property into cash.  As a
matter of fact he did no such thing, the idea being
strongly impressed on his mind, that a few thousand
pounds would probably last as long as the girl's
attraction.  Vera had asked Amy to return as soon
as possible, and as the Major had been invited for
the shooting, they decided to meet at Somerville,
and take their departure together a few days
afterwards.

"Nothing happened to upset these plans, and the
party met, as had been arranged, on the thirty-first
of August.  It was not long before Jackson was
confirmed in his previous suspicion, that Frint and Vera
were engaged in a dangerous flirtation, and the idea
occurred to him, that it might not be impossible to
persuade these two to join him.  He had hired a
yacht, which was now lying ready at Southampton,
and he would by no means have objected, under the
circumstances, to the company of a friend, who, being
in a similar position, could not possibly reproach him.
He decided, however, to consult Amy before doing
anything; and in this he was wise, for while approving
his plan, she gave him no little valuable advice
as to the method most likely to succeed.  In fact, she
finally concluded that as the matter required delicate
handling, it would be advisable for her to take the
chief part of the task into her own hands.  Her
decision led to the following conversation between
this clever schemer and Captain Frint--

"'Do you not think,' she said in the course of a
conversation, 'that marriage is often a great mistake?
That people would be much happier if only they had
courage to put an end to this relic of barbarism?'

"'It often seems so,' her companion answered,
wondering not a little what this unmarried girl had in
her mind; for it is more often that we hear these
sentiments from those who have experienced the
bond.  'But,' he continued, 'we should require
considerable alteration in the law and in public opinion
before it would be wise to break through the
custom.'

"'I don't know,' she said; 'public opinion will not
change till the few, who are brave enough to oppose it,
act.  And the law is always a laggard, leaning on the
crutch of stupidity until someone kicks it.  Now look
at Vera.  She is tied down to a man for whom she
cares nothing--a regular blackguard--bound to him
by a mere legal act, and nothing more.  Yet on
account of this meaningless bond she is destined to
go through life deprived of love, unprotected, and
missing all the true joy of home.  Now if I were a
man and loved her, I should refuse to consider that a
farce like this had any right to keep us apart, and if
the world chose to think differently, well, so much the
worse for the world!'

"'But you do not,' he said, 'consider the girl, and
the position in which she would be placed.  It is all
very well for the man--he would lose little by such
an action; but the woman's social life would be
ruined.'

"'I ought to consider the girl's side,' she said, 'and
I do.  But men never understand us.  Which do you
think is better--to lose social life, as you call it, or
real life?  To be able to go everywhere and care for
nothing, or to remain at home and be happy?  But
even the social question is only a matter of time if
there is wealth.  There would probably be a little
scandal and then the world would forget all about it.'

"'I do not fancy,' he said, 'that you understand
Lady Vancome.  I feel certain that she would never
consent to such a proposal even from a man she
loved.  And what is more, she would never allow
herself to fall in love.'

"'Oh, indeed!' Amy replied laughing.  'So you
think, Captain Frint, that girls are the same as men,
and fall in love or out of it as prudence and
conscience dictate.  Vera could no more help falling
in love if the right person turned up than--well, than
I could!  And what is more, she would disregard
conventionality and follow her inclination if, mind, I
say if, she did so at her lover's bidding; and so
should I.'

"'You say that,' he replied, 'because you have not
been tried; but I feel quite certain that you would
never do anything of the kind.'

"'Can you keep a secret?'

"'I fancy so.'

"'Will you promise me, on your word of honour,
however much you disapprove of what I am going to
say, that you will not, directly or indirectly, act in
opposition to me, or tell any one my secret?'

"'I promise.'

"She then told him what she intended to do; at
the same time, by way of justifying her act, she
libelled innocent Mrs. Jackson in a most outrageous
manner.  These libels were entirely the result of
imagination, as she knew nothing about her, and had
not felt inclined to inquire.  Then, little by little, she
drew the subject round, and without giving her
companion a chance of remonstrating with her, spoke
once more of Vera.

"'I feel so sorry to leave her,' she said, 'and wish
that she and you were both coming, but of course you
are far too proper a person to dare to think of such a
step.'

"'I think,' he answered, 'that it is hardly necessary
to go into my feelings in the matter, as whatever I
wished, you must know full well that Vera--Lady
Vancome, I mean--would never consent to do such a
thing, even if she loved me, which is most improbable.'

"'It is nice to see such modesty,' Amy answered;
'but I know Vera pretty well, better a good deal than
you do, and have no hesitation in saying that if she
loves you, and I feel certain she does, you have only
to ask her to come, and she will be delighted to follow
you even to the other end of the world.  However, I
have said enough.  If by any chance you two should
care to join us, we should be most pleased.  We
leave here in three days from now, so you have not
much time to think over your plans, but should act
at once.  I shall not refer again to the subject, but if
you decide on anything you can let me know.'

"Having said this, and thinking it better not to
give her companion time to reply, she got up and left
the room.

"That afternoon Vera and Captain Frint were
alone together.  The girl was leaning back on a
comfortable wicker lounge in the cool fernery which
opened out of the house.  The half-veiled sunlight
which passed through the amber-tinted glass roof fell
on her head, and lit up her soft wavy hair till it shone
like the natural silk in which the chrysalis lies hidden.
Behind her on a rockery of porous stone, delicate
maidenhair and other semi-tropical ferns grew in
luxuriant profusion, their roots entwined in the
rockwork or twisted among the various mosses which
covered it.  A toy rivulet wound in and out among
the ferns, now and again escaping from its confined
bed and trickling over the rocks.  This little
watercourse was caught up at last by a miniature lake, and
soaking through the bed of porous stone which formed
the roof of a grotto, dropped down into a larger pool
beneath, where gold and silver fish lay dreaming.
The pleasant sound of water and the delicate scent
from the flowers of an overhanging creeper made this
favourite spot suitable for quiet talk or half-dreamy rest.

"Vera, who was peculiarly sensitive to her surroundings,
could hardly have chosen a more unsuitable
place had she known of the proposition that was
about to be made to her, and supposing she wished
to refuse it.  Though she did not know, she suspected
that her companion had something important to say,
for Amy had not neglected an opportunity in which
to throw out a few hints on the subject.

"'Vera,' Frint said almost as soon as the girl had
made herself comfortable, 'how lovely you look
to-day!'  And as he said this he bent over and kissed
her hair.

"She took no notice, and he kissed her forehead.
She half raised one hand and he kissed her cheek.
She put one finger on her lips, and he touched it with
his own.

"'You are very naughty to-day, Albert,' she said.
'You must sit down over there where you will be out
of the way of temptation.'

"As he sat down he said, 'Vera, I have been
thinking a good deal lately.'

"'I wish you would give up the bad habit,' she
replied.  'It is a foolish thing to do, and usually ends
in making you grumpy and uninteresting.  Let us be
children, and live in the present as long as we can.
Let us play, and be contented with our toys.  If a
child once begins to analyze his wooden horse, the
interest vanishes, and he wants a real live one.  If you
persist in analyzing your game of love-making, you
will end in wanting me to run away with you.'

"'But,' he said, 'in this case it is so difficult to
know where to draw a line.'

"'Then don't try.  That is what I told you just
now not to do,' she said.  'Why cannot you be
contented?'

"'Because I love you, and want to have you always
with me,' he answered.  'Because I hate to see
another man near you.  Oh, Vera! it is all very
well to talk about playing at love.  When I am
with you it is all right, I am happy.  But when I
leave you it is like going down to hell.  It cannot
go on, it is killing me.  I must have you all in all
or I must go.  Tell me,' he said, 'do you not know
some such feeling?  Is it to you only a game of
play?  Am I nothing more than a toy which at
any moment you could cast aside?  Oh, Vera! do
you not in your heart love me even a little?'

"'You are quite interesting to-day, Albert,' she
said.  'You play your part to perfection.  I will try
to live up to you and play mine.  We will pretend
we are in earnest.  Yes, dearest, I love you.'

"He fell into her mood.  It would be easier in this
way to say what he had decided to tell her.

"'Then let us picture a position,' he said.  'Amy
and Jackson have decided, we will suppose, to run
away together because, for some reason, they are
unable to be married.  And we will suppose that
they are anxious for us to join them.  A yacht is
waiting to carry them away from this chilly land,
and in some bright and sunny country they will
live together, beyond the reproach of man,
contented in their mutual love.  Now the question is
shall we go with them, dearest?  It is impossible
that we shall much longer be able to live as we
are doing now.  People will begin to talk, and then
we shall be unable to see much of each other.  Do
you love me enough to do this?  I know that I have
no right to ask you.'

"When Frint looked up to see what effect his
words had upon Vera, he was surprised, and even
frightened by the expression on her face.

"'Tell me,' she said, 'is this true?  Do you really
mean what you say?'

"'It is true, dearest,' he answered.

"And then he told her the story, winding up by
a passionate appeal that she would come.  Though
Vera had guessed something from Amy's words, and
had promised not to repeat anything which Frint
might tell her, she had little expected the whole
truth, and was perfectly overwhelmed by the sudden
proposal.  Had she been allowed to think it out
quietly, I feel convinced that she would have refused
to go; but her lover, having thrown all scruples
to the wind, and seeing his fate in the balance, got
up and knelt beside her, and placing his arm round
her, overwhelmed all reason in a torrent of passionate
language and endearments till the smouldering embers
which she had striven to smother burst out into a
fire which she had no longer strength or inclination
to control.  Casting all thoughts of prudence, all fear
of danger from her, she told him of her love, and
burying her head upon his breast swore that without him
she could not live, and would do whatsoever he desired.

"'I trust you, dearest,' she murmured, 'and would
have no will but yours.  Where you bid me go I
will go; with you is life and joy, without you all is
darkness, and I only seem to live.  What do I care
about the world, if you think that I am doing right?'

"I stood near them all the while, invisible to their
eyes, and uncertain if I should reveal my presence.
But some force restrained me; the time had not yet
come.

"As I stood again beside the man's bed that night,
I knew why I had not been permitted to interfere.
A higher power than mine ruled and ordered his life.
I have witnessed many terrible scenes.  No person
able to see into the inner lives of others can fail to
do this, but neither before nor since have I been so
moved to pity as on this occasion.  The man slept,
and his dream-thought wandered at first to one subject
and then another.  But in every case his fevered
brain pictured some terrible scene.  At last, as it
were, the changing waves of painful thought
concentrated in a series of pictures.

"In the first of these he was sitting in a
dimly-lighted room.  He was a boy once more, and his
mother read to him pages from the Bible, but the
texts were disconnected.  'Blessed are the pure in
heart, for they shall see God.'  'Whosoever shall
offend one of these little ones, it were better that a
millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he
were cast into the depths of the sea.'  'And the
smoke of their torment ascended up for ever and
ever, and they have no rest day nor night.'  'Blessed
are the dead.'

"The scene changed.  Vera was beside him even
as he had seen her that day in all her beauty.
They were sitting together on the deck of a vessel;
the sun shone brightly, the sea was calm, and the
gulls floated over them, moving splashes of glistening
white against the deep blue of the sky.  Yet
even as they thus sat dreaming of love, and
surrounded by calm and sunlight, he felt that they
were sinking, and that no power could save them.
Slowly the blue line of water rose till it was on a
level with the deck, but still the motion of the vessel
held the water in check.  It rose to the bulwarks, and
glistened in a dark steely line above it.  Fear held
them from moving, save that Vera threw her arm
around him, pleading for a protection which none
could give.  The line broke in foaming torrents over
the deck.  There was a moment of struggle, and
then darkness.  From the midst of the darkness he
heard a voice saying, 'Look up, for the hour of
judgment is at hand.'  Then he looked up, and behold
hell lay open before him, the hell of human tradition
in all the ghastly horror which man, in the deformity
of his imagination, has conjured up out of his
instinctive cruelty to make part of the creation of
love.  There lay Vera, condemned to eternal torment.
The terrible anguish of her expression as I saw it
through the medium of his distorted brain haunts
me even now.  Her white child-like arms thrown out
in hopeless supplication, as she cried aloud to him in
pitiful tones to save her, or at least to come near in
this awful solitude of suffering; but he was unable
to move or speak.  The terrible realistic flames
enveloped her; flames which none can quench, which
violate every law of nature save one, which neither
purify nor set free nor stay corruption, but only cause
the pain which is their note of warning.  Nor was
this all.  As if one torment that must necessarily
absorb all powers of feeling which we know on
earth--nay, which merciful nature would stay at once by
her opiate of insensibility--were not enough, other
horrors of man's imagination were added which are
too revolting for words, yet which had all at one time
been taught to this wretched man as essential parts
of the Gospel of God, the good news of love.  Had
he not been mad such a picture must have been a
revelation; if he, selfish as he was, could be thus
overwhelmed with remorse and horror, what of the
Father, the Creator who for ever must watch his
child; who, being almighty was not bound; who
being the Creator of all things was the Creator of
this!  As it was, the strain of anguish roused him
from his dreams.  He sat up in bed and cried aloud,
'My God!  My God!  It is not too late!  I will
save her!  Though I die--though I be damned for
ever!  Vera, oh, my love, I will save you from this!'

"And even as he spoke, I was conscious that we
were surrounded by a great company, and that the
sweet sound of spiritual praise that no earthly ear
can hear passed on, for ever vibrating through the
universe of God.  But the first chord was struck by
a woman's love, for the mother now knew that her
son was saved."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XV`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XV

.. vspace:: 2

"After breakfast on the following morning, Captain
Frint found an opportunity of asking Vera not
to say anything to either the Major or Amy of their
plans, but to leave all to him.  He was standing in
the girl's sitting-room dressed for shooting, and had
his companion been more observant she might have
noticed the strange fire which burned in his eyes, and
the suppressed excitement of his manner.

"'You are going out then, to-day,' she said.  'Well,
perhaps it is better.  It might seem strange if you
did not; and after all we shall soon have as much
time as we like together; so much that I expect you
will soon get tired of me.'

"He was unable to answer; but before leaving he
bent over and kissed her on the forehead.  Had she
seen his face she must have known the truth--for love,
self-sacrifice, pain, and madness were written there.

"About two o'clock in the afternoon a mournful
procession returned to Somerville.  Captain Frint
was dead.  No fault or suspicion could rest on any
of the party, for the accident had happened in the
sight of Mr. Soudin and four of the beaters.  The
Captain, before getting over a stile, had placed his
gun on the opposite side to avoid danger, and while
leaning over to do this, some obstacle had caught the
trigger, and the contents of one of the barrels had
entered his heart.

"Fortunately a messenger had been sent on to
break the news, and when the body arrived Vera was
lying insensible on her bed; nor did any one see her
again for many days.  But at night, when all had
gone to rest, she got up, and taking a light, crept
softly to the room where they had placed the body
of the man she loved.

"It lay upon the bed, the hands folded, the head
raised as though in sleep upon the pillow.  The eyes
were closed.  Never in life had that face looked so
noble as it now appeared in death.  The lines of
thought, of passion, of pain were gone: the expression
of the mouth was that of a contented child.  There
was no smile on the lips; nor have I ever seen, nor
should I like to see, that smile which we so often
read of on the face of the dead.  When the spirit
goes away and leaves the body, the features no longer
under control fall back into the natural position of
perfect rest, which is only partially noticeable during
the sleep of grown-up people, but sometimes perfectly
represented during the same condition in childhood.
I have seen a dead child, that, save for the whiteness
of the skin and lips, showed no change of expression
other than that which I had often noticed during
slumber.

"As Vera looked upon her dead lover, the spirit
of life, which is the spirit of true love, was for the
first time born in her heart.  The Angel of Death was
to her, as to so many, the winged messenger of God
bearing the germ of eternity.  As some fair blossom,
differing not in appearance from others, that have
already been made fruitful, will for some reason
remain long barren, so many natures linger here, fair
it may be in form, but missing the pollen of fruition.
To some it is borne by the fairy butterfly of love;
to others only by the death's-head moth of suffering.
Some, as the barren flowers, fall and die, having,
perhaps, made the earth more beautiful by their
presence, yet leaving no fruit.  Their harvest-time
is yet to come, but under other circumstances and
beneath other skies.

"It did not occur to Vera, as she bent over the
dead man, that he had died to save her.  She thought
that an accident had separated them; that God, in
His anger, had punished their sin.

"'Oh! that I might have died instead of you!' she
murmured.  'Oh, God! it was my sin--not his--my
fault.  Why did you spare me and slay him?'

"Could she have looked upon the picture of herself
there would have been no reason for answer; fear,
anguish, and desolation were written on her face--what
a contrast to the peaceful expression of the dead!  Her
eyes were strained with weeping, her swollen throat
ached so that she could scarcely speak, and though
she stood barefooted, and with only her thin night
garment to cover her, yet every limb burned as though
with fever.  Her beautiful hair hung in tangled tresses
down her back, and waved in wild disorder round her
forehead and neck.  As she knelt upon the bed and
kissed the dear dead face, she seemed almost to cover
the body with a pall of golden silk.

"'I want you, Albert,' she whispered.  'Oh! come
back--come back, my love, my love!'  And when
she had said this she fainted.

"I carried her back to her own room, for I did not
wish that any one should know her secret.  And
having done this, I returned once more to where the
dead lay, and bent over and kissed the face of the
man who had died to save from harm her whom we
both loved.

"Captain Frint's death necessitated the breaking
up of the shooting party, and Amy and Major Jackson
took the opportunity thus afforded of carrying out
their plans.  They left England in the yacht, and
travelled for some time together; but as is nearly
always the case under such circumstances, instead of
finding happiness, they tasted the fruit of selfishness,
which is pain and disgust.  It says a good deal for
the girl's cleverness that she was not left entirely
destitute in some foreign country; for with a
forethought which showed that she had not altogether
overlooked the possibility of desertion, she, before
leaving, made her lover settle a considerable sum
upon her.  When he eventually left her in America,
less than a year after the elopement, she was
consequently fairly well provided for.  She had one child,
a girl, and not caring to return to England, she settled
in New York, and soon afterwards married a clever
scoundrel, named Halcome, who, though at the time
badly off, succeeded eventually in making a moderate
fortune.  At his death, Amy returned with her only
child to England, where she was soon received into
good society."

"The man she married was called Halcome," I
said.  "Was not that the name of the girl we met
at Sir James Folker's dinner on the night of the
spiritualistic performance?"

"Yes," he replied; "she has always passed as Miss
Halcome, for her mother, who is now dead, kept the
secret of her birth even from the girl herself."

"Was the man whose face I noticed the Major's
legitimate son?"

"Yes.  After a life of horrible dissipation and vice,
Major Jackson, by this time Sir Henry Jackson, died,
and his son came into the property.  Jackson
acknowledged his wife soon after leaving Amy, and the awful
life which he led this unfortunate woman has often
made my heart bleed.  I interfered on the evening
to which you refer, partly in the hope of saving her
further trouble, and partly because I knew the terrible
secret of the young people's relationship."

"Is Miss Halcome like her mother in appearance?" I asked.

"Yes; she bears a most remarkable resemblance
both in manner and face to what Amy was at her
age, though if you had seen Mrs. Halcome a few
years back you would hardly have believed it possible;
she had grown coarse, and stout, and lost all her
good looks, for this style of girlish beauty wears badly.
She, however, retained her bright and pleasant manner
to the end, though her temper in private was bad.
Before Sir Henry's death she was more than his
match, and by threats of exposure she managed to
extort a considerable sum of money from her former
lover.  But she did it so discreetly that no breath of
scandal was ever whispered against her.  She,
moreover, never revealed to any one her maiden name, and
her family have no idea that she returned to England."

"I am surprised that Jackson cared for any scandal
after the life he had lived," I said.

"It would have been the last straw.  He was at
the time seeking a valuable Government appointment,
and though his life was notoriously vile, this did not
prevent him obtaining it; but a public scandal in
Court is quite a different thing.  The conscience of
the people of Britain, who know only what the papers
tell them, is more sensitive than that of their rulers.  I
am, however, glad to be able to close this unpleasant
account; those chiefly interested are dead.  They
sowed to the flesh, and of the flesh they reaped
corruption and pain.  But we must not forget that they
are still children of the great Father, loved by Him,
though still wandering in the dark and fighting against
the law of order and love which can alone bring
happiness.  Let us hope that now, when they have been
freed from the bodies they degraded; their spirits,
reclothed, may be purified through the pain which is
bound to follow them; for *whatsoever* a man soweth,
that shall he reap, and neither repentance, prayers,
nor tears can alter the inevitable harvest."

"Do you not, then," I asked, "believe in repentance
and the forgiveness of sins?"

"Certainly," he replied.  "Without repentance there
can be no upward progress, no hope of salvation; and
the Father's forgiveness waits only on our ability to
receive it and become conscious of His love.  But
though the moment we receive our Saviour's lesson
and accept the fatherhood of God we know that we
are cleansed from all sin, it will not alter the
inevitable law of retribution; we must suffer, either now
or hereafter.  For every sin that we commit, we shall
have to give account when the Day of Judgment
comes--it may be to-day, or after many years.  Of
all the detestable doctrines that were ever taught, the
creed that a man can sin and by repentance do away
with the painful consequences of that act is the most
degrading and the most dangerous.  It is the
outcome of a low animal instinct, which recognizes
forgiveness as a purely material quality.  As soon as
man is brought to understand that by every deed of
cruelty, by every mean action, he is raising a lash for
his own back, and that as surely as it is raised so
shall it fall--not because God wishes to hurt him, but
because he is wilfully going out of God's light--then,
and not till then, will he learn to love order and strive
to follow its rule.  The intention which many persons
cherish of a future repentance is simply a contemptible
form of selfish cowardice, and what is called
repentance itself is often little or no better.  I have
more respect and hope for the man who dies cursing
God as he has lived to curse Him, than for the blubbering,
repentant sinner who, having by his selfishness
fought all through life against his Maker, and having
been the damnation of those who crossed his path,
thinks to propitiate an angry deity by saying he is
sorry.  Yes, he is sorry--sorry that he can sin no
more, and that the whip is waiting--sorry even,
perhaps, that he ever sinned, for he has found out that
even in this life it did not pay.  But would he take
the trouble to repent if he knew that it made no
difference to his future happiness or sorrow?  If this
is so, he is no better than the dog which grovels on
its back at the sight of an uplifted cane.  Which is
the better animal, the one which stands up to take
the blow, or the one that lies at your feet?  Does the
wise master spare the coward and thrash the braver
animal?  No; if he hits at all he will hit both for their
own good; and the one on his back will probably get
the worst of it; and so will the repentant sinner.

"But come, we have wandered far enough out of
the way, and I have by far the pleasantest part of
my story yet to tell.  I will go back to the truly
repentant sinner whom we left weeping, not for
herself or for her own pain, but because she had harmed
the man she loved, and God, as she thought, had
punished him by death.

"I will pass over some months, during which little
of importance happened.  Mr. Soudin, always a weak
man, and having now little to occupy his time, fell
more and more into the habit of drinking.  He had
for years taken more than was good for him, but not
in a way to cause remark, his head suffering less than
his body.  But now, being much alone, he frequently
overstepped the line of orthodox sobriety--a line
which society draws in this case, as in all others,
where its own convenience is affected.

"Fortunately for Vera she had at last found a
companion who was in every way worthy of her affection.
Agnes Thomson was at this time about thirty, and
had little physical beauty, though her eyes and
expression redeemed her from plainness.  She possessed
one of those natures which seem created from birth
to minister to others, and are never so happy as when
occupied in relieving distress, or in making the lives
of those around them brighter.  When in the presence
of such we are unconscious of effort, see no strain
of renunciation; they minister to those around them,
as the bird feeds its young--because they want to.
Such persons, though often imposed on, are seldom
appreciated at their true worth, on account of the
high quality of their natures.  I have even heard it
said, 'Oh, there is no merit in such unselfishness--she
cannot help it.'  But what an unconscious tribute
to the soul is this!  And what has such a spirit passed
through before it so perfectly reflects its Maker!

"It was chiefly owing to my action that this girl
went to Somerville.  She had broken down while
looking after an orphanage in Manchester, and the doctor
had said that it was absolutely imperative that she
should give up all work for some time.  She dreaded
the idea of parting from the little children, and
struggled as long as possible; but the body at last gave
in, and I was then able, by indirect influence, to bring
her and Vera together.  As soon as Agnes came to
live with the beautiful young girl, she loved her as
she had loved her orphan children, and indeed as she
would have loved any man, woman, or child, good or
bad, fair or ugly.  She saw that her companion was
suffering, and had little difficulty in drawing from her
the story of her life; and Agnes wept with her, feeling
all the time as if she had been in the young girl's
place.  When she came to think over it afterwards,
what she called her conscience reproved her for not
having even remonstrated.  How wrong it all was!
And she felt that she ought to have given reproof.
Fortunately she never acted down to her conscience,
which being an illuminated reflection from the creed
of lesser minds, would only have retarded her influence.
She taught her lessons, without knowing it, by the
example of her own life.

"Two months after she came, Mr. Soudin was taken
dangerously ill, and as his body had of late exhausted
all its power in trying to digest four times as much
food as it required, and had also been drenched with
alcohol, he sank rapidly from weakness, dying the
common death of starvation through excess of nourishment
which so often takes the form of either diabetes,
gout, or dropsy.  As the death of each man is felt
through loss of sympathy, he was but little regretted,
and even his daughter, after the shock, was unwillingly
conscious of relief.

"Thus Vera was left alone with her companion,
whose bright influence day by day made itself felt,
and revealed to her the lesson which is so hard to
learn, that happiness on earth comes but by reflection.
Pour out joy on others, and it shall overwhelm you.
Forget yourself in others, and the tormentor strives in
vain to harm you.  See good in all things, and hell
cannot hold you.

"But it is time that I told you something of
Vancome.  I had made him a fairly liberal allowance on
condition that he did not try to interfere with his
wife's freedom.  As soon as he returned to England
and the conditions were explained to him, he consulted
his solicitor with the hope of being able to get hold of
Vera and her fortune, but his adviser gave him little
prospect of success, and he decided, at any rate for a
time, to accept the offer.  He was the more willing to
do this owing to his superstitious dread of some
fiendish power which he believed me to possess.  It
is a curious fact that evil natures always regard an
exhibition of force incomprehensible to them as some
eccentric trick of the devil.  The most superstitious
men will be found among those who profess atheism.
They scoff at the idea of God, while trembling at the
shadow of Satan; and dread a dinner party of thirteen
while denying the Last Supper.

"For a year Vancome followed much the same dissipated
life as he had done previously to his marriage.
He gambled, at first with caution, for he was no
longer desperate, and for a time was successful,
being thus enabled to indulge all his other extravagant
tastes.  But about the time of Mr. Soudin's death his
luck turned, and he began to lose heavily.  One night
while playing piquet at the W---- Club he was
caught cheating.  He had been suspected for some
time, and a trap was laid into which he fell.  As there
was no room for doubt he was expelled from the Club,
and no longer dared to show himself in society.  His
future, all the future that he cared for, was ruined,
while his title only assisted to advertise his shame.
For days the papers increased their circulation at his
expense, and the scandal in high life was placarded
on every station and shouted through every town.
His wife was commended for her forethought in having
refused to live with him, while the more scurrilous
papers exhausted their energy in raking up as many
past scandals in his life as they could discover, feeling
that there was little danger of an action for libel.

"It was during this outburst that I decided to see
him.  I had no longer any bitter feelings towards
this man, and though while feeling certain that he
would think at first I had come to gloat over his
misery, I hoped to show that this was not the case,
and that my desire was to help him.  I found him
sitting alone in his chambers; he had been drinking
heavily for some time to drown his misery, and as I
came in he looked up with dull glazed eyes which at
first showed no sign of recognition.  But suddenly
they changed; his face became livid with anger.

"'Fiend!' he cried.  'It is your doing--and so you
have come to see the end of your work!  But you
are mistaken--we will go down to hell together--you
shall not escape me this time!'

"He took up a revolver which I had noticed lying
on the table, and pointed it at me.

"'There are five chambers,' he said, 'and one is
enough for me--I can spare you the other four!'

"I looked him in the face for a moment, and then
said, 'Vancome, you cannot kill me, and for the present
you shall not kill yourself, for at the moment you are
not responsible for your actions.'

"'I will kill you!' he cried.  'Damn you!  I will!'  And
he strove with all his might to pull the trigger,
but was powerless.  His right hand sank slowly down
till it lay by his side, and his revolver dropped between
his fingers on to the rug at his feet.  He staggered
back to his chair, and I went up to him, and placing
my hand on his burning forehead made him sleep.

"At this moment the door opened, and a young,
showily-dressed girl entered.

"'Oh!' she cried.  'Goodness, what is the matter?'

"'Lord Vancome is ill,' I said, 'and will have to be
carefully watched.  Is there any one here who could
look after him?'

"'Ill,' she laughed, and her laugh, as her speech,
told her origin and life.  'D. T. ay?  Well, I was
a-thinking of cutting it just now--that settles the
business!'

"'Wait a moment.  Lord Vancome is not suffering
from *delirium tremens*.'

"I said this, not because I wished for her services,
but because there were enough reports about already
without her adding a false one.

"'Who are you?' I asked.

"'My!' she said.  'Well, you are a beauty!  Where
do you hang out not to know Totsey Ben of the
---- Theatre?'

"I was not previously aware of Totsey Ben's existence,
but though she did not give me the details in
words, I now knew that she took a very minor part in
a comic opera being played at that rather disreputable
theatre.  I could see also the vile and filthy slum in
which she had passed her childhood, and many of the
coarse and revolting experiences connected with her
early life before she blossomed out into a ballet-girl.
Nor were the visions connected with this transformation
scene much more entrancing.

"This girl, and such as she, without refinement,
possessing only the coarse animal attractiveness, had
been the chosen associates of Vera's husband, a man
who had been brought up surrounded with all the
delicate associations of noble birth and culture.  It
takes many centuries to create a gentleman and
refined taste; but sometimes only a few years to revert
to the lowest order of civilized brutishness.

"'Well,' I said to the girl, 'I do not fancy you
would be of much use as a nurse, so perhaps you
might as well pack your things and go.'

"'I reckon you're about right," she answered.
'But before I clear out, I will have my money or
know why.'

"She went up to Vancome and shook him.

"'Leave him alone,' I said.  'Can you not see that
he is ill?'

"'Ill!' she cried.  'I knows that there sort of
illness!  Ain't a bad sort neither till you wakes up
with a splitter!'  She took hold of a half empty
whisky-decanter that was on the table, and putting
the bottle to her mouth, took a draught of the raw
spirit.

"'Girl,' I said, 'you shall have your money; it is
dearly enough earned.'  And I laid some notes on
the table.  Her manner immediately changed.

"'Oh! you're a swell, are you?' she asked; and
I was surprised at the extraordinary difference the
new expression made in her face.  She looked now
what some men would call pretty, and her manner
of speaking became less offensively vulgar.  'Sorry
I made a row, but my temper's been tried simply
awful these last few days.  I know how to behave, I
do!'  And she curtseyed to me with her cheek resting on
her hand, which was evidently part of the
accomplishment taught her at the theatre.

"'Go and look in the glass,' I said.

"She took up the notes, and going to a long mirror,
looked, expecting to see the simpering expression
called up for the occasion; but though there is little
hope of rousing such a one even by fear, I thought
it better to give her one chance before she left.

"What she saw it is unnecessary to tell you.  I
called up before her mind pictures of what her future
life would probably be, as she sank lower and yet
lower on the downward path.  She stood there
motionless with horror as the pictures changed from
bad to worse, till at last she saw the well-nigh
unrecognizable image of herself as she lay in one of the
hospital wards: then with a shriek of fear she turned,
looked at me for one moment with terror-stricken
eyes, and fled from the room.

"I sent for a trained nurse, and, with her assistance,
watched over Vancome till he recovered.  Before
many days his dislike wore off, and in the depth of
his misery and loneliness, he turned to me as a
friend, the only one now left to him.  When he had
sufficiently recovered, I persuaded him to go abroad
and travel.

"I saw him off.  When we parted he said to me--'I
am very sorry to lose you, and still more sorry for
the way in which from the first I have acted.  It is
no use going into the matter.  You are a strange
being, Sydney; it is hard to know what to make of
you.  I used to think you were the devil, and now
am half inclined to fancy you are an angel.  But angel
or devil, you are certainly not a man, for no man
would have done all you have for nothing.  You never
make use of an opportunity even if it is thrown in
your way.  Now why did you not let me die?  You
could then have married Vera, and, as the books put
it, lived happy ever after.'

"'I will tell you why,' I said.  'There is no such
thing as the happiness you speak of.  You have tried
to find it in one way; others try to find it by other
means, but they all fail.  No one who seeks for
happiness ever gains it.  It is the same with all.
One man seeks fame; for years he struggles through
pain and weariness, till at last, maybe, it comes, and
he finds the desired angel but a poor, thin,
unsatisfactory phantom, pointing with one finger at death;
and he laughs that he could have wasted his youth
and health in search of such a miserable, mocking
spectre.  The idea that wealth gives happiness is
about the most comical delusion that man suffers
from.  There is one plane of enjoyment which is
determined by the man himself; one delusion that
this plane can be altered by climbing the treadmill
of prosperity.  A man puts his foot on the step,
and immediately descends to the same position;
and many continue to climb after happiness in this
foolish manner all their lives.  Unknowingly they
may perhaps turn the mill of invention and progress,
and this is most likely the object of the delusion.
No, Vancome,' I concluded, for the boat was starting,
'try a new way, and you shall yet turn cursing to
blessing.  Good-bye.'

"This is the last time that he ever saw me; but I
know that he remembered these parting words, and
did not altogether live the rest of his life in vain.
Two years after this, whilst shooting in Africa, he
was attacked by cholera, and died.  During his short
illness I never left him.  When I came to his bedside
he was insensible through the pain of the first attack.
The case was quite hopeless; but I was able to save
him further suffering, and he never regained consciousness.
His body was embalmed, sent to England, and
buried in the family grave at Somerville.

"I had spent the greater part of these two years at
Aphar.  Vera no longer needed my help.  She was
learning from her friend the joy of living for others.
Agnes still yearned after the little orphan children she
had left, and so contagious is true enthusiasm, that
unconsciously she infected Vera with the desire to
help her in this work.  One day a sad case came
under her notice.  One of the Canons of L----
Cathedral was lunching at Somerville, and the
conversation drifted to 'Workhouse Management,' a
pet subject of the Canon, who was on the Board of
Guardians.

"'It is very fortunate,' Agnes said to him, 'that
you who take a real interest in the poor are on the
Board; so often these matters are left in the hands
of those who care for little but their own interest.'

"'I hope,' he replied, 'that I have been able to do
something, but under the present system the work is
enough to make any man's heart bleed.  For the old
people we can do something, but for the little children
it is terrible.  Once let them get into the workhouse,
and seven out of ten are ruined for life.'

"'I know,' said Agnes, tears coming into her eyes.
'It is terrible!  Herded as they are together, without
love, or personal sympathy, the evil which is always
surrounding them works like leaven.  Do you know,
Vera,' she continued, turning to her friend, 'that the
little things when they came to me at the Orphanage
often did not know how to kiss.  Oh! it made my
heart ache, trying to teach a little girl of seven to kiss
me.'

"'Yet these are not the most painful cases, to my
mind,' the Canon said.  'Only last week two children,
such dear little things, were brought in by the relieving
officer.  Their mother, a widow, had for four years
struggled hard to support them, but work for which
she was unfitted, at last brought on consumption.
When she died there was nothing for it but to bring
them to the pauper school.  They will now have to
be separated from each other.  The boy, who is a
plucky little fellow of nine, has always looked after
his younger sister, and when he heard that she must
be taken from him I never saw such abject misery on
a child's face.  "She sha'n't go," he said.  "I promised
mother to look after her--she sha'n't go!"  And the
two poor little lonely things clung together and had
to be separated when they fell asleep.  I would not
let the officer tear them apart.'

"'It's shameful!' Vera said.  'Why do people let
such things be?'

"'God only knows!' the clergyman answered.
'Because they are, I suppose, too selfish to care.  If
they could only be made to see for themselves the
misery, it would not be tolerated; but they pay the
poor-rate and think no more about it.  Would that
some voice could make them hear; the evil could so
easily be remedied.'

"'It sha'n't happen in the case you have mentioned,
any way,' Vera said; 'shall it, Agnes?  We will have
them here and look after them, poor little things.'  And
Agnes, whose heart was too full for words, could
only answer by getting up and kissing her friend.

"Thus it came to pass that the work began, but no
one with a heart can begin such a work of love and
stop.  I have known women fairly well off start such
an undertaking, and nearly starve themselves to death
for the sake of the little ones.  There is always one
more that must be saved; the home is full, the money
running out, but the sorrowful face pleads too strongly,
and room must be found.  And so it was with Vera
and Agnes.  Somerville could soon not contain its
inmates.  A new home was built in the park; fresh
hands had to be employed.

"There was no danger for Vera now; in such work
there is no time for weariness or sin.  Little hands
drag the selfishness out of those who tend them;
tiny lips satisfy the aching want of love.  Happiness
that has so long evaded pursuit, comes unsought and
overwhelms the givers.  Faith, never learned through
doctrine, is discovered by the evidence of a love-awakened
heart when it first realizes that such as these
little ones are the angels who behold the Father's
face; and that inasmuch as we have done it unto
one of the least of these, we have done it to our
Saviour; and through Him found salvation."





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.. _`CHAPTER XVI`:

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   PART V

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.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVI

.. vspace:: 2

When I next went over to spend the evening with
Sydney I reminded him that there was a room in his
house which he had promised some day to show me.

"Be patient," he answered, "you will see it before
very long."

My companion was in more than usually good
spirits.  He was in one of his bright, amusing, and
kindly satirical moods, and for some time he kept me
in a state of nearly continual laughter by recounting
his early experiences with the sixth sense before he
properly understood how to regulate this new power.

"During the next two hundred years," he said, "the
earth will be a lively place for those who are fond of
observation.  If I am not much mistaken there will
be great progress in the growth of spiritual science,
and as its professors will probably possess a very
imperfect knowledge there may be some little confusion.
Fancy how unpleasant it will be to many people
when their thoughts become common property, and
their actions can no longer be done in secret.  When
a cad, however polished, will appear as a cad; and
children will be sent to school to undergo heart-training
and not to learn deportment; when the future
members of Parliament will have to study the art, not
of elocution and subterfuge, but of caring more for
their constituents than for their own interests; when
the wife will no longer ask her husband why he
returned so late, because she will know as well as he
does; when the detective will be banished into the
region of history, and the judge require neither witness
nor jury; when curiosity, the cause of so much vice,
shall be exercised only in spiritual things, and men
and women walk naked yet unashamed both in body
and spirit.

"Of course all this will come gradually, and future
generations will find no more inconvenience than
would young children if the change took place
to-morrow.  All our so-called modesty and our deceit
are unknown to them, being merely the outcome of
training.  The child is open enough until by mental
or physical smacks he learns to cover his body with
garments, and his thoughts with words most suitable
to concealing them.  When such clothing is transparent
the man will become in this respect as a little child.

"This will be the time of which Emerson speaks,
when he says--'Every man takes care that his
neighbour shall not cheat him, but a day comes when he
begins to care that he do not cheat his neighbour.
Then all goes well; he has changed his market-cart
into a chariot of the sun.  What a day dawns when
we have taken to heart the doctrine of faith!  To
prefer as a better investment being to doing, being to
seeming, logic to rhythm and to display; the year to
the day, the life to the year, character to performance.'

"The desire to perform is the one great hindrance
to progress.  So many wish to do, so few to be.  If
we are great we cannot help doing great things, and if
we are small-minded no effort shall magnify our
output.  It is for this reason that I give a limit of two
hundred years for even this partial development of a
sense which is already latent in many.  In the present
rush of action growth is retarded, discovery thrown
into the melting-pot for gain, whereby its most
valuable component parts escape in the form of invisible
gases.  But come with me, and I will show you the
secret which is hidden behind that third door."

We passed as usual into the laboratory.

"Sit down, and while we smoke I will tell you a few
things which it is as well you should know before we
go further.

"I think," he continued, when we had settled ourselves
comfortably, "I have already explained to you
that, contrary to the general belief, Wordsworth was
quite right when he said--

   |  'Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting;
   |    The soul that rises with us, our life's Star,
   |  Hath had elsewhere its setting,
   |    And cometh from afar.'
   |

"There are very many cases where it is necessary
for certain reasons that the spirit should be re-incarnated
on this earth many times before the earth-lesson
is learned, and before it is able to unite with the
feminine element and thereby rise to more perfect
existence.  Life, like matter, is indestructible, but as
atoms unite and reunite to form what we call elements,
and these again unite and reunite to form chemical
compounds, so life or spirit, which is one and the
same thing, is ever being drawn together by attraction.

"Thus, for the sake of argument, we will say that
the life of a flower unites with that of another flower,
and rises thus to the animal kingdom where free
existence is possible.  I use this expression only for
convenience, as no arbitrary line can be drawn
between the two kingdoms.  Then again, the lower
animal life unites with its female element to form the
higher; and so on up to man.  This explains why
the lower we go down in the scale the greater is the
number of lives to be found on each level, for it
requires millions to blend together before the higher
orders are reached.  This is why also in animals you
see certain sides of characters which are all noticeable
in man.  They are, as it were, the bricks making
ready for the future temple.  So the spirit of man is
also imperfect and one-sided lacking the feminine
qualities to be found in woman.  A time comes,
however, when two suitable natures meet, and after
death their spirits blend together even as Swedenborg
has written, and they form what he calls one angel;
that is to say, a still more perfect being.  And this
joining together does not cease even then, but angel
unites with angel and archangel with archangel up
to God.  Thus none can harm his neighbour without
injuring part of his future self, for all at last shall be one.

"This view is repellent to the carnal mind, as it
destroys what he is pleased to term his individuality;
but this is only owing to the fact that his mind at
present is unable to comprehend unity with
personality.  An interesting example of the confusion
arising from this difficulty will be obvious if you hear
a deist and a trinitarian argue together."

"But," I said, "I do not like the idea myself.  I
wish to retain my own consciousness, and have no
desire to be merged in others."

"Do you not retain your own consciousness now?"
he asked.

"Undoubtedly."

"And yet," he continued, "millions of lives have
united to form that consciousness."

"But I don't care about the past," I said, "it is the
future.  According to you, in my next existence I
shall unite with some other spirit and lose half my
own individuality."

"I do not think you will," he replied laughing,
"because you do not love as yet, and love only is the
attraction which draws kindred spirits together.
When they desire to unite, they will.  Till then they
must remain incomplete.  But those who are thus
joined together are conscious not of loss, but of the
most exquisite gain; and this union is foreshadowed
by the joining together in marriage of man and woman
here."

"But it cannot always be the spirits of husband
and wife who are thus united."

Sydney laughed.

"Hardly," he said.  "Marriage is but a material
convenience, and there are not many who have
reached that state when the unity of souls becomes
desirable; but nevertheless there are those living
whose marriage is a foretaste of a union which shall
be made perfect through death.  But often the
complement of a spirit is not on this earth, though they
have met in some previous existence."

"Do you know," I asked, "to whose spirit yours
will be united?"

"I do," he answered; and the accent on the words
drew my attention to his face: there I read such
depth of love and hope as I have never seen light
up the features of man or woman.  "It was," he said,
"while in the spirit-world that I learnt much of what
I have now told you.  But I learnt more than this,
for I was able to look into the past, and to see the
why and wherefore of many things that had previously
puzzled me here.  It was something that I had thus
discovered which induced me to buy the land and
build this present house.  Beyond that panel, through
which we are going, lies one of the secrets of my past.
But I must explain one more thing to you before we go.

"The higher the form of spirit life, the longer it
usually takes for souls to unite.  In the lower orders
these changes may occur every few minutes; in the
higher, centuries may intervene."

Sydney now got up, and motioning me to follow,
went to a sliding panel, touched a spring, and we
passed together into a narrow passage.  After
descending some winding steps, which must have brought
us to about twenty-five feet below the level of the
house, we passed through another door into a large
covered courtyard which, except for its domed roof
and polygonal shape, reminded me of one of the
Pompeian houses.

"This," said my companion, "is, as far as I know,
the only perfect Roman house in Britain, and the
history of its preservation is very interesting.  The
stone roofing of the courtyard is also curious,
resembling as it does more the covering of one of the
Roman tombs to be found in St. Helena and Sta
Costanza than the usual domestic style of architecture.
It was in this very court that centuries ago I first
met the girl I love, and have in many forms loved
ever since.  It was in that room beyond"--he
pointed to one of the smaller apartments which could
be seen through an open archway--"that a scene
took place the effects of which have been felt to the
present time."

After taking me over the building, which was in
perfect preservation, and showing me the bath, kitchen
and various rooms, he drew my attention to the
mosaic floor and to various frescoes on the walls.
The workmanship was very beautiful, but the scenes
depicted were coarse and sensual.

"Now," he said, "that I have shown you one of
the scenes of my life, we may as well go up to the
room above.  This place is cold, and if you wish to
hear the story we shall find it more comfortable in
our usual place."

As soon as we had returned to the laboratory my
companion began his story of the past.

"It is unnecessary for me to give you a full picture
of this district during the close of the fourth century.
At this time, as you will remember, the Romans had
not been recalled, and many of the nobles had settled
down at various places in the southern counties,
having built for themselves houses more or less after
the type then common in Italy.  Some of these
Roman villas have been discovered in recent years,
though none so well preserved as the specimen we
have just examined.  This house was built by Valerius
Marius, a celebrated warrior and huntsman.  He
selected this spot when the times became more
peaceful on account of the abundance of game in the
neighbouring forest.  The soldiers and slaves under
him were for the time organized into an army of
beaters, after the manner of those days.  The wild
boar and other beasts were thus driven from the forest
into netted enclosures and slaughtered by hundreds.

"This man had never married, but he had one
child, Viola, by a favourite slave, who, at this time,
was a very beautiful girl of about sixteen.  He treated
her as his own daughter, bringing her up in luxury,
and letting her follow her heart's desire, which,
considering that she was by nature little better than
a lovely savage, was a dangerous experiment.  Among
her retinue of slaves was a fair Saxon boy, who, on
account of his good looks, had been bought for a high
price when nine years old to act as a page to the
little girl.  Like many men engaged in active pursuits,
the father allowed these two children to grow up
together, without realizing the changed condition
which came by years, or that his baby girl was
growing into a woman, and her little slave-boy into
a youth.  The female slaves who ministered to their
mistress, while probably conscious of the danger, had
no wish to interfere and to rob the girl and themselves
of a bright and pleasant companion.

"Thus it came to pass that these two children
were left much together, especially during the hunting
expeditions, and like two beautiful animals they
developed early.  The girl, partly owing to her sex
and partly to her Southern blood, led the way in
this as she did in all other matters.  The boy was her
slave, and she never for one moment forgot to remind
him of his servitude, whether they were at play
together, or whether he were attending to the many
duties she found for him.  And the boy had loved
her from the first with a childish devotion; the
beautiful little dark-eyed girl had been his queen from
the first day when he had been brought, a little naked,
fair-haired boy, and given to the maiden in the atrium
or hall.  As she ran out of the tablinum beyond on
hearing her father's voice, his big blue eyes opened wide
with astonishment.  Was this to be his mistress, this
dainty little white-robed goddess?  And unbidden he
knelt down before her, fully persuaded in his childish
ignorance that he was in the presence of some elfish
deity.  He would then and at any future time have
died to save her, and though she often treated him
brutally, even making the women slaves beat him
unmercifully if he happened to cause her displeasure, no
thought of anger ever entered his mind.  Was she
not his mistress?  And why should she not do with
him as she desired?

"According to custom, the owner of a slave gave
him whatever name seemed most suitable, and the
maid, by reason of the colour of the child's hair,
called her little servant Aureus.  As Viola grew older
she was allowed on certain occasions to ride out with
Aureus and meet her father at the end of one of the
netted enclosures, so as to witness the final slaughter.
Here, placed upon a small platform erected on one of
the trees, she could watch the wild boar and other
animals as they were driven further and further into the
ambuscade.  She saw them rushing madly at the netting
and being slaughtered by the men who surrounded it
with their long boar-spears.  But the moment of true
excitement came at the end, when with a wild rush
the maddened animals, who had so far escaped destruction,
burst at last through the only opening possible
and rushed into the open plain.  Here at least they
had some little chance of escape, for though they were
unable to return to the forest, they might, if they could
avoid the archers' arrows, find at last some distant
cover.  The footmen had done their work, and at
this point the horsemen galloped forth followed by
the hounds, who had till now been kept in leash.  The
plain was soon covered with flying huntsmen and
hounds, racing after the maddened fugitives.  But
exciting as this scene was, Viola soon got tired of being
only a spectator, and would often urge her father to
allow her to follow the chase on horseback; but he,
knowing the danger, had hitherto always refused.

"Now it so happened that among the slave girls
was one named Myra, who had recently been bought
by Valerius Marius on account of her beauty.  She
was ambitious, and hated her mistress on account of
the high position which she held through her father's
love.  If, she thought, I could but get rid of this girl
I might rule here myself in her place.

"It was not long before she realized how dangerous
the intimacy might soon become between Aureus
and Viola, and though she had no ill-will to the
former, she was quite willing to sacrifice him if only
by so doing she could also bring about the destruction
of her mistress.  To accomplish her ends she
decided to worm her way into their affections.  As
she had seen much of life and no little of vice, she
was able to interest the girl with many stories
connected with the past.  But she did not find it easy to
get an opportunity to talk in private with the boy.
Viola seldom allowed him to leave her, and was
evidently jealous if he showed the least liking for
any of the slave girls, more especially for the new
beauty.  Myra, however, was not to be easily defeated.
She saw at once that the boy was as yet a child, and
that to accomplish her end speedily it would be
necessary for her to awaken some youthful passion in
his heart, which should ultimately bring about the
ruin of her rival.

"Taking, therefore, an opportunity when for once
Viola unaccompanied had gone with her father to
visit some neighbouring Roman nobles, she drew the
boy aside and asked him to show her the surrounding
country.

"'I have,' she said, 'not dared to go beyond the
enclosure, fearing the wild beasts, but with you as
companion I should not fear.'

"It was against the rules for any of the female
slaves to go outside the boundary of the
dwelling-place without permission, but Myra was at this time
in favour, and no one left behind would have dared to
interfere with her actions.  She was known to be
vindictive, and, having the ear of her master, would
have had little difficulty in revenging an insult.

"So Aureus consented, and they wandered out into
the forest, following the course of a small stream.
At length they came to an opening in the trees where
the sun shone pleasantly upon a bank of ferns.  Here
they sat and rested.  At their feet was a deep pool in
which the boy had often bathed; and Myra, as she
reclined on the bank, dabbled her bare legs in the
clear water to wash the dust from them.

"'Do you often come here with your mistress?' she
asked.  'You seem always with her.'

"'When we were children,' the boy said, 'we often
stole out here in the summer-time to bathe in the
cool water.  But we do not bathe here now.'

"'Why not?' his companion asked.

"The boy looked up into her face with a comical,
innocent expression.  'I do not quite know,' he said.
'She is too old to bathe now, except in the bath;
only slave girls bathe out of doors when they are
grown up.'

"'So you think it does not matter what we do?'
she said.

"'You are different from the others,' he answered.
'You wear a tunic, and not an ordinary dress.'

"'You call this a tunic, do you?' she said, pointing
to the thin garment which partially concealed the full
sensuous beauty of her limbs.  'This is not much of
a robe, this summer thing.  I might almost as well be
without it.'

"'Do you feel cold?' he asked.

"'Feel me,' she said.

"The boy placed his hand upon her bare neck as
she moved closer to him.  'You are quite hot,' he
said, 'your skin almost burns me.  But how soft and
smooth it is!  Tell me, why are women so much
more beautiful than men?'

"'I don't think they are,' the girl answered.  'You,
for instance, are more beautiful than Viola.  Look at
your arm;' and as she said this she laid her dark
hand upon his shoulder.  'How fair you are by the
side of any of us!  Look at your hair;' and she ran
her fingers through the bright soft waves of gold.
'Do you not think that it is more beautiful than
our long dark tresses?'

"'No, I do not,' he said.  'Viola's hair is beautiful,
and so is yours; far more beautiful than mine.'

"'There you are mistaken,' she said.  'You do not
know.  Come and look.'

"The two bent forward over the still clear water.
It was a pretty picture which they saw reflected; the
young boy's fair sun-tanned face surrounded with
a bright halo of curls through which the sunlight
played.  The girl bending over him, her dark tresses,
which she had unbound, falling over his shoulders and
covering them both as with a cloud; her breast, which
hitherto looked brown against the white of her tunic,
now by contrast with the deep shade of her hair was
reflected back with the brilliancy of ivory.

"'You are beautiful,' was all the boy said.

"'*We* are beautiful,' the girl corrected.  'Do you
think,' she continued, 'that I am as lovely as your
mistress?'

"'Oh dear, no!' the boy replied, with uncomplimentary
frankness.  Then, feeling that he had angered
her, he went on, 'You see it is different.  She is so
young, so delicate!'  And saying this he looked again
into the water, contrasting in his mind the tender
budding grace of the maiden with the reflection of
developed womanhood before him.

"Myra laughed; but though it was not her desire
to win the boy from his devotion to Viola, there was
beneath the laughter in her eyes an angry, jealous light.

"'Ah! my pretty infant,' she cried, 'when you are
older you will grow wiser.  So you love this little
mistress of yours, do you?'

"'I worship her!' he said, slightly correcting the
verb, and giving it, not only a fuller, but more
chastened meaning.

"'What is the difference,' she asked, 'between love
and worship?'

"'You tell me,' he said; 'I am not good at explaining,
I only feel.'

"They had moved back from the water, and were
now once more lying on the soft bank.

"'I don't think you know much about feeling,
child,' she answered, 'and as for love, why you're a
perfect baby!  We begin by worshipping; we go on
to loving; and we often end by hating!'

"'Then I don't want to get to loving,' he said, 'I
like worshipping best, especially if love leads to
hatred; but I don't believe it!  I might, perhaps,
hate you, Myra, but I never could hate Viola.  However,
tell me what love is, and I will tell you if I have
ever loved.'

"'Have you ever kissed your mistress?' she asked.

"The boy looked surprised.  'The Roman nobles,'
he answered, 'do not kiss their slaves.'

"The girl burst out laughing; this idea, from her
point of view, was exceedingly comical, but she did
not contradict him.  'I will tell you some stories
about love,' she said.

"Myra, being a Roman slave girl, and having
passed through some considerable experience of what
she termed love, it would be unnecessary and unedifying
to follow her further.  Manners and customs change,
and the refinement of thought and language,
notwithstanding many an ebb and flow, has enlarged its
borders.  To describe therefore any such scene as this
truthfully, would be not only undesirable, but misleading.

"When Aureus returned to the villa late that evening,
though he may not have been intellectually much
wiser, he had tasted of the fruit of the tree of
knowledge, and knew more of evil than formerly; but
it is doubtful whether he or his teacher had any active
consciousness of sin.  They were little better than
half-educated savages, and their training on the moral
side had in one case been neglected, and in the other
perverted.

"After Viola's return, she noticed a change in her
fair slave.  He was as devoted as ever, but less
bright and natural in manner.  When they were alone
together he would sit watching her every movement
The sensation of being thus watched made her angry
and uncomfortable.

"On one such occasion she turned to him and said
crossly, 'I shall sell you.  You're getting too old
and dull to be any amusement.  What has come
to you of late?  Ah! it never struck me before.
You're in love!'

"As she said this, the boy turned scarlet.  She
had guessed part of the truth, but not that he was in
love with her.

"'Yes, I see it now--in love with that hateful slave
Myra!' she continued, stamping her foot.  'I ought
to have known!  They told me that you and she had
been out together in my absence.  I'll teach her to
go interfering with my slaves!  I'll let her know who
rules here!'

"And the girl, raging with passion, bade Aureus to
follow, and hurried back to the villa.  Going into one
of the inner rooms, she told some of the maidens to
fetch Myra, who came reluctantly at her summons.
The slight girl, absolute mistress of those around,
drew up her haughty little figure, when she saw the
beautiful slave enter, and at once demanded by whose
authority she had left the enclosure during her
absence.

"This was too great a strain on Myra's temper, and
relying on the favour shown by her master, she
became insolent, even taunting her mistress with her
illegitimate birth.

"'Who are you!' she cried, 'to rule over me!
Daughter of a slave!  Soon shall you be turned from
your high position, and be servant of my children.
Who made you better than the others, that you dare
to give orders to me?'

"For a moment Viola stood speechless with anger,
her face contracted with rage; then turning to those
round her, she cried--

"'Bind her, the insolent brute!  I'll teach her
whether I am mistress or not!'

"The slave-girls were nothing loth to see their
haughty companion humbled, for they were jealous of
her beauty, and of the favour which had hitherto been
shown to her.  In a moment the wretched girl was
seized, the grand tunic of which she had been so
proud was taken from her, and her hands and feet
tightly bound.

"'Now,' said Viola, 'bring the double-lashed whip.'

"When Myra heard this order, her pride vanished,
and with tears and entreaties she began to cry to her
mistress to spare her.  But Viola only mocked at her
terror.

"'Ah!' she cried, 'so the slave is beginning to
recognize her mistress; and she shall do so with
good reason before we let her go!'  Then, turning to
Aureus, she said, 'Take the whip, and let me see
that you use it like a man, or by the gods I will have
you lashed and sold in the public slave-market.'

"The boy, though he had often witnessed such
scenes before, hesitated; he had never been called
upon to hit a woman, and the thought was instinctively
repugnant to him.  On the other hand, he had never
disobeyed his mistress, and her will was his law.  He
lifted the whip and let it fall gently upon the prostrate
woman, who was bound down upon one of the raised
stone seats.  Then Viola came up to him, and
grinding her teeth with anger, she seized his arm.

"'If you do not hit her,' she hissed, 'hit her so that
the blood shall flow forth freely, I will kill you both!
Brute!' she cried; 'you love her--you dare to love her!'

"Then the boy did as his mistress told him, and a
great curse entered into his soul, for the brute nature
was awakened, and he knew the delight of cruelty;
for the sister fiend of lust, with her horrible fascination,
took, for the time, possession of him as he watched
the writhing body of his victim.  But the young girl
Viola stood by more damned than the slave who did
her bidding, for a double curse fell upon her soul.

"On a lovely day towards the end of summer, Viola
at last obtained her father's consent to ride with the
huntsmen, and Aureus, who was a skilful horseman,
was told off to be her attendant, and made responsible
for her safety.

"It was late in the day before the wild beasts broke
cover and the riders galloped over the plain in
pursuit.  The girl selected for her quarry a hart which
had been slightly wounded by one of the archers, and
soon she and her companion were urging their horses
over the ground.  They were both well mounted, but
the animals at that date were ill fitted for speed, and
there seemed little chance of their overtaking the stag
unless his wound exhausted him.  The girl, however,
was far too excited to consider possibilities, and they
soon left the other huntsmen far behind, the sound of
the horns growing fainter and fainter.

"At last the hart came to a small wood, and
disappeared among the undergrowth.

"'Had we not better return?' the boy asked.  'We
shall find it no easy matter to follow him further.'

"But the girl had no mind to give up the chase.  A
few hounds had followed them, and she put them
upon the track and began forcing her horse through
the dense thicket.  They had not far to go before
once more the open country could be seen through the
willow-stems, and after wading a small stream they
came in sight of the stag who had just been driven
from his place of concealment.  The hounds, now also
emerging from the stream, gave tongue joyfully at
view of their prey.

"Once more the chase commenced.  Forgetting time
and place in the wild excitement, the two continued
their solitary run accompanied by three slow but
keen-scented hounds.  Scrambling up the steep hills
and wading the many streams which came in their
path, they at last discovered their quarry, who had taken
refuge in a deep pool.  The boy and girl dismounted
and rested for a moment to recover their breath.

"In the mean time the hounds plunged into the
water; but powerful though they were on land,
resembling as they did in appearance a cross between the
modern bloodhound and boarhound, they were no
match in the water against their horned antagonist.
Aureus knew that, dangerous as was the undertaking
to one not fully experienced, it would be necessary
for him to go to their assistance.  Placing, therefore,
his knife between his teeth, and throwing off his
garment, he plunged into the water and swam out to the
spot where the unequal contest was raging.  Waiting
for a suitable moment when the attention of the stag
was engaged, he approached it cautiously from behind,
and taking the dagger from between his teeth, stabbed
it to the heart.

"The girl, who was standing on the bank breathless
with excitement, now that she saw the stag was dead,
gave a cry of delight, and called to Aureus to push
the body in front of him to the side of the pool so
that she might help him to drag it from the water.
She then called the reluctant hounds to her, and
watched impatiently the accomplishment of the
youth's difficult task.

"At length between them they managed to get the
body on dry land, and at once set to work, after the
manner of the time with which they were so familiar,
to break up the body; the girl blowing her horn, and
the boy presenting her with the head and antlers.
Nor did they forget to reward the faithful hounds.

"They were reminded by the greed of these their
followers that they also were hungry, and having
lighted a fire--for no huntsman ever went forth
without providing materials for this contingency--they
were soon busy cooking some of the choicest morsels
on slips of wood over hot charcoal.  Then, like two
young savages, they feasted, drinking from a
neighbouring stream.

"It was now growing dusk, and if they hoped to
return that night there was no time to spare.  At
first by following the marks of their horses' feet they
had little difficulty in retracing their steps, but coming
to a wide stretch of heath they lost the track, and
while endeavouring in vain to find it, darkness settled
down.  As they were far from any landmark known
to them, and were, moreover, shut in by the surrounding
hills, they at last gave up the attempt in despair,
and decided to make the best of the circumstances
and spend the night in some sheltered spot.

"Having come to a suitable place they tied up
their horses and crept together into a small hollow
which was carpeted with bracken and roofed by
sandstone rock.  It was a mild night, but Viola, thinly
clad as she was, felt the cold reaction which follows
violent exercise, and nestled up closer and closer to
her companion, who was far too accustomed to
exposure to feel the least chilled by the night air.
After a few moments of silence, the girl, raising
herself a little, bent over and kissed the boy's lips.

"'There,' she said, 'that is a reward for your having
been brave and killed the stag!'

"But the boy trembled at her touch; it was the
first time she had ever kissed him; it was the kindling
of a new and fatal change in their relationship:
childhood had gone!"

.. vspace:: 2

"As may be imagined, Myra's bitterness against
her mistress was strengthened rather than lessened by
the cruel punishment.  She made bitter complaint to
her master, but without success; as, though he was
vexed at what he considered an excessive punishment,
he made it a point in no way to interfere with his
daughter in matters of this kind.  He knew too well
that a divided rule would mean continued complaints;
and, moreover, he thought his fair slave had lately
been getting somewhat out of hand, and that a little
check was desirable.  So he only laughed, telling her
that she must learn to be an obedient girl, and do
what her mistress told her.

"But Myra's day of revenge was nearer than she
expected, and she soon began to suspect the altered
relationship between Viola and Aureus.  She was
therefore content to wait her time, and during this
interval she feigned the most abject meekness and
fawning servility to her young tyrant, avoiding at the
same time all intercourse with the boy.

"Marius had been absent when these two returned
home the morning after the hunt.  It was usual
in these days to continue the chase of fugitives as
long as any chance of capture remained.  Moreover,
there was much work to be done in collecting
the slain.  Owing to this their absence caused no
comment, the servants at the villa fancying that
Viola had been with her father, while he was under
the impression that the girl had returned with her
prize on the evening of the previous day.

"Viola was now often allowed to join the hunting
parties, and she and her boy lover were thrown more
than ever together.  It was a happy time for both
of them, living as they did only for the pleasure of the
moment, and disregarding all thought of the future.
They were too young and reckless either to know or
consider the consequences of their present folly.  But
nature moves in her own way, following her own laws,
whether her children regard them or not.  She has
her own ends to fulfil, and is utterly callous of
conventional restrictions; to her there is neither king nor
slave, neither queen nor serving-maid, but only male
and female, and she treats all alike, without respect
of persons or regard to social convenience.  It is her
children's fault, not hers, if things turn out
disastrously; if men make restrictions for themselves
which have no part in her plan of action and impose
laws which interfere with her wider and more impartial
scheme.

"The winter came and went, and many of the
same spring flowers which now make our lanes so
beautiful at this time of the year, carpeted the open
glades of the forest, and bordered the pure untainted
streams.  The delicate lacework of drooping ferns
was reflected in the still pools, then stocked with
fish as yet unacquainted with guile; the May-fly
required no second inspection, but might be devoured
recklessly without fear of fatal results, while the
wriggling worm which strayed too near the bank,
and turned over gently into the water, had not the
chances of escape which he now enjoys.  No
committee of taste would then lie round to study his
movements for fear that a dangerous hook might be
concealed somewhere in his body.

"It was on a lovely evening shortly after the
cuckoo's note had become once more a familiar sound,
that Viola and Aureus, returning from a ramble in
the wood, were met a few yards from the enclosure
by Marius.  As the girl glanced up at her father, she
was suddenly overwhelmed with terror.  She had
seen anger often on his face before, but never when
he had looked at her, and never such deep anger as
this.  What was the meaning of it?

"With a haughty word he dismissed the slave, and
telling his daughter to follow, went on toward the
forest.  For some time the silence was only broken
by the sound of their footsteps, and the sweet singing
of the birds.  At last the man stopped, and turning
round, looked fixedly at his daughter for a moment.
Then, with a deep-drawn sob, half of anger and half
of pain, he cried--

"'So it is true!  This which they have told me,
and which I might have seen with my own eyes.
My daughter, whom I have loved and honoured, has
demeaned herself even to the level of a slave--has
become one of the vile!  You know your fate--the
fate of the wanton.  Even though I have loved you,
this past love shall not save you.  Were you not my
own child I would even now sell you in the
slave-market, that you might follow the vile calling you
have chosen.  As it is, you shall die!'

"When Viola heard this she fell upon her knees
before her father, and with tears implored him to
spare her life.  Then, in her terror, a thought crossed
her mind.  She might yet save herself by a lie.  To
hide her guilt she knew would be impossible, but she
might throw all the blame upon another, and so save
herself.

"Between sobs and lamentations she said--'Even
though you kill me, yet am I innocent of evil.  How
could I know, who am but a child, of the wickedness
of men?  I went out to hunt in the forest, and the
stag led me far from home, and when we slew it the
darkness of night was falling, and there was none near
save the slave whom you gave me as a servant.  And
behold, when we strove to return home, we could not
find our way; and as we wandered helpless into the
thick places of the forest, night came on.'  Then Viola,
having thrown all the blame upon Aureus, finished
her story in these words--'Knowing not the harm
that would follow, I hid this thing in my heart; and
though he, my destroyer, has since been hateful to
me, yet dared I not show it lest the evil which had
happened might be suspected by any.'

"Then the father, willing if possible to save his
child, was moved by her words and tears, though still
unconvinced of her innocence.  And he said--

"'I will prove and see if these things be even as
you say.'

"So they returned together to the house, and he
led his daughter into an inner room, and commanded
his servants to bring Aureus bound before him.  Then
having dismissed the slaves, he repeated to the boy
the story which his daughter had told; and when he
had done this, he said--

"'If this be true, then shalt thou be crucified in the
sight of all the people; but if thou canst prove that
this was no act of violence, I will sell thee as a slave,
and the girl shall die!'

"The boy looked upon the pleading and terrified
face of the one he loved, and lifting up his head, swore
by the gods, saying--

"'It is true even as thy daughter has said.  I, and
only I, am to blame.'

"Then the father turned to the girl and said--'And
you hate him even as you said?'

"And she, simulating anger, answered--'I hate
him--I hate him!'

"But Marius, still doubting, replied, so that he
might try her further--'Thou shalt this night then
have thy revenge, even before the sun shall set.'

"Then he ordered that a cross of wood should be
made ready.  When it was prepared and laid upon
the ground, he commanded his daughter to come, and
the boy was brought forth and laid upon the cross.
But when one of the servants was about to take a
nail and with the heavy hammer drive it into the
boy's hand, Marius stayed him, saying--

"'She, who has thus been wronged, shall with her
own hand take vengeance.'  Then he said to the girl
who was standing by his side--'Go!'  And in a
low voice he whispered, 'Then shall I know the
truth!'

"And Viola, though faint with terror and anguish,
dare not hesitate, for she knew that her refusal would
be treated as a sign of guilt.  So with trembling
hands she nailed the lover who died to save her to
the cross, and his blood stained her fingers and the
white robe she wore.

"Then, even as the sun was setting, they lifted the
cross on high, and the glow of the evening light fell
softly upon the boy's head.

"When Viola went to her room that night, she
could not sleep.  The thought of her lover still
suffering the tortures of his slow death was too horrible.
She could no longer bear the anguish of remorse and
self-contempt.

"'Better,' she cried, 'had I died ten thousand times
than live this awful life!'

"She began to picture all the happy hours that
they had spent together; she thought of the love
which the boy had always shown her.  It was impossible
that she should remain any longer in her room.
Whatever the risk she ran, whatever pain it might
bring, she must see her lover again and ask him to
forgive her.  Was it too late?  Was his suffering
over?  She took up a short dagger, and moving
softly, stole out of the house.

"There was a moon, but fortunately at the moment
it was covered by clouds, and she passed into the
open beyond the enclosure safely.  In the gloom she
could see the cross standing out against the hills
beyond; and even as she looked the clouds passed
by, and the moon shone brightly, showing clearly the
boy's drooping head and strained arms.  Was he
dead?  She hurried on until she came to the foot
of the cross.  The boy slightly moved at the sound of
her footstep, and turning his head looked down at her.

"'Aureus!' she cried, 'Aureus! forgive me--forgive me!'

"The boy tried to speak, but for a moment he
could not.  Then with a great effort he whispered,
'Viola, I love you!  I shall always love you!'  And
as he said the last word his head fell forward; his
pain was over.

"But the girl, when she realized that he was dead,
having kissed the poor wounded feet, knelt down
before his lifeless body; then, baring her breast, she
drove the dagger into her heart."

.. vspace:: 2

"Soon after this Marius left the country, being
summoned with several of the Romans to Italy.
But the story of these two being handed down, the
villa was looked upon as haunted by their dead
spirits, and avoided as a place accursed.

"Some time later, owing to the misfortune which
attended a Saxon tribe that had settled in this part,
orders were given that the 'House of the Great
Curse,' as it was then called, should be domed over
and covered with sand, so that the evil spirits might be
confined within.  In a few years the grass grew on the
little hillock, and long before the Norman Conquest
all history connected with the place had perished."

"And that," I said, "is the ending of the story.
It is a very sad one."

"It is rather," he answered; "the first chapter of
what may be called our intellectual history, is usually
sad.  The fight between the spirit and beast nature
must naturally bring about much evil; the animal
is in one sense far less repulsive than the savage,
as the former lacks the ingenuity with which the
latter is able to enforce his brutal desires.  From
that day to the present time my spirit and the spirit
of this girl have been more or less interwoven together
through many lives and under various names.  Both
our natures have developed; though owing in a large
measure to the incident just related, her growth has
been retarded; had it not been for this, our spirits
would probably have been united long before this, and
have passed to a higher and nobler life together.
But we shall not now have long to wait," he continued;
"and I shall at last be freed from these marks."

As he said this he held his hands palm upward for
me to look at, and in the centre of each was a small
faint red spot.

"Those marks," he said, "I have always borne.
They are one of the strange signs of the power with
which the spirit, under certain circumstances, affects
the body, and their having endured for so long a
time shows how deeply this experience affected in
some way the formation of my character."

"Tell me," I said, "where Vera is now.  Is she still
alive?"

"Next time we meet," he answered, "if all be well,
I will show you the girl as she is now--the girl whom
you have heard of as Viola and Vera--the girl whom
I love!"

"She can hardly be a girl now," I said.

"Wait," he replied, "and see."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XVII`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVII

.. vspace:: 2

As Sydney was away from home, some weeks
passed before I again had an opportunity of seeing
him.  On hearing of his return I immediately walked
to his house and found him sitting in the garden.

"I am glad that you have come," he said, "as this
is the last day I shall spend here, and there is much
still to tell before we part."

"Go!" I exclaimed; "you do not intend to leave
altogether?"

"Yes," he replied; "and it will be many years
before you will see me again, so we must make the
best of the short time that still remains.  You will
stay the night?"

I assented.  The news of his coming departure was
a greater blow than I could have believed possible.
Having lived for long alone, and become so
self-concentrated, it had not occurred to me I could
suffer such pain at parting from any one.  When we
are young we experience these acute sensations; but
time makes us callous, and after all, our friendship
had lasted so short a time.

"You are sorry," he said.  "We have become friends--a
rare thing to happen in later life--and we shall
miss each other.  But it is better so.  Some day you
will understand why we lose our idols.  It is not
good for man to be alone; but it is still worse for one
nature to rest all its interest upon another.  The ivy
clinging to the oak destroys the life of its supporter,
and sooner or later they fall together."

For some time we strolled up and down, talking of
friendship.  There was one thing noticeable in Sydney
which distinguished him from most men.  Superficial
observers would have called him egotistical, because if
he thought a thing true he said so, without consideration
for any of the forms of false modesty which
are mistaken for meekness.  If he liked a person he
spoke to him just as he felt; and when better
acquainted with a subject than those with whom he
was conversing, he said so openly.  If he felt that he
was stronger or wiser than his friend, he lacked the
affectation of professing to disbelieve it.  Yet, instead
of feeling that this assumption was an impertinence,
I liked him the better for it; it was so naturally done,
so free from the very suspicion of conceit.

"You and I," he seemed to say, "understand each
other.  We both know enough to be conscious of our
own littleness and our own ignorance.  We will not
place ourselves in the ridiculous position of students
in precedence.  The gap between the wisest man and
the fool is too narrow for partition.  It is hardly
worth while for earthworms to wrangle over shades
of complexion, or men over shades of intelligence.
Let us rather get to business, and make the best of
our opportunity for improvement."

But this manner of his was offensive to many.
There are minds so small that they are incapable of
understanding a meekness that takes no account of
distinction in littleness.

After dinner, Sydney abruptly turned a conversation
upon the growth of spiritual life, in which I was
much interested, and told me a short story about one
of the little children who had been rescued by Agnes,
and taken to Somerville.

I had no idea at the time how important a link
in his history lay hidden in this pathetic tale.

"I promised," he said, "that when next we met, you
should see Vera as she is, and to-night you shall do
so, but first of all I will give you an account of a scene
that happened six years ago.  You remember the
home for orphan children that Vera and Agnes started.
For a few years it continued under their joint care, but
then, owing to a reason which I will explain later, the
entire charge was thrown upon Agnes, and the home
has been for the last seven years, and is now, under her
sole management.  Six years ago I went to see her,
and told her of a case which seemed in every way
worthy of relief.  A young woman, who had been left a
widow a few months previously, was dying.  She had
one child, a little girl about eighteen months old; this
child would soon be totally unprovided for, as, though
the mother had been well brought up, and was of
gentle birth, her own and her husband's relations were
dead.  Anxiety on her baby's account was adding
greatly to the poor woman's suffering.  You may fancy
that Agnes required no urging in such a case, and she
went with me at once on this errand of mercy.  We
found the mother and her child in a small badly-furnished
room in one of the poorest parts of Manchester.
Since her husband's death she had done a little
dressmaking, and so kept her child and herself from
starvation.  Notwithstanding the ravages of disease, she was
still a beautiful woman; and as she told Agnes her
story, the mystery of sorrow bravely borne, and
apparently meaningless as far as this life was concerned,
affected her listener deeply.  Her parents had died
when she was about seventeen; they had been fairly
well off, having made a small fortune in Australia;
her father, however, during the closing years of his
life had speculated rashly, and when he died a few
months after his wife, the estate had to be wound up
in bankruptcy.  His only daughter Ellen managed
after some little difficulty to get a situation as
nursery-governess to the children of a wealthy Australian,
who was about to sail with his family for England.
Ellen lived with these people for three years, and,
from what she said, her life must have been far from
happy.  Those who have recently risen from an
inferior social position are as a rule the most overbearing
to any one whom they consider their subordinate;
the value of wealth is so impressed upon them that
they can hardly realize that the governess in their pay
is their social equal, or may be, as in this case, their
superior.  The torment that such persons inflict on a
young, and sensitive nature is indescribable.  It is
often bad enough to be ruled over by those we respect,
but to be slighted, or still worse patronized, by those
whose instincts and habits revolt us is torture.  Such
was this girl's life, until she met by accident her future
husband; he was a young journalist, who through
hard work and ability had made his way into a position
which brought him in a precarious £300 a year.  On
the prospect of this doubtful income they married,
and the first two years of their lives were passed
happily.  But soon after the birth of their child, Harry
Stanford broke down in health.  He had worked too
hard.  Then the bitter struggle began: piece by piece
the furniture had to be sold to buy food, and when he
died his wife found herself once more penniless, and
debarred now from any chance of earning a living as
she had formerly done, by reason of her new tie.  Still,
as long as her strength lasted she had struggled
bravely against poverty and misfortune.

"'It is not,' she said, looking up at Agnes' face,
'that I fear to die.  It would be so sweet to lie down
and rest--to know that all trouble and pain were over,
and that I could go to my husband!  But he has
left me this little one, the baby he loved so dearly and
was so proud of.  What will become of her when I
go to him?  What will he say--our child--our child!
With no one to love or care for her--it is terrible!'

"And the poor woman broke into a paroxysm of weeping.

"'I cannot die,' she sobbed, 'I cannot!  Oh God!
I see her growing up without love--people are cruel
to her, and day by day, as she gets older, she will miss
more the care of a mother's watchfulness.  If anything
should happen--if she should sink down through
despair into the depth of sin and misery!  I cannot
leave her!'

"'Do not distress yourself, dear,' Agnes said; 'I
will try and take your place when you are gone--will
try to be a mother to your little one.  Give her to
me--let me take her in my arms.'  She took the little
one from its mother, and the child came not unwillingly.
'There, you see,' she continued, 'the child
trusts me--will you?'

"When the mother heard and understood, the drawn
look of anxious pain passed from her face, and a
radiant light of rest and peace took its place.

"'Do you mean it?' she cried.  'Will you indeed
take charge of my love, my baby, when I am gone?
Oh! you don't know, you cannot imagine what joy
you have given me!  Trust you!  Yes, indeed, no one
can look into your eyes and see you touch the child
and not know that you can love; and you are sure to
love her, the darling!  But how can I thank you--it
is too good to be true.'

"Though the child was getting near the age when
children so often develop shyness, she nestled up and
clung to Agnes as though she recognized her touch.
The little thing looked up into the sweet face bending
over her, and seemed to find there something familiar.
It put its baby hands to her cheeks and stroked them,
then crowed and laughed with pleasure.

"To those who knew the mystery which connected
Agnes with this child there was something strangely
pathetic in the unconscious recognition, the
half-forgotten association.  The strange part lay chiefly in
this, that the child was more conscious than the
woman.  The child remembered--the woman only
felt at her heart a throb of reawakened love.  And
the mother who watched saw not the mysterious chain
which bound these two together, yet she saw what
was enough for her, love in the one and contentment
in the other, and she lay back and rested with a heart
full of such deep peace as she had never hoped again
to know.  I saw her fold her hands, and knew that
she was half praying, half speaking to her husband.
Even as she prayed his presence was beside her, and
I then felt certain that the end was near.

"'Agnes,' I said, 'give back the child to its mother,
that for one moment the three may be united.'

"She looked at me in surprise, wondering what I
could mean, then placed the little one in its mother's
arms; and the child, conscious, as children often are,
of the spirit world around them, felt the dual presence,
and lifting up its tiny hands gave a little cry of joy.
But the cry broke the delicate thread which till now
had held the mother bound to earth, and her spirit
was free.  Then a strange thing happened, for as the
two spirits were drawn together they became aware
of the mystery which connected me with the child
they had loved, and an indescribable joy entered their
souls and passed to my own like some strain of joyful
melody.

"The little child was taken by Agnes, after her
mother's funeral, to Somerville.  And now, if you
wish to do so, we will go and see Vera."

We went together into the library, and there, sitting
by the fire with a picture-book on her lap, was a little
girl about seven.  She sprang up as soon as she saw
Sydney, and rushing up to him threw her arms around
his neck.  She was the most beautiful child I have
ever seen; her skin had the delicate purity of perfect
health; her features were more finely modelled than
those which we generally see in children, but it was
the deep loveliness of her large dark-blue eyes which
gave the chief attraction.  Her expression, and the
firm outline of the lower part of her face, showed
determination, faithfulness, and a deep capacity for
love and devotion.

"Come, Vera," Sydney said, "I want to introduce
you to a friend," and he led her to me.

She lifted up her face to be kissed, and I bent over
her and touched her soft waving curls with my lips.
What did it all mean?  Could this be Vera's child, or
some one named after her?  There was a likeness
to the face of the beautiful girl I had seen in my
visions, but the child was not only far more lovely, her
expression showed greater purity, refinement, and
nobility.  During the short time she sat with us I was
particularly struck with her devotion to Sydney; she
seemed ever trying to anticipate some want of his so
as to fulfil it.

When at last he said, "You must go now, dear, and
get to bed, as we shall have a long day's travelling
to-morrow," she came and climbed on to his knee, and
resting her head on his shoulder, said--

"Is it not lovely to think that we are going now to
be together?  It is good of you to take me; I hope
I shall not be much trouble."

"I don't think so, dear," he answered; "you might
perhaps have been a trouble once, but now it is
different."

"Yes," she said, "I'm nearly grown up, am I not?"

He kissed her, and as she tripped off he said to me,
laughing, "Well, what do you think of my nearly
grown-up companion?"

"She is a sweet child," I said.  "How did she
come to be called Vera?  And when are you going
to introduce me to Lady Vancome?"

"So you don't even yet understand," he said, "the
mystery?  Listen while I explain.  When Vera
Vancome had lived with the children whom she had
gathered round her for three years, her whole nature
became changed.  The new interest, the new love
which grew up in her heart for the motherless little
ones drove out of her nature the desire for self-gratification
which heretofore had been her curse; yet habit
is so strong, moulding as it does the brain and
warping the will, that as long as the body lives, any
tendency to an evil that has once been encouraged will
continue, though perhaps with weakened force; and
until the spirit is set free by death from these
self-made bonds; love, which should be a spontaneous
pleasure, is still at times marred by effort, and loses
thereby much of its usefulness and beauty.  When
this is the case it becomes necessary for the soul's
final perfection on earth that it should be born again
into the body of a little child, which takes the form
of the ennobled spirit.  Thenceforth it is free from
the tendency to evil which the influence of past years
had engraved on its former body and mind.  In other
words, when a soul outgrows its body, it is time to
cast off the old shell and take one more in conformity
with a higher development.  This may seem a strange
thing to you, but it is a common experience of daily
life, and accounts both for the inequality of human
nature and also for the reason why we find but a
small proportion of men or women seemingly fitted for
a high state of spiritual life.  We see many in the
various transition stages, but few who have reached a
final growth; the sixth form, as it were, of our earthly
school, when the scholars are ready to go forth into a
wider universe of action and experience.

"And thus it came about in Vera's case.  Her body,
weakened by continual work and the constant fight
against her lower nature, was thereby made sensitive
to the first attack of illness.  A child, who had lately
come to the home, developed diphtheria.  The disease
spread quickly among the other children; it was
therefore necessary to isolate them, and Vera, much
against Agnes' wish, determined to act as their nurse.
While doing so she caught the disease.  It was a
pathetic sight to see her, even after she had taken the
complaint, struggling to minister to the little ones
around.  She absolutely refused to be separated from
them, notwithstanding the earnest entreaties of the
nurse and the express orders of the doctor.

"One night while the nurse was sleeping, a little
child who was very ill, began crying in its delirium
and calling Vera by name; until nearly unconscious
herself, she got up, and tottering over to the child,
began stroking its head, and trying to calm its fears.
The little one soon ceased its rambling and fell into a
quiet sleep, but Vera still knelt by its side; she had
lost consciousness of all around her.

"The nurse was roused some hours later by the
crying of one of the children, and to her horror she
found Lady Vancome still kneeling by the side of one
of the cots.  She touched her, but she did not move.
The time had come--her new body awaited her.

"At the same hour a child was born.  Into the more
perfect body, free now from the evil tendency of a
misspent past, her spirit entered."

"And the child?" I said.

"Is the baby Agnes rescued; is the little girl you
have just seen.  This is the divine order of life.
Moved into the home which Vera founded, under the
protection of Agnes whom she loved, she learned the
first lesson of her new life.  Thus, often do our deeds
of mercy return to us again.  We cast our bread upon
the waters, and find it after many days.  And thus,
alas! do we also curse ourselves by acts of selfishness,
reaping in future years the harvest of pain which we
so thoughtlessly scattered in the past."

"Does Vera remember any of her previous life?" I
asked.

"Not as you call remembrance," he answered,
"though shadows flit across her mind at times."

"You have not told her about it, then?"

"No, it would not be wise; she is going with me
now to Aphar, where she will become in time one of
the priestesses.  As soon as her spirit can leave the
body, she will begin to learn the mystery of the past,
and it will not be very many years, I expect, before
we shall both leave this earth and go into the higher
world which lies beyond and around us."

"Shall you never return here?" I asked.

"When the time comes for us to leave we will come
to you before we go, but not till then."

"What will become of your house while you are away?"

"Before to-morrow night you will know."

The next morning I said good-bye to Sydney and
Vera.  As they drove away in the bright sunlight the
child looked the personification of joy, but when my
friend turned round to wave a last adieu, I knew that
he was sorry: sorry because with the sensitiveness of
his nature he knew my pain, and felt that I should be
very lonely when he had gone.

That evening while sitting in my study I noticed a
brilliant light as though some large building was on
fire.  I hastened out; there could be no mistake, this
light proceeded from the direction of Sydney's house:
before I arrived on the scene, there was a slight
explosion, and flames were suddenly tossed high into
the air.  When I reached the building it was a ruin;
only a few walls now stood to mark the spot where
so many treasures had been gathered together.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CONCLUSION`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CONCLUSION

.. vspace:: 2

For ten years I neither saw nor heard anything of
Sydney or Vera, but this did not surprise me.  I knew
that they were both at Aphar, and that the girl was
learning the mysteries of spiritual power which should
in time enable her to gain at least some of the
knowledge which the man, who had loved and watched
over her so long, possessed.  I was also confident that
some day I should see them again before their spirits
were united and passed away from earth.

My confidence was justified.

I was sitting alone one evening when Sydney
entered the room.  He was much changed.  His hair
was quite white, his face more calm, more noble than
when we parted; but his expression told of such
perfect happiness and contentment that even to look
at him brought a feeling of peace.

"I have come at last, you see," he said, as he shook
me warmly by the hand.

I told him how delighted I was, and that I had
looked forward for years to this meeting.  "But
where," I continued, "is Vera?  Did you not bring
her after all?"

"Oh yes," he replied.

Even as he spoke the door opened, and the girl
stood before us.  I had been prepared for a good
deal; I remembered the child, and felt quite certain
that as she grew up she would be very beautiful; but
I had never conceived it possible that any human
form could be so lovely as the one that now stood
before me.

The girl was clothed in a loose flowing robe of
dazzling white, which was fastened at the breast by
a brooch in which shone a luminous transparent
stone similar to the one which Sydney had described
as worn at Aphar by the high priestess; but
notwithstanding the test of such a contrast, her complexion
looked more pure, more ethereal than it is possible to
conceive in any setting.  It seemed as though alabaster
had been faintly tinted with the pearly shade of the
most delicate rose-leaf.  As she came forward each
movement told of perfectly developed bodily strength
and graceful power, while the clear brightness of her
deep blue eyes and the warm colour of her lips
showed how health alone can give the true finish
without which the most perfect beauty is marred,
or for the time partially lost.  Yet with all her charm
of attraction she seemed as unconscious of the effect
produced by her as though she were still a little
child.  She came up to me with both her hands held
out, and taking one of mine into each of hers, looked
up with a bright smile into my face.

"Perhaps you think," she said, "that I have
forgotten you; but if so you are mistaken.  It is ten
years ago, and I was only seven then, but Alan has
taken care to keep my memory fresh, and sometimes
he has let me see you."

"But why," I said, "should you want to see me?
You cannot possibly care about such an old selfish
being."

"Of course I care," she answered; "are you not his
friend?  And whom he cares for, I care for; whom
he loves, I love."

As she said this she looked at Sydney, and I saw
for the first time the expression of true, pure, and
perfect love.

We had talked for some time on various subjects,
when Vera turned to me and said--

"You already know much of my past, a knowledge
which has only recently been revealed to me.  But
there is much still that you do not know because he
who told you was the man who loved me.  Nor is it
necessary for me to bring before you further scenes
of humiliation, when I wandered blindly in the path
of disorder and pain, ever refusing the guiding
light of love held out to me.  But," she continued,
getting up and kneeling beside Sydney, "before we
go, before we enter into the glorious life of joy,
to the threshold of which my love at length has
guided me, I should like to give you some idea of my
feeling toward the man who has thus through pain
and trial, with no return save the basest ingratitude,
ever been faithful to one so unworthy of his devotion."

As she said this she looked up into the face of her
lover, and drawing him down to her, kissed him on
the lips.

For a moment she seemed to forget my presence
as she turned to Sydney, and cried, "My beloved,
who through the dark valley has been beside me;
who with the unselfishness of divine compassion
has forgiven cruelty and unfaithfulness, thinking not
of the worthlessness of the one beloved but only
feeling her weakness; whatsoever I am is thine,
without thee there can be no joy, no perfect
completion, no future life, no eternal glory!"

But Sydney stopped her.  "Dearest," he said, "it
is enough.  The past is gone; through the weakness
that once you had, came that strength which has
been our salvation.  Through selfishness has come
self-renunciation; through sorrow, more exceeding
joy; through doubt and perplexity, eternal hope
and trust.  If your growth has been dependent upon
me, so has my growth on you; each soul acting and
reacting on the other from without.  And still shall
it ever be, save that in future the influence shall be
internal, not external, and the darkness shall have
passed away."

For a few moments there was silence; then Vera
turned to me and said, "Would that you too could
know this great joy."

"I have not lived to deserve it," I replied, "yet it
gives me the greatest happiness to see you here."

"Deserved it," she replied, "and how do I deserve
it?  When first the truth became known to me in
vision after vision of my past, I thought I should
have died of shame and sorrow.  Before that I
believed that I was more or less worthy of Alan's
love, but then it seemed impossible."

She buried her face in her hands.

"Hush!" Sydney said.  "Let us speak of brighter
things.  No spirit can look upon the past without
wonder and shame.  Let us thank God that when its
lessons are over, these things shall be wiped out and
all things become new."

"Should you mind," I said, addressing Vera,
"letting me know something of your life since we
last met?"

"There is not much," she replied, "that I may tell,
but I will do my best.  After leaving you we travelled
together, seeing many places of interest on the way;
for you must remember that it was impossible for me
to quit the body, and Alan would not leave me.  At
length we came to the plateau of which you have
already heard, and I was admitted through the secret
passage to the enclosure.  On arriving there I was
taken alone into the beautiful temple and dedicated
to the service of the Almighty Father.  For eight
years I lived with the priestess, who educated me in
the knowledge which comes to us through the spiritual
sense.  But beside what she taught me I saw Alan
often and learned many things from him.  These
times were the most delightful, for though always
happy, a new strange joy filled my heart whenever
I was brought into his presence.  I felt somehow
that I belonged to him, and when he left there was
a void which nothing else could fill.

"Time passed very quickly, there was so much to
do.  I was trained to perfect my body as well as my
spirit, and to bring every faculty into obedience to
my will.  At last I was admitted as priestess to the
temple, and then for the first time my spirit was
allowed to go free, and to commune with the other
spirits which surround us.  But though increasing
day by day in power, I knew as yet nothing of the
past.  For some time I was not allowed to go forth
alone, but one day it was decided that I should have
no companion, but go whither I would and learn
whatsoever I desired.  And I desired greatly to know
of my past, and what was the mysterious bond
which bound me to the man I love.  Then was my
history revealed.  And it came to pass that after
the visions, so great was my humiliation, so fearful
did it seem to go back and face one who had thus
loved me and whom I had so grievously wronged,
that my soul, dreading to return to the body, waited:
still longing for the sight of the beloved, while
ashamed to meet him.  Then a spirit, more beautiful
than any I had yet seen, came near to me, and its
thought passed to me in this wise:

"'Dost thou not know, frail spirit, who hath been
permitted to visit the unseen world even though thy
body is still on earth, that if thou tarriest here much
longer, the earthly form will perish, and it will be
impossible for thee to finish thy work on earth save
in some future state?'

"And I answered, 'It is even so, yet dare I not
return and meet one who has been deeply wronged
by me in the past.'

"Then the spirit spoke again.  'Yet he whom thou
hast wronged hath borne with thee all these many
years, and hath not grown weary of his love.  Why
shouldest thou fear even now when the past is over?
Wouldest thou then desire once more to be born again
and bring to him even this further pain?  Hath he
not waited long for thee in patience, and wilt
thou at the moment of fulfilment cause him the
needless suffering of hope delayed?  Forget
thyself, child of earth, and think only of the sorrow
that such an action would cause.  What is thy
humiliation?  Tarry not, but walk bravely in the path of
duty.'

"Then seeing that selfishness was still holding me
back, I came in haste to the temple.  It was
night, and I knew that days had passed by since my
spirit had left its body entranced.  Might it not even
now be too late to return?  I looked down.  The
light of the moon fell softly through the trellis-work
of the arches.  A delicate strain of music passed with
me as I moved, but from below only the soft plash
of the fountain disturbed the silence of earth.  I saw
the body my spirit had so long forsaken still reclining
upon the cushions which had been laid over the
mosaic floor.  Was I too late?  Had the trance
stage passed on to death?

"Kneeling over my prostrate form I could distinguish
the figure of a man, and knew that my lover
still watched and waited.  Otherwise the temple was
deserted.  Then I heard Alan speak.

"'Vera, come back!  Would that it were possible
for my spirit to come to yours, but it may not be.
Can you not trust me?  Can you doubt my love?
Oh! before it is too late, return!  Must we again be
parted even when it seemed that the time had at last
arrived for our eternal union?'

"In a moment I had regained my bodily form.  I
rose, dazed by my long trance, and fell upon my
knees before my lover who now stood over me, his
face radiant with joy.

"'Forgive me,' I cried, 'forgive me!'"

Vera paused, and Sydney turned to me with a smile.

"Rather a difficult request, was it not?"

I looked at the exquisite face of the girl before me
and said, "Sydney, mysterious though it seems, God's
wondrous wisdom must have been manifested to you
at such a moment."

"'Yes," he replied, "if man never passed through
darkness into light, through sin into holiness, God
could never love us as he does, could never feel the
joy with which such a prayer must fill his soul."

After talking for some little time longer we passed
to the other room.  Vera had promised to sing to me
before they went.  She sung the following song; the
music, the strange unearthly beauty of her voice, are
beyond my words to describe.  I listened with closed
eyes; earth, for the moment, seemed to slip away
from me, and the gates of heaven to be thrown open.

   |  When Love's fair flower uncloses,
   |    And Pain has lost her hold,
   |  When Grief for once reposes,
   |    And Joy's bright wings unfold,
   |  Listen!  Listen! as you pass along!
   |  Sweetly, yet how softly, Hope breathes forth her song!
   |    No longer drowned by tumult,
   |      Her never silent voice
   |    Shall whisper on for ever,
   |      "Rejoice! and still rejoice!"

   |  She sings to children sleeping;
   |    She lies on Love's light breath,
   |  Faith weaves her words with weeping,
   |    To form the song of death.
   |  Listen!  Listen! you will hear her say,
   |  "Joy shall last for ever, Grief must pass away."
   |    The lost still linger near you,
   |      Oh! lift with them your voice,
   |    To swell our joyful chorus,
   |      "Rejoice! and still rejoice!"

   |  And as our souls grow nearer
   |    Souls in the world above,
   |  Ever the song grows clearer,
   |    Till life is lost in love!
   |  Waken!  Listen!  Still the same glad strain!
   |  Deeper now and fuller! swells the glad refrain!
   |    Till with the host of Heaven,
   |      We also raise our voice,
   |    And hear earth's distant echo,
   |      "Rejoice! and still rejoice!"
   |

For a few moments after the song was finished I
sat overpowered with a feeling of indescribable peace.
When I looked up the room was empty, my friends
had gone.

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   THE END

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   *Richard Clay & Sons, Limited, London & Bungay.*

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