The lecturer did not present an appearance but the priest came on
Friday contrary to Hugh’s understanding. The day set was Sunday but
nevertheless, he was heartily welcomed, his horse stabled and Hugh
proceeded at once to call in the “guests.”
The big bell atop the barn tolled seven strokes and within
three-quarters of an hour nearly forty men were assembled in the great
hall awaiting the pleasure of the father. Each man was introduced by
Hugh and I marvelled that he could remember their names.
Is there in the physiognomy of the Catholic a mark through which one of
the same faith may distinguish him from the Protestant?
Father Nealon, a comparatively young man, certainly under forty, went
about his work in a brisk, businesslike manner, picking out those of
his faith.
About one-third of the “guests” were confessed--a strange proceeding,
transmitting to the Most High, through the successor of Peter, the
innermost secrets, believing that a mortal man has the vicarious
authority to forgive or at least in a measure absolve.
The rest of the men went about their duties or read; some wandered down
to the river to see that the boats were securely under shelter as the
day had grown sullen and the wind had risen to almost a gale.
They reassembled later in the evening, before the usual dinner hour.
The entire household was there except the Chinaman and I would not say
that the Celestial was not hidden within earshot.
In a fine manly way the father talked--not of heaven or purgatory but
on things present; duty, cultivation of respect for self, for others,
for society’s laws, forgetfulness of old ideas, appreciation of a newly
regained citizenship--as fine a discourse as I had ever heard.
He admonished the men to cling to the faith of their childhood, though
those of his faith in the audience were in the minority and closed by
offering up a very understandable prayer, full of feeling, a sort of
summing up, I thought, into which he brought the name of Hugh as a
benefactor.
I was impressed with the genuineness of the man, especially after
the “guests” had left the hall. Without apology, even hesitation,
he accepted and drank a sizable potion of Scotch whiskey, declining
water with the remark that “such a wonderful concoction should, like
everything in nature, be kept pure.”
Night had fallen and the storm had increased in fury. Rain in sheets on
the breast of the wind, the darkness outside stabbed frequently through
by flashes of lightning.
“The last of our warm weather; the electricity will cool things
off,” Hugh suggested as we walked upstairs that we might all make
preparations for dinner.
The father needed no urging to stay overnight, but said that he
welcomed an opportunity of “taking a good look at such a magic palace
in such a setting.”
We dined much later than usual. There were four of us and Hugh
suggested the library as more cozy than the great hall on such a stormy
night. It must have been nearly eleven o’clock when Elaine excused
herself.
The discourse during dinner turned mainly on Hugh’s work and his effort
to make the salving of ex-criminals institutional through an act of
Parliament.
Father Nealon expressed himself as completely won over to a cause which
had theretofore appeared to him chimerical, if not positively wrong and
a menace to public order. He pledged himself to the cause and it meant
much to Hugh as the district held many Catholics.
Hugh, when we three were alone, prepared a night-cap of old brandy
from the vault. It was, I can testify, smooth, but to me, rather heavy
and as, safe from the howling wind outside, we smoked and sipped the
mild-tasting amber nectar I could feel that Hugh was being drawn into a
discussion of his peculiar faith, or rather lack of it.
The priest had a splendid fund of good-nature and dry wit, but in the
background there seemed to be an earnestness of purpose which doubtless
was inherent or the result of seminary teaching, and I doubted the
wisdom of Hugh’s probable disclosure of the fact that he was anything
but a churchman; it might prejudice the goodly man of the church
against an accepted responsibility.
First, Hugh confessed that since viewing the cathedrals of Europe he
had not been within a church. Then came the assertion that organized
churches and such control as they wielded were essential to good
government as then conducted; then he claimed that of course religious
teachings other than that golden rule of “doing unto others as you
would that others should do unto you” had no bearing as claimed on the
“fate of the soul.”
Father Nealon seemed to chuckle inwardly as he said, “Well, thanks be!
I thought you would be denying a soul to us poor mortals.”
“No, indeed,” Hugh replied, “I do deny, however, that the soul was
breathed into Adam or any other ready-made human as your Bible claims.”
The father leaned far back in the big leather chair, turned roguish
eyes to me and said, “Now, friend Montrose, we shall just sit and
listen while Mr. Craighead tells us how we became the possessors of
souls, for a soul we have, to be saved or damned.”
“Too long a story, father,” Hugh replied, “though I feel that having
committed myself I should give you my views, rather, my convictions;
they certainly do not coincide with yours and I do not ask you to give
them any weight, but you ask for them.”
“Never fear,” the priest replied, “though my faith is founded on a
rock, nevertheless, I want to learn the genealogy of the most precious
of my possessions.”
“Then listen, Mr. Priest,” Hugh began, “listen, not to me, but to your
native, unwarped intelligence, for, freed from mistaken inculcations
you have a splendid brain and a wonderful soul within you. This
intelligence must say that, like the body, the soul is an evolved
product of nature’s laws. Do you suppose that the first vertebrate
biped known as man carried within him such a soul as you possess? How
many changes has the body undergone since its habitat was the water,
the cooling gases sweated out from a cooling planet? Many, you will
grant, and the soul has not undergone any less in number.
“The soul’s origin? In fact it always was, just as everything in the
universe always existed, but everything in the universe, save only
the law eternal, changes. We do not live from within. We inspire life
with every breath. The unmeasurable universe is as an entity, alive
and sending out throughout its entirety, life--millions of different
forms of life have lived and disappeared entirely. Only the fittest
survive and this law holds today and will hold in the ultimate for all
eternity, beyond the grave.”
Father Nealon loudly interjected: “Do you mean to tell me that the soul
is not everlasting? For argument’s sake, but for the sake of argument
only, I’ll grant you that man came up from the fishes; though I don’t
believe a word of it; souls are immortal!”
Hugh smiled, saying, “Your Vulgate teachings will not permit you
to think clearly, I see. Let us reason that out. We may only use
analogy as a guide. Is anything, from planets to that which nature
builds through aggregation on planets, eternal? The soul is as much a
planetary product as the body. The body of man has attained its present
proportions through a process of unfolding. How many promising bodies
involuted and disappeared during the life of our world? We find them in
the rocks. The survival of man’s body is probably due to the presence
therein as a necessary integral of the evolved soul and spirit which
sustains, yes, moulds it. One leans upon the other and helps build the
whole. If the body may involute, why not the soul?”
The father, all attention, exclaimed, “Ah! Now I believe you not only
read profane writings, but you have studied what the New Testament
teaches. Paul distinguishes the soul from both spirit and body, but
just what is the soul and what the spirit?”
“Yes,” Hugh replied, “and the crucified Teacher of the doctrine of
love pointed out the absurdity of the soul’s awakening only after the
bones are gathered together on the last day when He said, according to
Matthew, ‘Fear not them which kill the body but are not able to kill
the soul.’
“I would say that anything possessing intelligence, the ability to
reason, has a soul. Reasoning has built up a carrier, we call it a
mind; whether in one part or in the whole of the body. The reasoning
mind has evolved the soul of man into the purposeful entity of today,
built it up through aggregation just as our planet was assembled. Can
you, Father Nealon, conceive of man’s wonderful soul as possessed by
his progenitors of a lower order--back to the fish?
“Man reasons through the brain and telegraphs sinews, muscles and
organs through the nerves, but many times he acts contrary to the
promptings of an as yet unsubjugated soul, what we recognize as our
subconscious self--an inner man, the spiritual man, in some degree
always subject to the flesh man, his partner in this life only.
“The degree of subjugation of the subconscious, a part of the body of
man, yet perhaps eons of years older, constitutes the measurement of
his evolution or involution.
“Listen to the soundless voice of the inner man and you will not go
far astray. The goal is the acquiring of knowledge, therefore, of an
all-embracing power, though there is no absolute, but we are a long
way back of it, thanks in some measure to untrue religious teachings
throughout the world. We lean too much. ‘Believe in me and ye shall
never die,’ as interpreted by the church is stultifying.
“You, father, teach the worship of the God-man, Jesus, or at least your
teachings are so interpreted while the Christ--Truth--only should we
consider.”
“But the spirit,” the father persisted, and the reply came, “A thorough
and complete body, Mr. Priest, a crystallization of the electrons of an
atom, perhaps, but we shall never know until Eos throws open to us the
gates of dawn and then perhaps we may not have revealed to us many more
of nature’s secrets than we now know. _That_ I would judge will depend
on the progress made in our many journeys from here to the hereafter
and back again.”
Father Nealon sat bolt upright. “Do you, Mr. Craighead, presume to say
that souls come back from heaven or hell to this earth and enter into a
new body? Preposterous! You must have been imbibing of the doctrines of
Mormon or are you a Theosophist?”
Hugh shot back: “Better a book of Mormon or Theosophy than the
deductions from that other book, misinterpreted and spread broadcast
during nearly two thousand years by ignorant satellites of the
higher-ups seeking aggrandizement; poisoning the minds and bodies--the
terms are synonymous--of our children; sowing the seeds of fear so
thoroughly that the child draws it into his being with the mother’s
milk. Fear, the most horrible of diseases, for it affects the mind
and the body and the soul; fear of God, of punishment; fear of father
and mother, teacher, the world, himself--throw away your doctrine of
darkness and fear that the mothers of a thousand years hence may have
no phobia when of their bodies they build a house for the stranger;
once a dweller on earth, seeking as he must another opportunity for
advancement in the science of nature’s manifestations.”
Here, as a vivid flash of lightning brightly illuminating the front of
the room was followed instantaneously by a crack of thunder, we all
stood tense.
Hugh leaned forward with right arm extended and finger pointing at
the father, “Know you, father, not in the spiritual essence of the
universe, not in the natural law, is there jealousy, hate or fear, nor
hypocrisy. You profess belief that the Spirit of Christ walked the
earth, that Abraham and the prophets became visible, yet if I should
say to you that the spirit of the living dead has appeared in this
room--”
At that instant the left panel of the huge French window was flung back
and there came into the room a sheet of water borne on a burst of wind.
The lamps in their brackets sent up each chimney a wisp of smoke and
went out; the chimney-place gave out a fitful flickering light as the
draft brought a dying flame to life. I was drenched to the skin when I
turned from shooting the bolt in the closed window.
An awed, shrill cry, “Hugh! Hugh!” rang in my ears.
I saw two figures standing just out from the wall-panel opening--both
in white--Elaine it certainly was, but the other figure, a man’s
ghostly contour--Hugh stepped clean through the man and I could see
Hugh’s dark clothing as though obscured by a mist as he took his
sister’s form in his arms and without a word disappeared in the
opening in the wall which closed behind them.
The good father stood crossing himself. He made the sign of the cross
half-a-dozen times, a weird figure in the dying light of the open
grate, now that the draft was excluded.
Father Nealon looked at the spot where the specter had stood, looked at
the blank wall where Hugh and the other specter with bronze-gold hair
all about the white shoulders above her robe of white had passed, and
almost shouted: “What is this? Am I crazy--am I blind? What manner of
theatrical chicanery has this crazy man invented?” and he rubbed his
eyes as though he had been asleep and strode over to the fireplace.
“Nothing to cause you any alarm, Reverend,” I said, “that was Hugh’s
sister evidently walking in her sleep--many people do that.”
I put fresh fuel on the fire and removed my wet coat.
Silence for a moment, then the father said, “Mysterious! I did not see
Mr. Hugh go after that voice called his name--where is he? But then I
saw nothing but the other. My friend, what did you make of it?”
“What?” I asked.
“Why! the man who stood beside the girl, the big fellow who looked
unreal. If I ever hope to see a ghost he was here tonight.”
“Miss Elaine was very real; Hugh carried her out through a secret
entrance; nothing of mystery about that; someone left the window
unlatched and the wind forced it open--”
I was interrupted.
“Man, man, didn’t you see something like a man standing to the right
of the girl--and that Craighead should walk right through it--I saw
him or I was dreaming,” and Nealon walked over to the table, held the
brandy bottle between his eyes and the fire, saying, “Only a thimbleful
gone; not enough to liven a sparrow and yet I believe by my soul I have
imagined everything since the venison was served.”
He poured out a brimming glass; it was a wine-glass, fortunately, and
drank it off, without a moment’s hesitation.
“Shall we seek sleep that our heads may be clear on the morrow, Mr.
Montrose? We can make our apologies in the morning. Probably our host
will feel relieved at our taking this liberty.”
I readily acquiesced, banked the fire as the wind was even higher than
when the window blew open and the draft was strong, walked upstairs
with our friend and bade him good night and pleasant dreams, at his
door.
Far into the small hours of the morning, in his room adjoining mine,
I could hear him pacing the floor. My estimate of this man was
unchanged--one of the finest, most manly of men. A good teacher, a
well-beloved pastor of a devoted flock. I wished him for a friend and
must say that though years have passed, time has only the more closely
cemented a mutual respect and liking begun on this first of his many
visits to Craighead Hall. And he kept faith with Hugh.
Sleep and I were strangers until dawn. I thought of all the tragic
things which might have ensued since Elaine’s startling visit to the
library, yet I dared not disturb the quiet of the household.
I prayed--yes, I asked the Almighty to spare her--and in the midst
of my silent prayer thought of Hugh’s contempt for religious
convictions--but I was only asking aid. The tramp-tramp next door
became monotonous. The priest was badly shaken.
Day must have dawned--a little rivulet came creeping out upon the
polished floor, the leaded windows were letting in the driving
equinoxial rain. Slowly, so slowly it crept out and out as I watched.
Noon was not far off when I awoke.
Rain was still falling, but the wind had moderated. As I stood on the
veranda sheltered from both rain and wind, the latter having veered to
the north, bringing a most disagreeable chill to the atmosphere, I saw
the farm carryall, a three-seated vehicle with springs, driven up to
the front door. The curtains parted and there alighted two cloaked and
hooded women and a man carrying a small black bag, whom I correctly
guessed was a doctor. She must be ill indeed for Hugh to have other
women about the Hall--and a doctor.
I found Hugh pacing the upper hall a half-hour later.
“High fever, unconscious since a few moments after I carried her to her
room,” Hugh said in answer to my unspoken question, then added, “The
doctor and nurses are with her.”
“What was the cause?” I inanely asked.
“A dream,” Hugh replied. “One of those terrible visitations--said
Alix must have died as she had seen her on a boat with water all
about; you know, Gordon, how unnatural she becomes during one of those
visitations. Well, this was the strangest condition of mind I have ever
witnessed in her. Seemed as though she was absolutely asleep downstairs
and when I laid her on her bed and drew the blanket over her she was
cold and still.
“I tell you, man, I was alarmed until I saw her eyelids quiver--then
she said, ‘Alix is dead; I saw her on a boat; water all about,’ then
became unconscious but her breathing deceived me into thinking she was
as usual after a visitation, merely sleeping and I think I slept while
watching her.
“This morning at daybreak, her flushed face and pulse spelled fever; I
sent for a doctor and day and night nurses. This may be serious.
“I believe that in some way her spirit crossed over to Scotland, was
out of her body for a time, though I have never heard of such a thing--”
The doctor approached, coming from the corridor leading to Elaine’s
room.
“Mr. Montrose, Dr. Parsons,” Hugh introduced us.
The medical man of middle age carrying a stethoscope in his left hand
extended to me his right, saying more to Hugh than to me, “Organically
perfect; the cerebro-spinal axis appears to be the seat of the trouble;
I find no indication of infection. Can you send blood samples to my
laboratory assistant?”
Hugh said, “Certainly, at once,” and I insisted upon being the
messenger; said it would ease my mind, and the doctor interposed, while
looking me over critically, “Let him go, Mr. Craighead. The analyst
may say something which he would not write in his report, besides your
friend needs a few hours in which to pick himself up. Where do I camp?
I shall stay here tonight,” the doctor added.
Hugh turned to me. “Will you show him to the room adjoining yours?”
“The priest?” I queried.
“Oh, Father Nealon went in the carryall this morning; I shall send his
horse as soon as weather permits,” Hugh replied.
I was pulling on a raincoat when the doctor unceremoniously opened
my door and without any preliminary, said, “Young man, there is
something peculiar about this young person’s case. Has she had some
great shock--exhaustion of nerves; unaccountably high fever with no
history--the mariner cannot navigate without his chart--out with it--I
can see it in your eyes.”
Should I let another, a stranger from the world outside into the
close-guarded, secret affliction? I weighed the matter a moment, then
said, “Doctor, the young lady is evidently a sleep-walker; she came
into the library last night, sound asleep.”
“Yes, yes,” he replied, “but there is something back of that; I’ll
have to quiz Craighead. Now off with you and get back pronto,” and he
whisked out of my room.
Every mile of the way recalled that recent joyous ride of but a few
days ago; but the rain continued to beat upon the supposedly waterproof
covering of the wagon.
I sat with the driver and scarcely a word was spoken. Wet through, I
hastened to Dr. Parsons’ office and handed the small box entrusted
to my care to a thin-faced, spectacled young man. I fully expected a
shock. It seemed to me that I was carrying the life-blood of her whom
I worshipped. There was only a small piece of lint--I did not even see
the blood smear on it.
“Hurry with this,” I said to the analyst who, in reply, merely looked
me over through his spectacles, turned on his heel and passed into an
inner room.
Two hours later, stiff and annoyed, I got painfully to my feet as the
man came into the cold, comfortless office and handed me a sealed
letter directed to Dr. A. W. Parsons.
“What did you find?” I queried. “All in there,” the man returned,
pointing to the letter, adding as he turned about, “Good day.”
The wagonette awaiting me under the hotel shed set off homeward at
once. About three miles out the road passed through a cedar swamp.
I remember noting the drooping, forlorn appearance of the trees as
I peered out between the curtains. Their bleak outline took on many
fantastic shapes, all gloomy. A sharp pain shot through under my left
shoulder blade and I remembered nothing more until a week later when
I opened my eyes to find a pleasant-faced young woman standing beside
my bed, a bottle in one hand and a spoon in the other. I tried to sit
up, but while I willed to do so, my body did not move; nor could I
recognize my feeble voice as my own when I essayed to speak.
The nurse put her finger on her lips and said, “Quiet; not a word;
do not try to move;” then, turning toward a couch out of my line of
vision, “Doctor.”
I could hear a grunt as though of somebody just awakened.
“Doctor, the brandy did it; he is conscious,” and next moment the
doctor, Parsons, had fingers on my wrist and stood over me looking at
his watch.
I tried to ask, but “Elaine” was all that I could whisper. The doctor’s
heavy black eyebrows seemed to meet, notwithstanding the great gulf I
thought had once separated them as he looked fiercely at me and said,
“Young man, if I hear a peep out of you again for twenty-four hours,
I’ll take away this good-looking young lady and leave you to Fong Wing
with his devil papers and punk sticks.
“Estelle,” he added, addressing the nurse, “did you smell that devilish
heathen’s incense? I threw the whole mess, god and all, out the window.”
The nurse leaned over near me and said, “Miss Elaine is well out of
danger but you have had a serious week--pneumonia--but the fever has
broken; you will be able to convalesce together. Now take this and go
to sleep.”
Hugh was in next day. The doctor seemed to blame me for keeping him
prisoner at the Hall. Strength to get out of bed had not returned.
I kept no account of the passing of time. Sleep--I seemed to sleep
always, but one memorable day, I started wide awake to find _her_
sitting on the outer edge of my bed.
I spoke her name. She was so fragile, so pale, the great mass of gold
coiled about her white brow accentuated the size and luster of her
glorious eyes. If there was ever a face that showed a soul in agony, I
was gazing into it.
She laid her little white hand on mine and whispered rather than spoke,
“Oh, Gordon, I’m so glad you are going to be well soon,” and when I
tried to say what was in my heart--just “I love you,” the words would
not come.
She placed the palm of her hand on my lips and held it there a moment
and then I sensed rather than heard others come into the room. There
was a glad cry, a woman’s voice, an answering hysterical, “Alix! Alix!”
the semblance of a struggle and the other woman calling frantically,
“Hugh, Hugh, James!” laid Elaine in a dead faint across the foot of my
bed.
I sat up and looked first at Elaine, then at the frantic woman almost
lying upon her, with both hands holding tight Elaine’s white face.
Hugh followed by a stranger ran into the room. Hugh looked just an
instant, then pulled Alix aside, but it was the Chinaman who appeared
from nowhere with a glass of water, a portion of which he dashed into
Elaine’s face. I had made such headway toward recovery that the nurse
had gone downstairs.
The others gone, the stranger lingered, pulled a chair to my bedside
and introduced himself quietly as though nothing had happened.
“James McFarlane,” he said. “We came over the river a few minutes ago
and walked in on Hugh at lunch. My wifie couldn’t wait; the girl was
daft to see her little sister; she made a mess of it, but--” he added,
“it’s a natural emotion.”
“I hope it will not give her a setback,” I replied.
“Never fear; joy does not kill,” he answered, then, taking a good look
at me, said, “Mon, ye look peaked. When ye are weal enow I want a talk
wi’ ye about Hugh and his affairs. The lad needs a friend.”
I assured him that I was fit, but he said the morrow or next day would
do, carefully adjusted the covering on my bed, put the chairs back in
place and as the nurse came in said, “I shall resign now that ye hae
better company,” bowing toward tyrannical Estelle who doped me with
eggnog, fixed my pillows so that I could sit up and then at my request,
sought out the other invalid and brought me the reassuring message
that Miss Elaine was none the worse for her experience and was busy in
converse with her sister.
[Illustration]