Transcriber’s Notes
Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Variations
in hyphenation have been standardised but all other spelling and
punctuation remains unchanged.
THE FULFILMENT
_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_
JEWEL SOWERS. 6s.
=The Week’s Survey.=—“An original and intensely interesting
novel. We should welcome anything further from the pen of this
anonymous writer, who has produced a book that anyone might be proud to
sign.”
=The Onlooker.=—“The author hides her—is it her?—identity
under anonymity, but has no reason to fear criticism. Though called
‘a novel’, it is a clever parable, and deals with the evil of selfishness
and the blessings resulting from work for work’s sake.”
=Manchester Guardian.=—“‘The Jewel Sowers’ is wholly fantastic
in its incidents, but its characters are those of our society, and
with all the machinery of a fairy tale the book still belongs to the
realms of daily fiction. Appropriately enough the scene is laid in
another world, one in which everything is said to be the opposite of
the life of this planet. But this is a mere warning that the tale is
fantastic; men and women in Lucifram, as the new world is called, are
even too much like those on this, and if their powers are strangely
superior, their motives are entirely familiar. The book, in fact, is
an experiment in fantasy, and none the less pleasant on that account.
It is neither an allegory, as are other tales similarly constructed,
nor yet a satire, though there are elements of both interwoven with the
adventures and the incidents. The anonymous authoress has demanded a
wider sphere for the evolution of her characters, and no one who feels
the charms of her pleasantly-depicted heroine will grudge the novel
atmosphere in which she is forced to suffer and to act. The book is
lightly written, bright and entertaining, and almost every character
introduced is neatly characterised. Perhaps the best of them is the
fairy frog, whose cheerful temper is the result of martyrdom, and who
should earn a place among the favourite heroes of the fairy world.”
MARIGOLD. 6s.
=The Court Journal.=—“The author has so tender and graceful a
touch, so keen an insight into human nature and human impulses, and so
marked a power of vivid description, that he must almost certainly one
day write a book of great beauty and power.”
=Manchester Courier.=—“The author of ‘Jewel Sowers’ has written
another allegorical romance entitled ‘Marigold,’ depicting the loves,
hatreds and jealousies of spirit beings in a fantastic world. The book
is curious and unconventional, and is altogether as much removed from
the average ‘potboiler,’ both in aim and treatment, as anything could
well be. The author gives evidence of considerable talent, and further
contributions from his or her pen are to be awaited with interest.”
=Scotsman.=—“Light, agreeable, and animated always by a lively
play of graceful feeling, the story should not fail to entertain anyone
who takes it up.”
[Illustration: Sketch of head of woman]
THE
FULFILMENT
BY
EDITH ALLONBY
AUTHOR OF
“JEWEL SOWERS” AND “MARIGOLD”
LONDON
GREENING & CO. LTD.
1905
[_All Rights Reserved_]
_First Published, Dec. 1st, 1905_
CONTENTS
PART I
PAGE
EARTH 1
PART II
HELL 135
PART III
HEAVEN 267
INTRODUCTION
The book for which its author gave her life is now given to the world
with profound pity and regret. Pity for a bright young life so suddenly
hurried into Eternity, and regret that the circumstances of her tragic
death have made it necessary that her work should be published in an
incomplete and unrevised state. Had Miss Edith Allonby lived there
is no doubt that the story would have been considerably altered and
improved before being put into print. Much that is now vague in meaning
would have been explained, much that is now retained would have been
deleted. The explicit terms of her last letters make the task of
bringing out _The Fulfilment_ a hard and anxious one for her
executors, her relatives and her publishers. She wished the book to be
published word for word as she wrote it, as can be seen from her last
letter to her publisher, quoted below. Her last letter to her relatives
was much to the same effect. It will show the responsibility which had
to be faced.
“I have received your letter and the enclosed criticism. Thank you
for both. I have read the criticism through but it has not altered
me in my decision. He has said what I know will be the general
opinion of the world. Most of the views I had expressed in the
beginning part of _Marigold_, and you will remember how those
were received—as ‘uncouth attempts at satire,’ ‘silly remarks,’ ‘a
farrago of nonsense,’ ‘a silly and pretentious book.’
“I have told you I do not mind criticism, neither do I. But it hurts
me to the very soul that people should so misunderstand that which
is true. God knows with what purity of intention I wrote the first
chapters of _Marigold_—never meaning to give offence, but how in
this world can it be avoided?
“I have read the criticism, and I could answer it word for word, or
any criticism that might follow it from any source, but that is not
allowed, and not to be. When I first wrote _The Fulfilment_ I
longed to see it published, that I might fight the battle for it
with my pen. It would have been like coming down into the arena to
fight and breathe and conquer. But as the time went by, after it was
returned to me, I began to realise slowly what a terrible book I had
written, as well as beautiful and true, and it seemed as if it called
for all I had to give as an expiation before it could go free. I put
it away—the book and the thought. But I began to write ever on the
same theme—the revelation Heaven had given me. You know how it has
prospered. And then on Whitsunday the voice awoke me that I must bring
my greatest treasure forward once again, for though I have let it
lie patiently these four years, hoping to make an opening for it, it
has ever been in my heart and brain. And again I felt the pleasing
prospects of the battle. I knew what strength I had, and always have
had, did I care to use it, to answer those who disagreed with what I
wrote. And in the cause of such a book I felt that everything would be
allowable. But there has come the Season out of Silence to be silent.
We cannot bandy words about religious things. I cannot anyway. I feel
it all so much I cannot talk about it. For all I write about I love
and fear. God knows I have not been familiar, I have only loved simply
both God and man.
“But there is only one way of showing it, and that by dying simply.
When I am once out of the way the big stumbling-block has been
removed. People can no longer think I have written with a fanciful
irreverence when I have had before me, all the time, nothing but
Death; for I believe, looking back, it was there with the very first
page.
“And so (for when this reaches you I shall be dead—only to this
world) I leave it as my dying request that you publish, exactly as I
have sent it to you, _The Fulfilment_. You must ask the gentleman
to return it, and tell him my decision. And at the same time I do not
wish you or him or anyone to think that his criticism has had anything
to do with my death. For I do not wish you or anyone to view me as a
common suicide—overcome by this or that, or bowed down by the thought
of failure or disappointment. I have simply died to make room for a
great truth. And I have died trusting humbly in God.
“And so you cannot deny me that which I decide. To you it must become
an impersonal affair. You must publish it because it is a dying
command, and publish it word for word as I have left it. And now no
one can take offence—neither the company whose impress the book
bears, nor anyone connected with it.
“And of the religionists I only ask that they will have the same
toleration for me that I have ever had for them. I mean those who are
sincere and simple among them, of any denomination. For I am sincere
and simple too.
“And now I must say ‘Good-bye.’ I feel very sad about it, for I have
written so many letters to you, and told you so many things that it is
parting with a friend. And you will say a good word for me if you get
the chance. And if they say I’m mad, tell them from me it’s a madness
that will spread—not the _suicide_ but the _belief_. But
indeed it is no madness.
“And for your friend, tell him this from me—I wasn’t writing of
‘Paradise _Lost_’ but of ‘Heaven _Gained_,’ and that if I
remember my Milton correctly, they didn’t _aspire_ to tea-tables
in the Garden, but simply ate it picnic fashion, so that Heaven with
its tables goes one better still. And tell him that if he will only
read the book through once again, I think he’ll find there is a
simple, homely charm even in Jesus Christ, for it’s like everything
else. You’ve got to get used to it. And when I go to Heaven I’d rather
meet simple people who had power than great big kings who talked of
it and sometimes found it wasn’t there. And give him my love and
tell him there was no one more disgusted with those sties than I was
at the time. And that the young man was so terribly _real_ he
nearly broke my heart, and the College—well, perhaps that _was_
a nightmare, but they’re realer than anything else. And tell him it
was all _me_. And ask him not to be too particular over grammar,
or meanings or muddles. They were invented to make men human—that
is, unsuperior. I never heard of such a thing as Goethe explaining
his meaning all before. That’s _quite_ an old fashion. You give
people nothing to think about, and cast quite a slur upon their
reputation for brains.
“And you see in my capacity as teacher I would _force_ people to
think if I could, whether they would or no.
“I am afraid I am very loath to stop, it will be such a long
silence—but silence speaks, you know, and I shall speak, or rather
my Heavenly Father. And now I say, not from politeness, but from
the bottom of my heart, I hope some day we shall meet again—not in
stuffy London, or anywhere upon this earth, but, why not? at one of
the tea-tables of Heaven. And I wish it very much indeed—and it all
depends on you—whether you will follow in the simple way that God
directs.
“With kind regards, and the love that all Heaven’s children may bear
with one another.”
Both Miss Allonby’s previous books, _Jewel Sowers_ and _Marigold_, were
subjected to revision before they appeared, and her publisher fully
expected that she would consent to the same necessary revisions in the
case of _The Fulfilment_. There was no question as to the book being
published. It was mutually understood that _The Fulfilment_ should be
issued on her birthday, December 1st. She desired that the passages to
be deleted should be indicated. Her wish was complied with, and her
publishers were daily awaiting a letter giving consent to the revision,
which was to be made and submitted for approval, when the news of her
death came as a terrible shock. It is here unnecessary to refer to the
sympathetic attention the tragedy attracted from the press and the
public.
The question then arose as to the possibility of publishing the book
for which Miss Allonby died so unnecessarily. Her relatives and her
publishers were in constant and personal communication. Could her last
wish be fulfilled? Curiously enough she expressed the desire in her
will that none of her relatives should see or read the book until it
was printed and published. Her publishers’ responsibility was therefore
a serious one. The feelings and the wishes of the living and Miss
Allonby’s reputation had to be considered. Certain pages of her book
contained references to holy things and persons turned in such a way
that they seemed flippant, irreverent, even ridiculous, and they were
undoubtedly not literature in any sense. No possible good could come
of giving such pages to the world. They appear to convey no message,
though no doubt the author could have supplied a key. They seem to be
meaningless flippancy. Now no one had more sincere respect for Miss
Allonby than her publishers. They were on the most friendly terms.
Therefore, while they would have liked to carry out her last wish to
the letter, they felt that in justice to her memory the book could not
appear in the exact condition in which she left it. In this predicament
a request was put to a well-known and prominent London minister, of
broad views and large sympathies—on whose judgment the publishers felt
the utmost reliance could be placed—that he should see the troublesome
passages and give his opinion as to the advisability of publishing
them. He courteously consented and very kindly gave considerable time
and thought to the matter. His earnest opinion was that the book should
not be published at all, or, if published, that all the emendations
suggested by the publishers should be carried out. For good reasons
the minister who thus criticised the book desires that his name shall
not be made known, but the public can rest assured that he is a
gentleman in whom all denominations would have confidence, and whose
judgment all would respect. This opinion was conveyed to Miss Allonby’s
relatives and executors, who, after careful consideration, decided to
publish _The Fulfilment_ with the emendations the publishers considered
necessary. To quote from a letter from the executors: “We think we
should do our utmost to carry out Edith’s wishes, but they should be
the _real_ wishes. Her _real_ wish was that the message contained in
her book should reach as many as possible. To publish it in its present
form, though it would comply with the _letter_ of her request, would be
to defeat its object.... The guiding principle should be to publish it
in such a form as would be most likely to realise her wish of giving
the message to the largest number possible.” Under these conditions
the publishers carefully and sympathetically prepared _The Fulfilment_
for press, and it is now published with some of the emendations
originally suggested. Only such pages or passages as the publishers
considered Miss Allonby herself would, at a more normal time, have
deleted have been taken out. The book has not been subjected to any
revision, except of the most obviously necessary kind—literals, etc.
There are no alterations. All the Editor has done has been to carefully
eliminate those passages most likely to give pain and offence both to
the relatives and the religious public. Wherever an omission occurs
it is indicated by a hiatus, and also a statement to that effect. All
those who knew, loved and respected Miss Edith Allonby will understand
the publishers’ attitude regarding the emendations. They have been firm
in not yielding to the morbid wish of numerous correspondents who have
pleaded for the book being issued as the author left it. They have
preferred to respect the feelings of the living and honour the memory
of the dead.
It will be of interest to quote a few extracts from Miss Allonby’s
correspondence relating to _The Fulfilment_, as showing her
own attitude towards her work. She first approached her publishers
respecting _The Fulfilment_ on June 17th 1905, when in the course
of a long letter she said:—
“_June 17th._
“Will you please give me all your attention, without thinking
of anything else whilst you read. I have been _thinking_,
five minutes in church last Sunday morning, and since then I have
deliberated. You see I have been brought up to teach—in an age when
great things are expected of teachers—patience, lucidity, sympathy,
and I don’t know what. One’s classes are never blamed for stupidity,
carelessness or inattention—only the teacher. That has its dangers
for the pupils, certainly, but it does not excuse the teacher from
doing the utmost best.... Now I have a book which is as easy to read
as A B C (for those who will attend). It has no allegories in it, no
myths—nothing but Truth. And I am very proud of it, for it was given
me by God right away down at the bottom of the Valley of Despair and
Humiliation. I have been wandering about down there, it is true, ever
since, but that proves all the more that it is direct from God, for
otherwise it isn’t the air in which an ordinary person could live at
all. I am not to blame either for keeping it all this time (I wrote
it in the spring and summer of 1901), for I _did_ send it to
some publisher or other one Friday night and it was back by Tuesday
morning—and it was too good for that. Too good to be tossed about
from one place to the other like any tramp or fawning beggar asking to
be taken in.... I am very serious, I am sending to you something that
I was going to say is more precious to me than life—I only pray God
grant that it may be.”
The manuscript was duly read and reported on, and, subject to some
necessary alterations and omissions being made, it was accepted
for publication and a promise given that it should be published on
the first of December. The suggested revision was the subject of
considerable correspondence. The following few lines are taken from a
letter dated August 13th 1905:—
“_August 13th._
“The first part of the book is true—man can witness that—and for the
remainder God is witness. I have not written it for money, I have not
written it to please, but only to instruct and lighten those few who
care to understand, and they may be few now, but some day they will be
many.... Of course I am a bit frightened of the world, but, believe
me, I am a great deal more frightened of God. _Real_ fear. That
is what makes me write common sense about Heaven instead of twaddle,
and as for people being so sensitive about Jesus Christ—they don’t
feel all that much, or the world would be a vastly different place....
When I wrote _Marigold_ you wanted to send a copy to all the
religious papers, but I should like _that_ for _this_
instead, for it is the essence of real, true religion.”
Miss Allonby’s own opinions as to the seeming irreverence of certain
portions of her work were both firm and strong. She knew her own
interpretation of such passages. She alone, in her own mind, held the
key which would make plain all hidden meanings. She, firm in her own
purity and reverence for her Maker, seemed quite unable to realise that
others, nine hundred and ninety-nine out of a thousand, would without
hesitation condemn much that she had written as rank blasphemy, even as
silly, flippant irreverence. Writing on August 20th, she said:—
“_August 20th._
“Speaking for myself, I do not care one iota about the opinion of the
press, _religious or otherwise_. All I care about is telling
what I have to tell as plainly and as simply as is possible. I am
perfectly well able to stand the risk of being thought irreverent, for
only those who have never understood the meaning of true reverence can
accuse me of it. You see I _believe_ what I have written. I more
than believe it. I have felt, and so I know. And that makes all the
difference.... Well, it all came to me one long night in the middle
of blinding darkness which seemed to send the world topsy-turvy and
then set it right again.... If I offend, I offend, but I will offend
men rather than God, for it is all quite true in to-day’s Lesson—‘The
foolishness of God is wiser than men, and the weakness of God is
stronger than men.’... Never mind readers, or traditions, or any of
those kind of things, for it is time we stepped right out of them. It
is silly going the roundabout dangerous way to heaven when God shows
a nearer and comparatively easy way.... I don’t think I have anything
else to say. I am glad you liked _Deborah_ from quite personal
reasons—and I hope you don’t want to cross out the bit about the
sties, because I daresay there are many other little women treading
over the Dark Path who have some such minor disfigurements, or even
greater ones. And as for what became of her. My dear sir! can’t you
_see_—according to the book she went to heaven—isn’t that the
ending? and a very nice ending too. Indeed, what could be nicer, for an
earthly altar isn’t in it. It has so much heathen self-sacrifice about
it.”
It will be seen from the above extract that the deleting of certain
passages was an understood thing, for she hopes that the publisher will
not need “to cross out the bit about the sties.”
It would seem impossible to imagine a more bright, gentle and lovable
nature than Miss Allonby’s, nor one less likely to give way to a
suicidal impulse. She was always of a happy disposition. All who knew
her loved her for her pleasant manner, her refinement, her good temper
and kindly sympathy. However, it may be recorded that she never enjoyed
very good health, being always frail and delicate.
Miss Allonby was born at Bankside Farm, Cark-in-Cartmel, North
Lancashire, on December 1st 1875. Her mother died when she was only
four years of age, and when she was thirteen she lost her father. She
felt his death very keenly, and it made a lasting impression upon her.
When she was seven the family moved to Liverpool, and she was educated
at St Saviour’s, Everton, at Grove Street College for Girls, and
finally at Whitelands College, Chelsea. On leaving college she became
mistress of the school at Bishopsbourne, Kent, where she remained for
three years. Then she took charge of the school at Bishop’s Fonthill,
Salisbury, and afterwards went to Lancaster as head of St Anne’s
School, and was there till her untimely and tragic death, a period of
four years and a half. When she took charge of the Lancaster School
it had a none too enviable reputation either as regards behaviour nor
education. By sheer strength of will, by the power of loving-kindness,
she made a wonderful change in two years. The children worshipped her,
became well-behaved, obedient and attentive to their lessons. The
school again earned its grants and gained good reports. One of the
Inspectors in a report said that her influence had brought the school
“from Darkness into Light.”
PREFATORY
The following words were prefixed to the MS. by the authoress:—
DEDICATED
TO
GOD
With all the reverence and fear
of which the human heart is capable.
* * * * *
As to the interpretation of the allegorical persons and incidents
which figure mainly in the second and third parts of the book,
we may remember Mr Augustine Birrell’s excellent phrases on
Browning:—“Lucidity is not simplicity. A lucid poem is not necessarily
an easy one. A great poet may tax our brain, but he ought not to puzzle
our wits. We may often have to ask in humility, What _does_ he
mean? but not in despair, What _can_ he mean?” This holds good of
writers in prose as well as in verse: and Miss Allonby’s full meaning
is scarce likely to be revealed on a first perusal.
PART I.
EARTH
THE FULFILMENT
CHAPTER I
Cold, cold, unutterably cold and silent. The woods were still, the
frosty air so still that not a leaf stirred. The moon shone white and
glorious; scarcely one shimmering cloud marred its strength; and the
stars tingled and gleamed and danced. White hung a silver robe of
sparsest snow over all the land, like a net of interwoven diamonds.
Away up north ran the Cumbrian Mountains, standing like giants against
the blue-black sky. There rose Helvellyn with its mighty hump, like a
headless criminal burdened high with woe: there the “Old Man”—he who
looks o’er Coniston—his beard and head quite white and blazoned by the
moon. Then stretching away from these, down to the coast and southward,
the barren Peat Moss—nothing but marsh and bush and scanty tree—and
bordering this on the land-side a range of hills, alternate wood or
grass, terminating in Ellerside and How-barrow.
There is a glorious view from these two hilly peaks: the one a barren
rock-strewn height, bare and uncompromising, the other, in its very
name, breathing its loveliness. “Ellerside Breast”—sweetest and purest
name—most beautiful of visions.
The rugged mountains, the lonely Mosses, grand in their desolation,
the wide expanse of woodland, the gentle fields, the green park with
its herd of deer and well-planned trees, the glorious sea and bay,
untarnished yet by aught but lonely cottages and farms along its
shores, the large Hall with its towers and stately cupolas, all make
the country round a dream of loveliness. But on this December night,
in its calm and purity, it has grown to grandeur. The heavy woods with
their black shadows look weird, their stillness frightens. No twitter
of bird or hum of insect, till suddenly the shrill tu-hoot of an owl
breaks forth and is repeated.
And suddenly, as if by the magic of it, you and I are transported to
that wooded Breast. We see a narrow path leading through the trees up
to a simple wooden seat, a narrower, more rugged one leading down from
it, a short, rocky space in front, and then a sheer declivity down
through the steep wood to the borders of the park. The quiet little
hamlet, never noisy, is now still with the silence of sleep. Nothing
but the owl cries out the reign of night.
And now having come with me thus far—stay—and cavil not, if
for a little time instead of flesh and blood I give you Spirits;
Spirits who in their intensity, their grandeur, and even in their
_littleness_, do far outvie our flesh-imprisoned selves.
There are two, and at first glance there is a similarity about them so
striking that you are compelled to look again.
One was a little above medium height. Every limb was sinewy, with a
lithe suppleness and gracefulness which glossed over the real strength
beneath. He stood out dark in bold relief against the moonshine—like
serpentine coiling smoke of clearest blackness. A face magnificent in
profile—though framed on delicate lines—and eyes deep, hard, dark,
far-seeing, far-reaching, unfathomable and cold. The other, at first
sight, bore a marked resemblance. But there were strong differences,
which showed themselves more strongly at every after-glance. He was
of about the same height, with the same perfect cast of features, and
there the likeness ended. White and pure and cold, he too was vividly
distinct, with a simple strength and purpose, and the grace, if grace
it can be called, born of these. In his eyes there shone simplicity
and pureness, and something stern too. He was standing on the extreme
rocky point of the peaked woodland, scanning the horizon, land, and
sea, and sky, and ever and anon his eyes travelled to one of the
millions of bright stars shining overhead. To this star the eyes of his
companion also wandered in contemplation. He sat upon the rustic seat,
bending his arm gracefully over the back and leaning there, his head
upon his hand. His left hand hung motionless by his side, and on its
middle finger shone a ring. A glorious belt of blood-red stones with
a brilliant one of remarkable beauty in the centre. It was the only
relief from darkness round about him, and though but a small thing, it
gleamed with magical effect.
Another “tu-hoot.” A slight wind rustled and parted the leaves, and
there between the two in the open space another figure stood, a spirit
of animation, beauty, strength and vigour. Slightly taller than the
other two, he moved with easy step and sat down by the opposite arm
of the seat. Then he looked up and revealed a face on which sat some
discontent and perhaps annoyance.
“Thank God to get away for a time,” said he.
“Contact with mortals makes you unmindful of manners.” The dark spirit
had spoken, gazing at him, laughingly.
“Yes, Plucritus. One cannot stay in an old farm-house for several hours
in the society of an over-fed midwife and not get slightly tarnished.”
“But what are you doing there?” said he who answered to the name of
Plucritus. “Over-fed midwives? What shocking bad taste.”
“Well, so it may be. But there I’ve been and there I’ll have to stay.”
“But why?”
“Destiny, I suppose—or perhaps ill-luck.”
“A girl or a boy?”
“A girl—worse luck still.” And he said it with such contempt that the
other’s laugh was perhaps excusable.
“You’re in for it and no mistake. If I am any judge you won’t get on
very well.” And the spirit Virginius alone saw the steady, penetrating,
sidelong glance that accompanied Plucritus’s idle words.
“No,” rejoined Genius.
“It’s ridiculous. You have made a mistake.”
“I never make mistakes,” replied the other, drily.
The blood-red ring gleamed scarlet.
“Never? Did you say never?”
“Yes. What a beastly night. That moon looks as sickly as the baby.”
“It is a glorious night.” Virginius spoke for the first time.
“You there, Virginius? I had not seen you.”
“Yes, Genius, I am here,” he answered slowly, but his face was turned
toward the mountains.
“Virginius is always there,” continued the dark spirit. “But tell us
how you come to be here. I saw the star, but scarcely reckoned it was
yours.”
“Well, the story is long and uninteresting. But to be brief and enclose
much in a nutshell, I have come to remove a curse.”
“Pooh! An impossibility. Bah! An idle dream.”
“That is exactly my own opinion. I am no good at removing curses.
Besides, the family is particularly unlucky.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes. It has a descent, I am told, from the coming of the first
Pretender, and is part Scotch, part Irish, and part English.”
“And in what does its ill-luck consist?” Plucritus had changed his
position. He was leaning forward, apparently examining and playing with
his ring.
“A few uninteresting sins, I believe. Debts contracted by ancestors
descended upon children. You know it, the Catechism explains it.”
“Heigh! Virginius! what is it?” And Plucritus threw back his head,
laughing indolently. But as he received no answer he quoted it
himself:—
“‘For I the Lord thy God am a jealous God, and visit the sins of the
fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation of them
that hate Me, and shew mercy unto thousands in them that love Me and
keep My commandments.’”
“What profanity!” said Genius, idly. “Do you know, Plucritus, I have
been often struck by your astounding knowledge of Scripture?”
And Plucritus, looking up, met the eyes of Virginius. It was but the
glance of an instant, but even the moonshine paled beneath the gleam of
steel against steel, flash for flash, quivering in the frosty light.
“I have to keep myself in touch with mankind,” he answered lightly.
“And that latter half of the second Commandment has always appealed to
me. But continue your story. I am interested. Tell me of this ill-luck.”
“There is really nothing to tell. The usual debts, you know, contracted
by those who willingly lend themselves to the devil. Gambling,
drinking, adultery, self-indulgence, self-centring. All these things,
when practised by successive generations, bring their accompaniments of
mental or physical weakness, sometimes both.”
“And in all cases moral decay,” remarked Plucritus, thoughtfully.
“In all cases,” said Genius.
“And so what you call ill-luck is simply just punishment,” Plucritus
continued.
“Maybe,” said Genius, carelessly, “maybe not. I do not concern myself
much about it. I am neither philosopher nor philanthropist, and I can
assure you I take this task upon me grudgingly. I have no wish to
become guardian angel to little girls.”
“You need not fear that. Virginius belongs to the jealous God, and will
look after his position jealously. Besides, after a time, you will
learn to like her.” And again he gave the sidelong, piercing glance.
“Not I. Before I arrived some malign fairy godmother had stepped in and
bestowed a bundle of infirmities; I suppose from other years.” Here
Plucritus laughed right out, and his laugh was very clear and low.
“Alas! poor Genius! you have been forestalled. A man afflicted that
way is bitter enough and bad enough—but a woman!”
“Yes. It has put me out considerably. For of all things I love the
beauty of proportion. And I am not able to find out who has done it.”
“Virginius,” said Plucritus, gaily, “it is to be the scourge and rod
wherewith He chasteneth. Now, had I arrived there first I should have
gifted her with rarest beauty—as a snare, you know.”
“Well, I am going now,” Plucritus went on. “The removal of a paltry
curse is but a paltry affair, scarcely worthy of my notice. But for all
that, before I go I will lay you a wager, Genius, that you will not be
able to perform your task.”
“And what is the bet?”
“Why, it will grow with time. At present it is nondescript and vague.
Say that ring upon your finger. But to show you that I bear no ill-will
let us shake hands for old comradeship.”
And so these two clasped hands and parted, and Virginius and Genius
were left alone.
Then Genius removed from the middle finger of his left hand a ring, and
held it in the moonlight.
It was a perfect round of opals, designed on exactly the same plan as
that worn by Plucritus, with a wonderful stone in the centre.
“Look at this ring,” he said thoughtfully. “Every tint of the rainbow
is blended in it, and sparkles at every turn, and yet running round
from stone to stone, and centring in the largest like one pure drop,
there is to-night a streak of blood, a streak of red, I should say, and
that means pain. Now I know the meaning of that. It means failure and
disappointment—two things that I detest more than any other.”
Virginius then likewise removed from the middle finger of his left hand
a ring of similar construction, but of diamonds, pure and flashing
bright.
“Look at this ring,” he said. “Every flash of dazzling light is
imprisoned in it. To-night it has shone with marvellous brilliancy.
Look at this centre stone; it is glorious. This means success.”
“To you, perhaps. But your reckoning of success is somewhat strange”;
and Genius looked at the dazzling purity with interest, for it was
marvellously bright. Presently he added: “And yet had we compared rings
with Plucritus I doubt not that he would have been able to express an
opinion too. I noticed the scarlet bloodstones were expressly bright
to-night.”
“Even so,” replied the other spirit.