Then as the months passed by everything settled down into a more or
less level state.
But in Deborah’s life two great gaps had been made—one the place left
empty by her father, the other the place left empty by God.
Both had completely disappeared together, and she had no more power to
recall the one than the other.
Not that any difference showed itself on the outside. She was still the
same quiet, unobtrusive, uninteresting child, with the same bundle of
infirmities and the same nervous dread of people and of things, which
latter infirmity, however, only appeared now and then.
“It’s no good,” she would say at times after trying hard to pray.
“I can’t do it. I haven’t the same interest in praying for myself.
Besides, where’s the use?”
But giving up religion was a hard thing to Deborah. It left life so
grey and lifeless.
There were no more beautiful dreams about the angels, and no more trust
in God’s love and mercy—and without these religion was a blank.
Gradually, however, every bit of her spare time became filled by the
people from that other world.
It was not left till night to visit them—she was with them nearly all
the day.
At prayer time especially they called all attention to themselves and
by degrees she forgot to feel the sharp stinging pain whenever she
knelt down beside the bed.
“We are acting the part of God in turn,” observed Genius to Plucritus.
“Perhaps so,” said he. “But this is a species of idolatry.”
“At any rate I am not playing the part of a deceiver. I am what I
appear to be.”
“Not you. Half your time you spend in masquerading as the man in yon
picture.”
“Well, and don’t I tell you that he is my brother— my twin brother?”
“All the more reason why you should steer clear of him. I’ve no faith
in the love of twins. Remember Esau and Jacob.”
“A pure relationship of the flesh, by which a man sold that which
didn’t belong to him for a dish of red pottage.”
Hereat Plucritus laughed and changed the conversation.
“Have you noticed how silent Virginius has been since the farmer’s
death?” he questioned.
“Yes.”
“He is fretting, I believe— suffering from a kind of distemper.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes. I should say he was labouring under an acute attack of the sulks,
brought on simply because I’m a good hand at making prayers.”
“Ah!”
“He has not forgiven me yet for those half-dozen sentences I taught
Deborah. I expect he would like to have been the instigator of them
himself.”
“He would have worded them differently, or at any rate under the
circumstances, and knowing the facts, he would have omitted them
altogether.”
“Virginius is a bungler,” said Plucritus.
“How can a spirit who never attempts anything ever bungle?” asked
Genius impatiently.
“Does he never attempt anything?” And Plucritus laughed in a harsh,
disagreeable way.
“Never that I can see. His only work seems to be to stand there
immovable and receive insults.”
“Now and again he will lay his hand lovingly on the heads of little
children,” said Plucritus, mockingly.
“Only to be pushed off again.”
“That may be. But as you seem down on him I must stand up for him,
since above all things I love fair play. Now I’ll tell you a very
pretty story, and one which the children would say was ever so funny.
Listen. You know that every night when Deborah is asleep you fly off
to your own land, and are, I should say, mightily glad to get there.
But I am not so fortunate—at least of late months I have preferred to
stay. So each night, being left alone, I have prepared a very pretty
dream—very realistic, very simple, just the kind of thing a child
would appreciate. Having played the part of God to such perfection
I now took to playing the part of the farmer. I had learnt all his
expressions both of word and feature, and could act up to his part to
perfection. Naturally Deborah was taken in. She would put her arms
round me and kiss me in the most affectionate way possible. Meeting
with thus much encouragement I was far too kind-hearted to give it up.
I made many excuses for my long absence, and even went so far once as
to explain that that had not been me in the coffin at all, but someone
else. _That_, as you know, was quite the truth. But though, truth
to tell, I got a bit sick of it, I always had my reward in the morning.
She would awake with a face as round as the moon, to be changed in less
than five minutes to one as long, or longer than the proverbial fiddle.
Now Virginius, who is always staring and gaping and never for two
seconds shuts his eyes, saw all this, and he raised his saintly voice
to interpose. He said it wasn’t written down in the book, but I was
able to prove to him that it was. Well, after that he bided his time,
and one night just lately he descended to concoct a dream himself.
Naturally I was curious to see what it would be. It was a most artistic
one. He didn’t do it all himself; he got one of the spirits up there to
paint the scenery for him.
“It began in a village street and led from there into a forest. You
know the kind of place—a rather different kind from what one meets
in this world; a bit better done, perhaps. Well, Virginius had really
been most ingenious. I could not for the life of me understand why a
mere child should be shown such a scene as this, so I kept myself on
the alert to help if need be in case of emergency. Moreover, I resented
this intrusion. The forest was mine, the path mine, and I marvelled
at his audacity in daring to portray them. Now Deborah got very tired
of that walk, for it was longer than she reckoned or than she knew;
moreover, it was a trial of faith, as she wasn’t quite sure what she
was going after. But she went on for a long time fairly well. At last
she fell down” (here he laughed). “They all fall down, you know, and
then what was my surprise to see approaching from an opposite path that
gentleman,” and he pointed to the picture. “You may be sure at this
point I was fully awake. ‘Now then, Virginius,’ said I, in my most even
voice, ‘we’ve had quite enough of your foolery. This forest belongs to
me.’
“Now I believe Virginius’s idea had been that this man should help
Deborah out of the forest, or that they should help each other out.
But that did not suit my way of thinking. Virginius was doing his best
to make the man say something, so he paid no attention to me, but I
knew he had odds against him. The gentleman refused to hear the weak
voice, since by this time I had interposed, and all Virginius’s good
intentions fell through.”
Here Genius, who had been greatly interested throughout, interrupted
him.
“And do you mean to say he went away without saying a word?”
“Who? Virginius?”
“Why, no. The human being.”
“Well, no. In this world we are never distinctly brutal to each other
till we cannot avoid it, and politeness oils the wheels of life. So
when he had turned away he turned back again. ‘Will you keep your
father waiting?’ said he.
“‘What’s the good of letting the cat out of the bag?’ said I; so he
took my advice and went on alone, which was just as I wanted. But
Deborah, who didn’t need much telling when she was going in quest of
her father, got up, and that was rather different from what I wanted.”
“And what happened to them?”
“Well, I can hardly tell. I believe she saw a Will-o’-the-wisp shining
in the forest and took it for something else.” He looked intently at
Genius and laughed. Then he continued,—
“As for the man, well, I would not presume to say.”
“And that is the end of the dream?”
“Exactly and truthfully.”
“The Will-o’-the-wisp?”
“Certainly.”
“Then there was another fall?”
“Well, yes, I expect so. She muddled and draggled through the black
mire till she didn’t know whether she was standing or falling.”
“And that is the end of the dream?”
“How many more times do you want telling? Did ever anybody ever see
anything else in the silent forest besides Will-o’-the-wisps?”
“Why yes, at times I have heard of the pure light.”
“Oh, God!” said Plucritus, and he laughed. “Oh, God!”