Such terrible thoughts overfilled me as we sailed along that I

discharged them with a heavy sigh. ’Twas strange the way the weird low

sound of misery re-echoed through the vaults. A hundred sighs seemed

raised by it, each breathing to the other its own lone fearful tale,

and then all died away; yet when all died it seemed as if my own still

wandered round unrestful, finding no grave.

“Listen,” continued Vestné, again laying her hand upon my arm as if

to steady me; and indeed it was as well, for at her word there rang

out a cry so terrible and so prolonged that it had almost unnerved me.

The horrid repetition struck chill to the very centre of my being; no

creature writhing under the lash could have ever uttered more fearful

cries. To try to deaden the sound was impossible, till of itself it

weakened and died away with a heavy childish sob of pain. I looked at

her and saw the cruel light in her eyes and the smile on her lips.

Hurriedly, and with loathing, I shook off her arm.

“Can it be that such sounds please—nay, even amuse you?” I asked

sternly.

She looked at me, the smile playing round her mouth still.

“When the angels in heaven hear those sounds they sigh and tremble. It

spoils their gladdest concert,” she said.

No further cry ensued, and our boat sailed along. I noticed that at

intervals, and under each arch, a doorway was visible, and on each

doorway a number was written in clear red. One imagined the cells

beyond even without a glimpse.

At last she stayed before one.

“I shall not take you into all, it would be too tedious,” she said. “We

shall visit one or two, and that will suffice.”

“You must know,” she continued in a clear, hard voice, “that a strict

account is kept of the life of every man and woman upon the earth. We

allow nothing to pass, every ill thought, every ill word, every ill

deed, are all entered faithfully and truthfully. Every particular sin

has its particular punishment, and as near as possible we destroy like

with like.”

“And,” said I, gazing round the terrible gloomy place, “are you always

perfectly fair and just in your punishments?”

“Always,” she answered, “We want them to do our work, and we punish

them just sufficiently to make them do our work well.”

“But,” I rejoined, “they have done your work on earth and received no

punishment for that.”

“No, rather they received reward. But here we take away that which has

been given them and appropriate it within ourselves. The processes

which we employ are bound to be severe, because, as you know, of

themselves they will give up nothing, or rather very little.”

“But surely,” I observed, “when they see what suffering they are going

through they will give up all.”

“Too late,” she whispered softly in my ear, and even as that heavy sigh

had travelled through the arches, so these words, the saddest perhaps

that human tongue has ever framed, rang through them too. It seemed as

if a thousand voices from every cell whispered the words, so that one

loud and unavailing lamentation became the universal atmosphere.

She unlocked the door before which we had stopped, but instead of the

cell which I expected a long narrow passage ran both left and right.

Door followed door the whole length down, and the numbers on them

corresponded to those on the outward wall.

The darkness here would have been quite intense had not my guide

carried in her hand a clear light, which pierced the gloom for some

considerable distance.

We walked along the passage for a little time, she leading, I

following, till at last she stopped before a cell, and selecting a key

placed it in the lock. Before turning it she extinguished the light

she carried and left us in total darkness. Slowly, mysteriously and

silently the door swung back and we passed in, and then it closed

behind us. We had passed from darkness into darkness, but gradually the

faintest light began to creep above the cell. It was so faint that till

the eye became accustomed to it nothing was in the least discernible,

and even then at times the heavy shadow fell again, eclipsing all

things as gradually as it had cleared away. And now, huddled in the

corner, I perceived a form, and as I looked intently I recognised a

woman crouching there.

At first I do not think she noticed us, perhaps throughout she scarcely

understood that anyone was there. Her hair, which was grey and

dishevelled, hung over her bare shoulders and her forehead, uncared for

and unkempt. She was lean and ghastly, and her thin fingers clasped

each other round her bony knees, from which position she never moved.

Her eyes were fixed on the floor in a steady yet unconscious gaze.

“If she doesn’t move before long I’ll poke her,” said Vestné. “We can’t

wait here all day.”

But the sound must have partly attracted her. She looked up, and

instead of looking at the speaker her eyes fell on me.

Such a look of dull despair and misery I had never seen before. It

seemed to blind her very sight and deaden all objects but itself.

Then she sighed, and the spirit beside me laughed softly. The shadow

deepened round her, and the flimsy light passed on along the wall till

it came to a rude altar having a crucifix above it. I looked at the

plain cross and noticed that the light played round it curiously. And

at last out of this light I formed a figure hanging there. It was the

woman lying in the corner whose cell this was. Helplessly, painfully,

she hung there, her eyes still dully bent on the ground. Then the

shadow fell once more, and all was left in dreary darkness, and when

next I breathed we were out in the passage once again.

“They are fulfilling the behest of Christ,” declared Vestné, idly.

“They are taking up the Cross.” And yet it seemed as if among the roofs

and rafters there still floated the old wild cry, “Too late—too late.”

“This is the women’s ward,” she remarked as we passed along. “I never

visit the men. Plucritus can take you there if you wish to go. But

being, as they say you are, simply a woman dressed as a man, I have no

compunction in bringing you here at all.”

Again the light she held had vanished.

Once more we stood within a cell, and the same pale flickering light

that haunted it was playing on the wall. Another woman lay crouching

on the damp floor, and as the light fell on her it seemed as if she

tried to catch it with her hand. Unlike the other she was never still.

Lying there when we entered, in half a second she was up, walking with

uncertain, faltering steps some little distance, then returning. She

pressed her hands against the wall, beating against it feebly as if

trying to get away. Next she moved towards the plain-cut altar and

passed her hands over it aimlessly, as if trying to find something in

the concealing gloom. Then back she came to the corner where she had

first lain and threw herself on her knees.

“I’ll find it sometime,” she cried in a clear monotone. “But the night

is so long and my dream so dark. What follows night? The next night,

and yet it seems there’s something missed out that comes between.”

The pale light flickered to the crucifix. I saw her lying there; each

sharp, uncertain movement was translated into a painful writhe.

From thence we passed out to another cell, and the faint light showed

us the floor all covered with gold and silver coins, mostly gold. In

the middle, surrounded by all this tarnished wealth, a woman knelt

huddled up in a small clear space, the money heaped up around her.

Every now and again a pile would slip and fall towards her. And from

the place where it had fallen a serpent’s head appeared, stretching

in her direction with open jaws and cruel tongue. Then she would jump

up and fly across the narrow cell, screaming in hideous terror, and

throw herself upon the altar as if for protection. And the coins leapt

up like cruel fire about her feet as she fled, and the great serpent,

with its golden, hardened scales, followed her with fearful hiss, with

forked tongue and leaping fire all round it. Neither was the altar any

protection from fire or poison, and being immortal she could never die,

so that she must suffer her term of punishment in an endurance much

worse than death.

Then I noticed the light fell upon the crucifix, and looking up I saw

the woman’s form lashed to it, not by nails, but by the serpents’

coils, which this surface wealth had fostered and engendered.

At last we moved away and Vestné, when we gained the corridor, turned

to me.

“That woman has a curious but very common history,” she said. “She

believed that charity covered a multitude of sins.”

Vestné laughed and passed along.

From thence we went to another cell, and entering, I saw a woman

standing in the middle of the floor. Her eyes were filled with the wild

gleam which we on earth call madness. When she saw us she shrank back

terrified into the farther corner of the cell. Her breath came in thick

gasps, and still she stared at us like some wild creature brought to

bay.

Suddenly she flew across the room and caught my arm in her two hands.

They were at burning heat.

“Take me away,” she whispered in a voice half-strangled with fear.

“Take me away; it keeps coming, coming, coming, and then will touch me.

Oh! take me away with you and I will give you everything I have.”

“What is there to fear?” I asked.

“Look,” she said, and pointed on the wall to where the light shone. I

saw nothing.

“It is simply the reflection of her own memory,” Vestné affirmed

calmly. “She stole another woman’s husband and thought to escape

punishment.”

“I couldn’t help it,” the wretched victim interposed, for she had sense

enough to hear the words. “I never knew she’d come to ask for him down

here. I can’t escape down here; the walls are thick, the doors are

barred, and turn which way I will I can’t get out. Oh, God! oh, God!”

“You’re quite safe,” said Vestné. “She died of a broken heart long

since. Try to remember that, and think you’re suffering from a dream.”

“She didn’t die. No, no. She never died. And here she haunts me, and

there she haunts him too; and oftentimes she clutches at my breast with

her strong fingers, and some day she will tear my heart away and suck

my life blood. Oh! if you have any mercy take me home.”

But even as she spoke her voice and hands had lost their power and she

fell backwards.

“She had no mercy herself, yet would solicit yours. She is not yet

cured,” my companion remarked.

The light flickered on the wall beside the crucifix, and stretched upon

it I saw the woman’s figure; but as I looked I saw the crucifix had

turned from wood into the shape of a man, and the woman hung upon his

body, nailed to it as if it had been lifeless wood.

We went away and there was utter silence in the cell.

From there Vestné guided me into a low, darkened chamber, rather

different in shape from the others I had seen. A long low table stood

in the midst, and instead of the pale light which flickered through

the other dreary cells strange, curious flames and darts of fire

floated and danced from side to side.

I cannot tell whether it was owing to the lurid, unreal glare these

lights cast, but the ghastly sight that met us horrified me more than

any I had seen yet.

There on the table lay the form of the woman I had watched drawn

thither when I was with Plucritus.

She lay insensible, and it was well, since about her crowded many

fearful demons, and they were all gnawing the flesh away, or rather, to

those who can understand it better, the spirit.

Their hideous, hungry, cruel faces lost nothing by the glaring lights

that shone upon them as they floated past. From beneath came strains of

weird, inhuman music.

I understood more clearly now the meaning of these terrible things. So

intent were they upon their prey that they never noticed us.

“This is the Vampire’s Feast,” said Vestné, turning to me.

“Do they absorb the whole?” I asked.

“Oh, no. They are only allowed those parts which are of no use to us.

When she is in a fit condition she will be placed in a common cell

to suffer the just punishment. It is really a term of refinement and

purification; after that she will be fit food for us, and servant too.”

I said nothing, but watched the hideous creatures at their meal. On

the whole they interfered little with each other, still now and then

a savage growl would break out when one usurped, even in the least,

another’s portion.

“They should do good work after this,” said Vestné. “They have been

feeding here for days. Come away, they are not very beautiful to behold

even at the best of times.” So we went out again.

“You have locked the door?” I asked.

“Oh, yes. They can get out without keys, all except the prisoner.”

And from thence we passed on to another cell, in which we found another

woman. What struck me most about her was her beauty. Thin and gaunt she

might be (so were they all), but despite all this hers was a beauty of

a very unusual order.

I remember when the door was opened she was standing there as if

listening for something. When she saw us she came forward courteously.

“Take me away from here,” she exclaimed. “I’ve never been accustomed to

it. It is dark and damp. I do not like it. Take me away.”

I was surprised at the quiet way in which she spoke, it was so unlike

the rest whom we had visited.

“You must have patience,” Vestné declared. “You will get out safely

enough when the time comes.”

I noticed, for I was looking at her closely, that at this her lips

trembled, but still she answered, with no very apparent change in her

voice,—

“I’ve been patient for a very long time, longer than anybody knows.

Please take me away.”

“It is impossible,” Vestné assured her.

She now turned to me.

“Sir,” she said, “I am suffering. Take me away.”

I looked at her, but, beyond the sympathy I felt, knew I was powerless.

Then she began again and passed her hand across her brow. “Take me

away. Once when I asked for things they were always given me, but now

no one listens or understands. I want to go away. Take me away.”

“Is this place so very fearful?” I ventured, looking round the cold,

bare cell.

Her voice sank to a whisper. “I think I have bad dreams. And then I

wake, and lie and wait for the day to break. But it never breaks. The

night never ends, and the darkness is suffocating me. You don’t know

what it is, you’ve never lived in here. No one ever comes near me

except when it is very dark. And then men and women come and curse me,

and say that I have ruined them. But I think that can only be a dream,

for they have ruined me. Take me away. Oh! stranger, take me away.”

I turned towards the door. Gradually she was losing that unusual

self-control which had marked her when first we entered.

As I moved she clutched my arm. “I will come with you,” she cried

hoarsely. “Look! Look! They press upon me like spectres from every

side. I am frightened of them; they are killing me inch by inch.

Sometimes I scream in terror, and they laugh. Oh, God! God! God! what

have I done that I should be tormented thus?”

Even as she spoke her voice died down and her strength failed. She fell

back upon the floor.

And then upon the crucifix the form lay hanging. And beneath it stood a

group of men and women watching her.

“Those men loved, the women hated her,” said Vestné. “And now hate and

love have joined hands, for hate lived when love was dead.”

We went out in silence.

“I will show you only one more,” she said, “and then we will go, as

I am invited out to dinner to-night and cannot stay long. We are now

going to a cell which will make you feel more cheerful. It is the cell

of one who has learnt to stand punishment and has therefore finished

with it.”

She took me to a cell at some little distance. A deathly silence filled

the room as we entered, and a deathly chill pervaded everything. The

flickering light passed direct from the wall to the altar, and there

upon it lay the cross, and on the cross another victim.

We drew nearer and gazed upon the dead. Such beauty as rested on her

features seemed to refine the chamber.

“Will this fair creature change to a stunted dwarf?” I inquired.

Vestné shook her head.

“Sometimes you ask too much,” she replied. “She has learnt by some

trickery to stand the punishment quietly. But that is the more profit

to us. We absorb all this beauty; it belongs to us; then she may go

back again, naked and unprotected as a new-born soul, into the world.”

I stooped and kissed the cold brow.

“Death is infectious,” said Vestné, laughing.

“So may life be,” I retorted.

After that we left the hateful prisons and returned to the watery

vaults and to our boat.

We stepped in in silence, and she directed it back to the place whence

we had started.

And under the central arch, as we stood gazing backward, I saw these

words shining forth in vivid red against the blackness: “Where the fire

is not quenched and the worm dieth not.”

“You will have noticed a quotation from Christ’s preaching down there,”

she said as we ascended the staircase. “He was rather a wonderful kind

of man. He managed to hit so exquisitely upon the truth, even in His

lesser sayings.”

“Did you admire Him?” I asked, struck by a vein of seriousness that

underran her words.

She looked at me rather curiously.

“As men go He was very fascinating,” she answered, but said no more.

When we were once more back in that part of the palace which was her

dwelling-house she left me in the hall and I ascended to my own chamber.

Once in there alone I threw myself upon the bed and tried to think and

realise. It was no use. I started up and began to walk about the room.

The pain and heaviness gradually sinking round me appeared to become

greater than I could bear. The horrible scenes I had witnessed still

flashed before my eyes in all their terrible truth and dull despair.

I vividly recalled the wild and unavailing cry of all these creatures

for their lost liberty. I recognised their fearful madness—steeped in

sanity so deep, that to call it madness would be a pitiable lie. Again

I recognised the misty unreality that haunted them as well as me; the

ghostly lights, the shadowy crucifixes all came back to me, seeming

unreal, almost absurd. Was this vast palace but a shadow? Those demons

shadows? Those prisoners shadows? Was Vestné a shadow? Was I a shadow?

“I am dreaming, surely, I am dreaming,” I said to myself, and then the

words of the woman occurred to me. They also had thought themselves

dreaming in endless night.

Suddenly I looked round the vast apartment.

Was I myself a prisoner, caged in a darkened cell, tormented with a

haunting, flitting light, and dreaming myself within a gilded palace?

I went from one thing to another, touching it; and everything was real

and responded to my touch. I walked the whole long length of the room,

I was in no cell. I felt the steady light within the room. It was no

passing flicker, no dying gleam. Then, unable to remain within, I went

out and down the staircase. Slowly I walked back and forwards through

the long hall, fighting the grimmest fight that spirits have to fight,

that of retaining clear existence. How long I walked thus I cannot

tell, but when I roused myself I found that night had fallen and the

lights shone from the roof. Looking towards the staircase I saw Vestné

descending.

She was dressed more beautifully than I had ever seen her, and looked

more brilliant than ever before.

“I am sorry you cannot come with me, I like company,” she murmured.

“I am sorry too,” I rejoined.

“If you care to wear a decent suit you may come,” she went on.

I glanced at the simple robe I was wearing. “Thank you,” I replied. “So

long as I stay here this shall suffice me. It is my own, and that is

everything.”

“But this is a very brilliant entertainment to which I am going

to-night. Come.”

“I think,” I observed, “you have shown me enough for one day. You will

excuse me.”

At this she left me, and I sat down and tried to read. I had taken

Milton’s _Paradise Lost_, but somehow or other to-night it struck

me as the most tawdry, unreal thing I ever read. The beauty of its

diction, the stately flow of language, the marvellous knowledge of

the writer on all points except one, irritated rather than soothed

me. Despite this I still continued reading, till, more than usually

irritated with his appreciation of the Godhead, I flung the book down,

laughing involuntarily.

What was my surprise on looking up to see Plucritus standing at some

little distance watching me.

On seeing him I felt the nearest approach to pleasure this place gives,

and rose, extending my hand to him.

I remember he looked somewhat surprised, as indeed he well might under

the circumstances, but he returned my salutation pleasantly and came

and sat down near me.

CHAPTER V

“I quite forgot,” said he, giving me no time to put a question, “I

quite forgot to borrow a needle and thread whilst on the earth.

Probably you yourself have learnt the art of mending.”

“Well,” I replied, “I am not yet reduced to tatters, though I possess

but one garment.”

“Where is Vestné?” he continued.

“She has gone to take part in some theatricals, I think.”

“Where?”

“Do not ask me. Your relatives and friends are legion, and quite beyond

my understanding.”

“Have you seen many of them?” he asked.

“Very few.”

“Then you have still no friend but Vestné?”

I laughed.

“I was not aware that she was my friend.”

“But,” said he, whimsically, “Vestné is very charming.”

“Maybe, to those who understand her—I do not.”

“And yet she moves on far straighter lines than the women on earth.”

“That may be again. But here the straight lines and the crooked are so

intertwined one cannot distinguish either.”

He shook his head.

“Genius,” he remarked, “you are looking ill.”

“Then send me a doctor, or prescribe some medicine.”

“Do you think you could possibly prescribe for yourself?” he queried.

“By all means. I need change of scene—to be more exact, change of

surroundings.”

“And where would you go in such a case?”

“Back to my own land.”

“The earth?”

“I hardly think so.”

The faintest smile crossed his lips.

“You are ready at last to forsake your charge for freedom?”

“Not at all,” I said. “I never yet forsook anything that really

belonged to me.”

“You are as faithful as a dog,” he laughed. “Another womanly

characteristic.”

To this I made no answer.

“Why do you not answer?” he broke in at length. “I think you are

growing dull.”

“I had better be dull than coarse,” I replied.

“Would your answer necessitate coarseness?”

“Perhaps not. But I am looking farther than my answer, to your reply.”

“My replies are never coarse, unless badly translated.”

“Then you should employ a good interpreter.”

“It is impossible to find one. As you know yourself, there is not a

more maligned Spirit in existence than I.”

“How is the book going on?” I asked, interrupting him suddenly.

“What book? Oh, yours. Well, it has kept me laughing for the last six

months.”

“Indeed.”

“Yes. I never believed before that any woman could be such a complete

fool, and my experience has been pretty great.”

“One fool makes many,” I commented.

“Well, perhaps so,” he went on thoughtfully. “And the more the merrier.

But tell me, what have you been doing of late? I have left you here

long enough to become well acquainted with the place.”

“I have done absolutely nothing except live a profitless existence.”

“Then you have done as much as most people do, but they thrive on it as

a rule, and you, as I say, look ill.”

“This afternoon we visited some of your prisons.”

“Were they in good order?”

“Oh, excellent! But such a gloomy foundation has on the whole rather a

dispiriting effect.”

“It depends on the principle,” he observed gravely.

“Oh! all things depend on that,” I said.

“Which did you visit?” he asked.

“I was taken to see some women, who, had they been on the earth, would

have been termed mad.”

He gave me a sharp sidelong glance.

“Perhaps they were mad,” he surmised.

“I think not. With all the appearance of madness they were sane. Saner

than they ever were on earth.”

“Come, come, that is putting it rather strongly.”

“I think not. They had been brought to recognise their sin.”

“Yes. But that is the only thing they recognised. They ought to

cultivate a broader mind.”

I looked across at him.

“Plucritus,” said I, “if you were placed in a cell ten feet high and

fifteen square, would you yourself find much room for cultivation of

anything?”

For one moment his lips came together in a thin, cruel line, then he

got up, laughing, stretching out his arms as if tired of the discussion.

“If I were placed in a cell of the dimensions you mention I should

burst the walls, even though they were of iron.”

I looked at him as he began walking back and forwards through the room

and did not doubt the strength of which he spoke.

Then suddenly he lighted on the _Paradise Lost_ which I had thrown

away.

“Have you been reading that rot?” he asked carelessly.

“Well, yes, and I’ve fallen into the error common to all people.”

“That of liking Satan best,” he joined in, laughing.

“Decidedly. But at every other line I find myself stopping to consider

how a man of such ability as Milton could ever come to be so deluded in

his ideas of God.”

“He was like Solomon. His wives led away his heart. Three such were

far too many for an ascetic. They helped to turn his brain. Yet it is

strange,” he continued, smiling, “that he should come to form such a

fine conception of the Devil and underrate the Godhead.”

“He was prejudiced in his favour,” I replied.

“The Devil’s favour?”

“No. The Godhead’s.”

“I see. It’s a bad thing to be prejudiced—it can get one into hobbles.

Are you sleepy?”

“By no means.”

“Then suppose you come with me. We can spend the night in visiting some

prisoners, for, like all my visits, this is of short duration.”

Now visiting prisoners was of all things least pleasant to me. I

remembered my terrible experience of the afternoon and also its

results on myself. Moreover, I knew that I should find no relaxation

afterwards from the misery it engendered. But I had no excuse beyond

my own personal feelings, and such things were unrecognised here, so

I followed him with a grim, stony feeling rising within me, caused by

solitude and imprisonment.

He passed his arm through mine.

“It is really quite a pleasure to meet you once more,” he declared as

we went towards the gloomy doorway. “Because though you may not think

it, I miss you greatly on the earth.”

“Can you find no one to fill my place?” I suggested drily.

“No one. Absolutely no one. I look round and invite people in, but they

won’t come.”

“Have you the right of invitation?”

“No. But I take it.”

“Then they see through the deception.”

“Fiddlesticks! They’re as blind as Milton.”

We were now in the passage leading from the doorway to the cells. But

I noticed when we came to the end of it a low doorway which had before

escaped me.

Plucritus opened it and we walked out into the moonlight. Never before

had I been so impressed by the beauty of these grounds. Chilly winter

moonlight it was, which brought with it a certain peace and quietness,

even to me.

We strolled along from path to path, and all was solitude and shadow as

we went. At last we came to a bridge which spanned a large expanse of

water. I had noticed this bridge before, and had often stood upon it,

but in the middle was an iron gate, which had been always locked.

Vestné had told me this water separated their estate from that of a

neighbouring kinsman, and I had seen that the grounds beyond were very

similar, as were also the spires and turrets which I at times perceived

among the trees.

Plucritus opened the gate easily, and when we had gone through shut it

carefully.

“These are the grounds of a near relative and friend of mine,” he

explained. “When we planned our houses we arranged our dungeons so that

he should take one class of prisoners and I the other. We have passages

leading underground, very beautifully decorated, but I thought we would

come as we have done, because this is a scene and a time I like.”

Similar terraces led us to the palace, and as we drew near we heard

sounds of revelry and music coming from its lighted halls. Many doors

and windows stood wide open, so that we could clearly hear the noise

within.

“Now look here,” said I, standing at the bottom of a flight of steps.

“I hope you still remember my apparel. If I go in there in this state

I must be given a few minutes first in which to prepare myself for an

all-round onslaught.”

Plucritus stood still and laughed.

“You’re a confounded nuisance,” cried he. “I would say a ‘damned’

nuisance, but the critics would pronounce me ‘forcibly feeble.’”

“Beware of the critics,” I advised. “They are like children sitting in

the market-place.”

“How so?”

“They are never right. Nothing pleases them.”

“You never tried them with butter and sugar mixed.”

“Indeed I did.”

“No, you introduced vinegar.”

“Pardon me, vinegar is the correct thing. It is good for the chest.”

“It isn’t a case of what’s _good_ for them. It’s what they

_like_.”

“I see. But certainly butter and sugar and vinegar are the correct

thing.”

“Offer them sackcloth.”

“Indeed, I have done so, and fine linen into the bargain.”

“Well?”

“Oh, well, they returned the linen with thanks, mistaking it for

calico, and the sackcloth they sent back with rude remarks.”

“Did they mistake it for anything?”

“Yes. I believe they thought the rude remarks were clever ones. But

that is pardonable. It is often difficult to ascend to sackcloth, even

when one can descend to ermine.”

“Well, let us go together. You will notice I have accommodated my

raiment to yours.”

“You still wear armour,” I went on, looking at the simple robe he now

wore.

“It is impossible to get rid of it at so short a notice, but it is

unseen. Come.”

And so we came to the entrance. This place perhaps belongs to the

brother of whom Vestné had spoken, for many servants in rich livery

thronged the halls, which otherwise just now were empty.

“Come along,” said Plucritus. “It’s all I can do to keep my face

straight passing through here, there’s so much mockery and unreal sham

about it.”

“Cruelty and humiliation,” I criticised.

“Now, don’t preach, Genius. Considering I have had the kindness to

descend to your level in the matter of dress, you might descend to mine

in the matter of feeling.”

“You must know,” he continued, “that my kinsman has a very fine theatre

here, which it has cost years to build. It has been constructed on the

latest and most approved methods, and is at the height of comfort,

convenience and luxury.”

“I can quite believe you,” I affirmed.

“My kinsman is very fond of acting, so are we all. Only we never act a

play more than once of twice. After that we leave it to be studied and

rehearsed by our slaves, and they eventually carry it to the earth and

let mortals make what use of it they can.”

“Then,” said I, “according to your version the stage is damned prior to

the outset.”

“Be careful,” he rejoined. “If you use bad language they’ll turn you

out.... It is prohibited along with smoking and drinking.”

The sounds of music led us to the theatre of which he spoke. It was

fitted up to the greatest perfection, and evidently for private

audiences.

As we entered there was the general buzz which usually accompanies the

orchestra before the curtain rises, but almost immediately after there

was silence, and the lights were centred only on the stage behind the

rising curtain.

The scene that followed was one of great beauty, and the play itself

clever and brilliant, often amusing. I discovered that Vestné took the

leading part, though it was some time before I recognised her.

When the curtain fell I waited with interest for the next act, but

it never came. I found out later that they rarely gave more than one

act each night; the rest of the time was left for what they termed

“varieties.”

But if I had been asked to translate the word “varieties,” I should

certainly have rendered it as “tragedies,” since to me they were most

painful.

Plucritus had gone near the front and sat down, beckoning me to a seat

next him.

There were many sitting there besides ourselves, a brilliant company

both as to beauty and display.

“Now watch carefully,” said Plucritus, leaning back. “You may learn

something, and you may be interested. But do not go to the absurd

length of tears like Deborah when she went to see ‘The Only Way.’”

“I will endeavour to restrain myself,” I declared. “The sight of your

cheerful countenance will act as an antidote, I have no doubt.”

Just then there walked on the boards a woman. She was dressed very

simply, even prettily, which struck me as being a great concession. No

sound of applause greeted her, but she came to the front and prepared

to sing. I noticed that Vestné was prepared to accompany the song,

which appeared to me a most condescending kindness on her part.

She played a few bars and the song began.

It was one of the most beautiful I had ever heard, and contained human

pathos, sadness, and at times even mirth. Besides, she rendered it with

beautiful expression, such as could only come from one whose whole soul

was in the work. I waited till the end, and then after the first spell

had passed I looked round, expecting the applause which never came.

She stood still too, probably expecting the same thing. But at last,

amidst the indifferent silence, someone called out, “That was insipid,

and every other note was wrong.” Hereupon followed a chorus of laughing

assent, and among the general hubbub she withdrew.

I gazed about with an indignation I found it hard to restrain, till

at last my eyes lighted on Plucritus. He was sitting watching me, an

amused smile on his face.

“Why don’t you get up and say ‘It’s a lie’?” he whispered.

“I believe,” said I, “the only reason is that I lack moral courage. It

can be nothing else.” Whereat he burst out laughing, and one or two of

those near us turned to see who it was.

“You there, Plucritus? Why do you laugh?” called one.

“Oh! I have a very amusing companion, who says the lady should be

recalled and asked to sing again.”

“Yes, we have sent to ask her. One trial does not make a complete

failure.”

Gradually there was silence, and in the midst of it the singer

returned. I do not think she recognised anything about her. Her whole

mind seemed bent upon her task; she scarce appeared to recognise her

previous failure, except perhaps in the first line, when for one second

her voice seemed about to break.

The song was different from the other. It was extremely simple, and

whatever beauty it contained was derived from its simplicity. In the

last lines I noticed again that her voice trembled, and silence fell

once more.

Presently there came another voice from another part of the room,

“Utterly absurd!” and another, “I had hardly the patience to listen to

the end!” and another, “Does this creature imagine our understanding to

be no higher than her own?”

Amid this laughter and these taunts she withdrew again. But not for

long. I think they must have sent again for her, because she soon

returned. And this time I could tell the laughter and contempt had had

effect.

She sang again, and every line was steeped in a bitter and absorbing

passion. Whether there was any beauty in it I could hardly say. At the

end, however, she was met with stony silence; none took the trouble to

make the slightest observation. Suddenly the orchestra struck up some

wonderful soft dance music, and with a step as light as foam on water

she tripped off the stage. At this they clapped and laughed.

“She missed her vocation. She should have been a ballet girl,”

Plucritus said to me. Then he rose quickly. “Come with me,” he went

on, “I had nearly forgotten I brought you here as an observer; come

quickly.”

I remember we went out at a door on the side near the stage. It led

down a lighted corridor which was empty and rather cold. From this we

went down a darker passage with one light burning at the end, and

along the passage were low doors at frequent intervals.

He stopped before one of these and opened it and went in, I following.

The door closed behind us, and I found we were in a cell very similar

to those I had visited earlier with Vestné.

The same ghostly light flickered along the wall and shone beside the

altar. The woman who had sung knelt beside it, her arms stretched

across it, her face buried against the hard board.

“Come away,” I whispered to him.

“No. She’s too far gone to notice us much. We will stay awhile.”

I noticed that on her shoulder a blue bruise had risen, and I wondered

how she had come by it. After a while she got up and began walking

very, very slowly about the cell, and every now and again she drew her

hand across her brow as if trying to move something away.

At last she noticed us standing there, but whether she ever realised

that we were other than forms conjured by her imagination I cannot tell.

She pressed both hands to her side and her breath came in thick gasps.

“I’ve been asleep,” she whispered, “and I dreamt. Yes, it was all a

dream. But it keeps coming, coming, and will not go.”

She shuddered.

“When shall I awake?” she cried piteously. “When shall I learn the

truth? When will the day come? They say I can’t do it,” she went on,

whispering again; “and they always say the same.”

“Well, perhaps you can’t,” suggested Plucritus, softly. “You have never

succeeded yet, as you know.”

She looked across and moved towards him.

“Don’t say that,” she still whispered with a half-choking sob.

“You must try again,” he urged.

“Sir, is it easy to try again?”

“I don’t know,” he answered indifferently. “You seem to have a gift

that way, therefore it must be.”

“I don’t know either,” she murmured wearily.

“Give it up,” he insinuated. “Seeing that you can’t do it, it is the

only sensible course left.”

“I _can_ do it, you fool!” she cried impetuously. “I can, I

can—or rather I could.” And her voice dropped again, and from walking

about she had come to a dead stand.

“How did you come by that bruise?” I asked, longing to get away, and

hoping at least to change the conversation.

“I—someone struck at me as I came away,” she replied. “And yet I don’t

know why—I did my best, and never meant to offend anyone. But it was

all a dream—a horrible dream. Everything was upside down.”

And then she left us, and stumbled back to the altar, and burst into

such a horrible fit of sobbing as I had never heard before.

“We’ll go now,” said Plucritus.

When we were outside he laughed.

“That is one of my favourite—patients,” he said.

“And cruelty is your favourite medicine,” I sneered.

“I have known the day when you yourself were cruel,” he broke in.

“Never, except under extreme provocation—and in a just cause.”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“Each excuses his own actions,” he remarked, and by this we were back

again in the theatre.

There was a great deal of noise going on, and someone called as we

entered, in an exquisitely clear and modulated voice,—

“Statesman number three from the left-hand corridor wanted.”

A silence followed this, and at last from the left wing of the stage a

gentleman appeared. So far as I knew I had never seen him before, and

Plucritus, who sat beside me, explained that he had lived a hundred

years ago, when the great European War was in progress.

The one who had called for him sat in the centre of the theatre, and

round him were grouped many spirits, Vestné being at his right hand.

“That is my brother-in-law,” said Plucritus, “and we really get on

excellently well. Some day I will introduce you to him, and there is no

doubt you will form a great admiration for each other.”

“We will leave the future to speak for itself,” I observed drily.

“My brother-in-law is very talented,” continued he; “but he is of such

a modest nature that he has never yet allowed himself to be called by

the name of Genius.”

“Indeed!” I laughed. “What is his particular gift?”

“He has none in particular. They all belong to him.”

I laughed again.

We were interrupted by his calling to us.

“Plucritus,” he exclaimed, “you might at least have the kindness to

keep that conversation at a lower pitch.”

“I was describing your character to a friend.”

“A friend?” he queried, looking round; and then rather unexpectedly he

left his seat and came to us.

There were two things that impressed me about him—the extreme

sweetness and yet hardness of his face. In some ways he appeared no

older than a youth not yet turned twenty, in others he resembled a man

hardened beyond even the degree to which men can attain.

“You are Genius?” he remarked lightly, and I noticed that his voice

corresponded to his face. “Vestné says you are dull over there for lack

of company; you should visit me, I am never dull.”

“This is Vestasian,” said Plucritus, “who, to quote my favourite

earthly poet, Dryden, is—

‘A man so various that he seems to be,

Not one but all mankind’s epitome.’”

“Look at that man over there,” interposed Vestasian, gazing towards the

stage. “He comes in aptly for the second part of the quotation:—

‘Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong,

All things by starts and nothing long.’”

“Genius himself can fill up the third part of the text,” put in

Plucritus:—

“‘For in the course of one revolving moon

He’s statesman, chemist, fiddler and buffoon.’”

“Dryden is honoured,” said Vestasian and that sweet, even voice of his.

“But then he deserves it. But, Genius,” he continued, “you must come

with me—the greatest stranger and the honoured guest.”

“What am I to do?” queried Plucritus.

“Find someone else,” returned the other.

For a second they looked at one another, and Plucritus turned to me.

“I find I shall not be able to stay very much longer. When I go, will

you return with me or stay here?”

“Just as you like,” I answered. “Either place is as acceptable to me.”

“That means you will stay,” Vestasian declared. “I take it as a

compliment.”

And he led the way to where he had been sitting.

Vestné rose as we approached.

“You may take my place,” she said graciously. “I must see my husband.

I don’t believe he’s had any supper, and he’s come _such_ a long

way.”

So we sat down, and she went to him, and as long as I was in the room

they remained together and seemed more than usually content in each

other’s society.

But to return to the man upon the stage. Whilst Vestasian spoke to me

he had been sitting waiting there.

“What is his name?” I asked.

“We never disclose names,” Vestasian answered. “They all go by numbers.

It is less complicated in the long run.”

“And less complimentary too,” I added.

“Well, so it may be. But then we never pay compliments; they are too

broad.”

Then he addressed himself to the man.

“Would you be kind enough to defend your own policy?” he said.

“He never had a policy,” cried someone in the audience.

“He must have had a policy,” shouted someone else.

“Not at all. He belongs to that class of animal called ‘Mammal.’”

“Well, what has that to do with it?”

“Everything. He has no backbone.”

“Hs-sch. If you’re not careful he will round on you. You’re betraying

ignorance.”

“No matter. I said it out of kindness to give him an opening. But he’s

missed it.”

“What is his policy?”

“The destruction of fleas.”

“Are they not an Irish importation?”

“Oh, no. Lace and poplins come from there. It is a revival.”

“What of? Potatoes?”

“Ask him.”

“He doesn’t know. He was a Foreign Secretary.”

“But Ireland belongs to that section.”

“Your dates are wrong. This is a hundred years ago.”

“Why, that’s the time when it was united!”

“Certainly. Ask him.”

“Ask him what?”

“If he’s gone to sleep or lost his tongue.”

“He has done neither.”

“What ails him then?”

“He cannot speak.”

“Why?”

“There’s no gallery.”

“But he is ambitious.”

“What has that to do with it?”

“He can ascend to the roof.”

“What of his head?”

“He hasn’t got one.”

“Yes, he has.”

“Indeed not.”

“Prove it.”

“His brains are in a glass case in the British Museum, labelled

‘Obsolete.’”

“What is his policy?”

“The extermination of fleas.”

“He’s a humbug.”

“That’s a dangerous kind of flea.”

“Is he a War Advocate?”

“It just depends.”

“Upon what?”

“How he feels.”

“Has he exterminated anything?”

“He says he has.”

“What is that?”

“Himself.”

“Did he put himself out?”

“He did his best.”

“And failed?”

“Oh, no—succeeded.”

“He’s a clever man.”

“Ask him to sing the National Anthem.”

“Which one?”

“The English, to be sure. There is no other nation.”

“But he’s an Im—Im—Im—imperialist. Ho—there, waiter!

Whisky—Soda—Rum—Gin—and pure beer.”

“Why do you need it?”

“To drink the toast.”

“No more?”

“To wash the word out of my throat, it stuck there.”

“You’ll get drunk.”

“Why not? I’m loyal.”

“What’s his policy?”

“A walk over.”

“It’s old-fashioned.”

“A fight over then.”

“Never heard of it before.”

“A knock over, if it suits you better.”

“Is he a Radical?”

“Oh, no. Why do you ask?”

“I thought the policy a new one.”

“It’s as old as Adam.”

“Is he?”

“No. He’s older. He generated the policy. So he must be the elder.”

“Then we come back to the old argument—he’s a Mammal.”

“A fossil, you mean.”

“There’s not much difference.”

“Let him speak.”

Suddenly, in the midst of all this babel and laughter, absolute silence

prevailed.

But still the man sat in the chair. “Sir,” said Vestasian, “would you

be kind enough to explain why you are sitting there?”

“He can’t get up.”

“Why?”

“He apes the elder Pitt.”

But as they seemed about to begin the same incessant laughter again,

Vestasian whispered to me,—

“You look tired, Genius. We will go away and visit more interesting

specimens.”

Thus saying he rose and led me out—the others still remaining so

intent upon these sallies that they scarcely noticed that we went.

“Have you guessed the riddle?” he asked when we were outside in the

corridor through which Plucritus had first guided me.

“What riddle?”

“The riddle concerning that man?”

“As to his identity?”

He laughed.

“Oh, no. His identity is immaterial.”

“I think I understand you,” I observed. “But I do not yet understand

the treatment.”

“Think about it. Here is his cell.”

The door was open and we looked in. It was no different from all

the rest—bare walls and floor and the rude altar—but the light

was absent. Just at that moment a yell of scarce-restrained delight

was heard, and looking up the corridor we saw the man returning,

accompanied on either side by devils, leaping, skipping and

gesticulating.

He was subjected to great indignities by them, and they appeared the

more enraged because he took no particular notice of them. He came

to the cell as if guided there by something, since he himself seemed

dazed and hopeless. He stumbled in and fell toward the altar, resting

his arms against it, for indeed, by a terrible truth they did not

understand, it was the only resting-place for any of them.

After the first few minutes spent there he got up and clenched his

hands.

“It can’t be true,” he muttered. “There’s no sense in it.”

Vestasian laughed.

“Come away,” he urged me. “He’s perfectly right. There is no sense in

it.”

From there he led the way up a staircase. It was plain and ordinarily

built in stone, drearily cold and comfortless.

“I will not detain you very long,” he said, “for to-morrow I understand

Plucritus takes you to the city, and you will need some rest and

preparation.”

We came out upon a long stone passage, and I noticed the doors were

numbered like the cells below.

He opened the first one and walked in.

The cells were somewhat larger than the others, but not much. Here

stood a man in the centre of the floor, his hands pressed against his

forehead.

By his side were pen and ink and paper on a table, and a plain,

straight-backed wooden chair stood beside it.

After a while he sat down and drew the pen and paper to him.

He began to write, and wrote steadily for some time. Then the speed

began to slacken, till at last he stopped. He made one more attempt to

continue, but evidently he recognised it as hopeless. He put the pen

down and got up. Again he stood in the middle of the floor, holding

both temples as if trying to force something back that would not stay.

After some time so spent he again sat down, and again began at the same

even, quick rate. But the same result followed and once more he got

up. I noticed the same thing with him that I had noticed in the man

and woman down below: which was, that his breath came in thick, heavy

gasps, as if he were suffering extreme pain.

“It has gone—quite gone,” he groaned.

And he sat down and cried as miserably as any lost child might have

done.

Vestasian took up one of the papers and glanced at it. He put it down

and smiled.

“This has been going on for a very long time,” he said. “If he would

only use breadth of mind and forget things there would be some hope for

him.”

“What else is there to think about?” I asked.

“Nothing.” And he walked to the door, and after we had gone out locked

it once more.

From there he went on to the next cell. I was surprised on entering

to find it much higher and larger than any of the rest had been. A

sculptor stood beside a block of marble, and he was transforming it

into a very beautiful piece of work. He worked at marvellous speed, or

at least so it appeared to me, but time there is often deceptive.

His pleasure and absorption were very evident, as indeed were mine, for

his sure touch and exact precision were well worth watching.

He had built up a marvellous statue, but as he stood back, with all an

artist’s keen criticism, to view the work, it suddenly vanished more

quickly than it had come, and left only the spiritless stone. I turned

at last to look at him. He was staring at it with a heartbreaking look

of fear and dull despair. He went towards it and passed his trembling

hands over the surface. Then he came back, and I heard the same heavy

gasps, which seemed somehow as if they sent their pain into everything

around.

“I—I—it’s all a dream,” he muttered huskily, passing his hand before

his eyes. “But it keeps coming, and the more beautiful I make it, the

quicker it fades away.”

“It’s your imagination,” suggested Vestasian. “There’s no beauty in it,

or if there was, try again. This time you may be more successful.”

But he sat down and shook his head.

“When I awake,” he said, “I’ll try again. I am tired, and the dream is

too, too real. It has been going on all the night, and the night is one

endless spell of blackness and false, fierce hope.”

“Will you give up?” asked Vestasian, softly.

He looked up queerly and then gave a sharp cry, half sob, half sigh.

“Oh, God! God! I would if only I could. But it neither goes nor stays,

even like this ghastly flame that haunts me always.”

“I think,” he went on in the curious voice of one half sleeping, “that

if that light were gone I should be better; it never shines as clearly

as when the work has gone. At other times it flickers round the cell

like some pale torch upon a funeral bier.”

“Here is the altar,” said Vestasian, suddenly moving to it. “Can you

make no use of this?”

“It is an unnecessary table for which I find no use,” he answered

testily, “except sometimes to hold my tools. I do not understand it.”

Vestasian went to the door and I followed him out.

In the passage he smiled.

“What do you think of them, Genius?” he questioned.

“I think they are poor misguided wretches.”

“Do you think we treat them cruelly?”

“I don’t know,” I replied thoughtfully. “To me it seems the essence of

torture.”

He laughed.

“I think you are really beginning to learn,” he declared. “A short time

ago you would have denounced us wholesale. But even the Devil is not

quite so black as he is painted.”

“I think he is much blacker,” I retorted. “But I am beginning to doubt

his existence.”

“It is the first time you have been down here?”

“Undoubtedly. What acquaintance I have had with any of your people has

been upon the earth.”

“And there they appear slightly different from here,” he observed

thoughtfully. “But then you know we are much maligned and caricatured.”

“Why don’t you put a stop to it?” I inquired.

He raised his eyebrows.

“The clergy do that for us,” he returned.

“They rarely mention you,” I commented.

“We are out of fashion. The inferior power generally is. They are so

absorbed in worshipping the Trinity that they ignore us altogether.

Besides, humanity is tender, it has to be coaxed with love.” He spoke

softly, but underlying the tone there was a sneer as cruel as it was

true.

I remember the next cell we visited was that of a little man who, when

we entered, was writing.

“He is a poet—or rather was,” whispered my companion. “Watch him, as

he is interesting. He is, or rather was, a Frenchman, who by his books

kicked over their religion like a footstool.”

After a while the poet stopped and jumped up. He was a funny little

creature, even at the best of times.

“It’s happened again,” he exclaimed. “I’m mad to attempt it—no one

will read it as it is.”

Then he saw us and came forward precipitately.

“Sir,” he said, catching hold of Vestasian by the arm, “just come and

look.”

He went forward.

“Well?” Vestasian asked.

“Is there not something missed out?”

“Where?”

“On this page.”

“No—nothing.”

Hereupon he turned to me and caught my arm quite sharply.

“Sir,” he gasped breathlessly, “look carefully, and tell me is there

not an empty space here?”

“Where?” said I, looking.

“Here.”

“No, I see nothing.”

Then he sat down and laughed—a horrible, shrill laugh.

“I’m mad or dreaming.”

“Perhaps both,” declared Vestasian. “The page is quite complete.”

“Yes, yes,” he broke in eagerly. “It’s all right now. It’s quite clear.

Here, get away and let me go on.”

And he pushed us both back irritably.

He went on again for some time, but at last down went the pen. He

slammed his hand over the leaf and gave an excited whine. Then he

lifted his hand ever so slightly and peered under it, just like a

schoolboy who has caught a fly.

“It’s gone again,” he shouted, jumping up. “And I don’t know what it

is. It keeps going, and when it’s gone it isn’t there. And no one will

take it as it is, nor read it, nor—nor anything.”

“Oh, yes, they will, you’re a good writer,” said Vestasian.

At this he burst out laughing again.

“It’s that flame—that feeble, flickering light,” he cried harshly. “I

believe it blots the sense out. Take it away, take it away.”

“But you would be left in darkness.”

He shivered.

“No—no, leave it. Take it away—leave it. It’s always dark, whether

or not. It’s always night—and I’m always dreaming the same unnatural

dream.”

He crept straight up to me cunningly and quietly.

“Did you say there was nothing left out?” he whispered.

“Yes.”

Then he ran to the table and caught the papers up, and returning thrust

them into my hand.

“Take it, and tell them if they’ll get me out of here—I’ll—I’ll—”

He burst into the most terrible sobs.

“Say it’s there because I know it’s there,” he cried. “Tell them it’s

there because you saw it.”

But the papers were scarcely in my fingers than they were drawn out

invisibly and replaced upon the table, and he himself was drawn towards

it too.

Suddenly, with a terrible effort, he stopped crying.

“When I cry it burns a hole in the paper and spoils the sense—ha! ha!

There it is again! Clean out! ha! ha!”

Again he jumped up and began chasing the light about the room, but it

flickered about unsteadily till suddenly it rose above the altar; and

he, finding it beyond him, knelt down and cried again.

We left him, and when we were outside, and the heavy, inhuman bolts

drawn, Vestasian turned to me.

“Genius,” he said, “why did you speak so thoughtlessly?”

“I spoke from genuine conviction. He said there was part omitted on

each page, and I saw nothing wanting.”

“Did you not?” he asked meditatively.

“No. Whatever was wanting lay with him. You yourself saw nothing amiss.”

“I am privileged to lie—or rather to speak the truth on another

principle.”

“I see. But, if you know, what was this thing of which he spoke?”

My companion did not answer for some time. Then he said,—

“I leave it to you to find out. I like if possible to make people

think—or rather Spirits. Mankind is deeply philosophical without—”

Just then a bell began to toll. It was the most terribly drear sound I

had ever heard.

“Come this way,” Vestasian said. And he led me to a balcony by a short

flight of steps.

From this we looked down through a kind of grating, and saw beneath us

the most gloomy sight I yet had witnessed.

It seemed as if from this particular spot one saw the whole of the

gloomy cells and prisons stretching out and down on either side farther

than the eye could pierce into the darkness. They ranged side by side

in even order, and by the door of each flowed the black river, gurgling

as it passed. Every door had its particular number shining in vivid

red, whilst arches like those which form the crypts of churches spanned

and linked the whole. And from here one saw within the hidden walls

into each secret cell, where the naked soul, bereft of every false

covering, saw itself as it really was and could not understand. But

now the bell had ceased, and, as it were, moved by one impulse every

wretched soul flung itself down upon the floor beside the altar.

“Oh, God! remove the darkness. Give us light! Light! More Light!”

And one general cry ascended, one universal cry of bitterness, which

died down into still more bitter silence.

As they knelt the light came—the lurid glow of hell—rising like

sulphur fumes about the pillars.

Each as they felt its presence rose and turned towards the doors, and

they raised their hands above their heads, and now no sound fell on the

ear.

It was simply the dream-light of unreality, nothing of purity lived in

it.

Presently, as a dark curtain drawn across the scene, came blackness,

blotting them out for ever.

What happened to each, or what his lot, or when his term of prison life

was over, who can tell? Those who keep the books of Hell and Heaven

alone know.

CHAPTER VI

“I shall not trouble you any further,” said Vestasian. “You look tired,

and there is little pleasure in this kind of work except to those who

understand and care for it.”

As we descended the steps he took a path which led us once more out

into the gardens instead of back to the guests.

“Your guests will miss you,” I remarked. “But probably they have a very

charming hostess.”

He shook his head. “They have none,” he answered; “but they can amuse

themselves.”

“Have you no one then besides yourself who reigns over all this

magnificence?” I queried.

I noticed that he smiled.

“I am a solitary monarch,” he replied, “and yet—yes—I have a

wife—a queen if you will.”

“Are you not interested?” he asked at length.

“Yes. I did not want to betray an impertinent curiosity.”

“We understand each other,” he went on easily. “If not, I should never

have cultivated your acquaintance.”

“Then, as you know, it is my greatest pleasure to hear of others,

provided I may do it without prying and without giving offence.”

“Well,” said he, whimsically, “my wife never attends social functions,

neither does she entertain.”

“Indeed,” I interjected, and relapsed into silence.

“She is not quite the same as the spirits who reside here, and

therefore she lives apart, and rarely visits with them.”

I began to wonder had he made a _mésalliance_, and yet he seemed

scarcely the kind to have done so. Moreover, as I knew well, with

spirits there is perfect equality—at least with the class of which he

came.

“We have not been married very long,” he continued. “A few thousand

years only. Before that I was—to use a familiar expression—a

bachelor.”

He waited for a little while and then went on again.

“There was no particular reason why I should marry. I needed no

children, for we are our own children, and what work I had I found was

of such a nature that I could do it better by entering into partnership

with Plucritus than by anything else. He married Vestné, and we make

a strong triple alliance. But once in an idle moment I worked out

a theory of marriage. I wished to try a wife built on a different

principle from myself, so I looked toward heaven. You have never been

there, but it is similar to this place. So similar that it is hard to

tell the difference—it is only felt.”

He smiled. Probably he recognised the “only” was superfluous.

“Once, therefore, as I was passing through the earth I happened to

behold a city. And above it I saw a spirit hovering, a lovely, gentle

creature, scarcely formed, except in tender graces and purity of mind.

As she sailed from point to point I followed her, and noticed the

rosy light that glowed about her—her only protection in that harsh

wilderness. I knew at once the place from which she came. I had heard

it made their boast that they would raise up spirits from the dust of

earth like to themselves, and I had laughed the thought to scorn, for

reasons I shall not tell you now.

“And now I saw before me one of these spirit blossoms, flown wild from

heaven, thoughtless of harm or evil, thinking only of sad humanity

grovelling on the ground. I knew that she herself had come from such,

and yet never a more lightsome flower of beauty breathed in air. I drew

nearer, laughing, yet serious. Thought I, ‘I will catch this little

lost jail-bird of mine and carry her down to the place meant for her,

and then they may pipe for the ransom.’ For no thought of pity or

compassion for her helplessness ever came near me. So I caught her.”

He laughed with a mirth which was almost infectious, even to me.

“And in catching her I was caught myself, for I had never realised they

could do things so extremely well up there.”

“What was the result?”

“I have told you. It chanced just at that time we were flying over

neutral ground. And she mistook me for a friend, having never known

an enemy, and turned to give me the kiss of friendship. And I, being

courteous though I reared myself, returned the kiss, but still retained

my prisoner. However, I could not keep her prisoner long, for, truth to

tell, she had imprisoned me. Accordingly, I brought her here, and when

we came to the heavy gates she cried to go away, being only a child.

But, loving me and trusting me, she came even to this great palace

which I had built in lonely deity. Then there came messengers from

heaven, demanding back this daughter, but I refused to give her up,

till at last her father came and begged for her, saying she was but a

child and only brought up for gentle usage. When she saw him she ran to

him with the same outstretched arms which first had welcomed me, and

said that this was heaven if only he would stay and bring the rest.

He looked away and sighed, as well he might, for he knew well that no

clinging bud, however fair and tender, could convert Hell and Heaven to

friendship. But because he saw that we were truly joined he turned to

leave us sadly, and went away. After that she fretted and grew so pure

and fragile that I feared she would dissolve away, having no strength

within herself. I had no power to strengthen her, because there as here

they build up like with like. So the time passed on for many days. She

grew ever tender and more tender, just like some fading wild blossom

blown from the parent stem by March winds in sunny June. And then at

last she lay like some weak child upon the bed which I had woven from

snowy flakes of lilies for her. And as she lay panting in agony, which

by its wrongful name mortals call Death, she took my hand and whispered

she would be happy if she only left a child to take her place. I did

not understand her, but she looked at me with such strange, wistful

eyes that I, as best I could, settled my mind to fathom what she meant.

Just then the bell had tolled for prayer within the prisons. She raised

herself upon her elbow.

“‘I want a child, a little child to hold within my arms,’ she cried,

and never was child’s voice more plaintive or more sweet. And then she

rose from off the bed, light as the beauty which enveloped her.

“‘Take me to the grating,’ she entreated. ‘I would see them pray.’

“I wondered, for this had ever been the bitterest hour to her. But

because I never failed to please her in what I could, I took her

there. It was just at the time when the sulphur fumes were rising and

they all stood looking in hopeless expectation toward the fast-barred

doors. She leant against the grating like one too weak to stand alone.

But suddenly she broke out into the sweetest song the ear of Spirit

ever heard. I listened in surprise and admiration, as never before

had she sung a note. Then, looking down below, scanning the gloomy

columns, I saw amongst the mass one upturned face. ’Twas that of a man

whose prison term expired that night. Next day he returned to earth

to stand another trial, because with great faults unchecked there yet

was that within his nature which preponderated to make him still unfit

for hell. And he fell like some worn traveller towards the altar, and

the last weary sigh escaped his lips, and fled trembling even till it

touched and kissed those notes of purity that thrilled from her.” Here

Vestasian laughed, more softly than before.

“I found myself a dupe again, for the tired spirit, now reft of

everything, even hell’s punishment, ascended through the bars to her

who called it. And as the half-unconscious fragment lay pressed to her

bosom she turned to me.

“‘You may take me back,’ she said, with the contentment of a little

child. So I took her. And there upon the bed she kissed and fondled

this lost soul, and wrapped it in her own pure robe, and then she

kissed me too, and with eyes shining mistily, still fixed on me, she

passed away, taking it with her.”

He paused, but soon continued:—

“So I lost my wife, and lost my prisoner, whom she carried to the

earth and left there, endowed from birth with every spiritual grace,

even from hell’s portal. And when she had gone I wandered about

disconsolate, missing her everywhere. When I learnt no tidings of her I

followed to the gates of Heaven and entered. My shadow fell across the

threshold, for I think the sun was slanting from the hills, and as I

noticed it I—smiled. ‘They will regard me as a stranger,’ I thought,

but still I strode on. At last I came to where her father lived, and

saw her mother spinning by the door.

“‘I have come to seek my wife,’ I said. At this she rose and led me to

the house and went through it to an upper chamber. It was all bowered

in rosy light, and sweet birds carolled at the open windows, for it

was summer time. There she lay upon a silken couch, sleeping like some

pure flower-bell in hazy sunshine. By her side, upon the pillow, lay a

little withered flower I had given her, the only store she had brought

from my vast palace—and it was dead.

“‘She will stay here for many days, and then needs care and

nourishing,’ her mother observed. ‘When she is strong and well again

she will return to you.’

“With what gratitude I could I thanked her, and kissed my winning wife

and went away. Since then, like Proserpine of old, she has come to me

and gone. And ever as she goes, in that last gasping hour of pain,

I take her to the grating and she sings. Every time some dying soul

responds and she is happy, and will make believe that this one is my

child and her own. And because from her lips these words seem sweet I

never question it, but let her have her way; and if I suffer, I suffer

as best I may, in silence like the rest.”

We had stood still beside the lake, and still continued standing,

watching the rippling moonbeams on the water. After a slight pause he

moved along.

“Come,” said he, “let us be off. There! midnight strikes; and as it

echoes, in the far distance, from the wooden cross above the forest

comes the bitter cry of him who had found his God.”

CHAPTER VII

We returned to the Palace, and still found it the centre of life and

brilliancy. I noticed, on entering the large dining-hall in which

supper was served, that neither Plucritus nor Vestné were there.

“Will you stay?” asked Vestasian.

“I think not,” I answered. “I am tired, and not accustomed to many

people. I will return.”

Almost before the words were spoken I found myself alone in my own

chamber.

In one way this evening had been different from the others. It had

given me interest and food for thought. There was about Vestasian none

of that cold languor and chilliness which nearly always distinguished

Vestné, neither did there seem to be the same sneering cruelty that

characterised Plucritus.

Yet as I thought about it the old, old feeling came back upon me by

leaps and bounds, bringing the same old pain.

Now that I was away from him, from his clear voice, and quiet manner,

and curious conversation, I recognised with horrible distrust the

fascination he had held for me. I remembered how I had followed him as

in a dream, seeing with his eyes, hearing almost with his ears, even

arriving at the same thoughts as himself, listening to his stories with

an interest as real as if I had taken part in them. I remembered too

how he had singled me out for his attention, me, a solitary unknown

guest, almost a prisoner, having neither friend nor rank in this great

land.

When, however, the interest and glamour had gone I saw him as he was,

or what I took him for—a terrible power, silent, strong and swift,

covered with a veneer of lightness like all the rest.

Then came the old cursed sense of unreality. For aught I knew this all

might be a dream; I might be suffering like the poet or the sculptor,

or any of the others I had seen.

Like them I stretched out my arms, trying to push the horrid thing

away, because, dream or no dream, the pain was unmistakable to me.

Upon this there came another hard conviction.

None left this gloomy region except through death. Every tortured

spirit lingered, then passed away back to the earth, or some equivalent.

I thought drearily if this would be my end, and laughed aloud, for the

earth knew me not, neither did heaven, and to my own land, branded with

the breath of hell, I could never come.

I recognised more horribly what would be the end. For death to me was

death in entirety, the pitiable weakness of which Plucritus had spoken,

a total dismemberment and absorption by some—yes, why not?—by some

arch-vampire, even perhaps Vestasian, or one of the others.

The more I thought of him the more clearly I discerned his nature.

He had told me to think. Indeed, I might think safely whilst others

laughed. Through all that night I lay awake, hating the coming day,

yet longing for the night to flee away. Towards morning, as the

darkest hour approached, I happened to look across toward the wall.

There a feeble light was flickering. As I looked it died away, and

soon afterwards the dawn broke red and golden. On that I fell asleep,

wearily forgetful of all things till wakened by the slave who waited on

me.

I remember he pressed me once more with many sighs, and even tears, to

wear apparel he had brought for me, but I refused.

On descending to the lower hall I found Plucritus sitting reading. He

was dressed ready for going out, and by his side Vestné sat perusing

a letter. She looked up as I came to them, and the news was evidently

very pleasing to her, for she was smiling. But when she saw me a slight

frown puckered up her brow.

“Good-morning, Genius,” she greeted me at last. “We feared you were not

well, you are so late.”

Plucritus threw the paper away and jumped up, turning to me. “Good—”

but he never finished the salutation; instead, he ended with a violent

“Idiot!” that lost nothing by the change in his tone.

“Well,” said I, “as long as you send me a servant who cannot speak one

word, what can you expect of me?”

“Common sense,” he answered. “Let us have breakfast.”

The meal was not a pleasant one. Afterwards Vestné left us alone; this

hour of the morning seemed one of her busiest. Plucritus led the way to

the library, and when we were there he closed the door.

“Genius,” he said at last, “it is very easy to see what you mean by

appearing like this.”

“I mean nothing,” I replied, “except that I find my own apparel the

more suitable. For my own part I think it is a very childish thing to

quarrel over.”

For a short time there was silence, till at last he asked,—

“How did you like Vestasian?”

“I found him a very interesting companion.”

“More so than me?”

“In many ways, yes.”

“Should you care to change hosts?”

“In that respect I find you pretty equal.”

“I am going to the city this morning, would you care to come with me?”

For one minute I looked at him, then I answered,—

“I care very little about anything. If I must go, I must. If not I

would rather stay.”

He smiled.

“You are altering,” he said, “altering in mind and spirit. Gradually

you will alter altogether, so that none of your past acquaintances will

know you. But there! I forgot, you have no past acquaintances. It was

you, if I remember rightly, who tried to push your own identity upon

someone else, someone very much outside your own station, who could

only regard you in the light of an impudent beggar fit simply for

spurning aside without remark.”

He laughed. “Like most ignorant people,” he continued, “you have great

conceit and assurance and stubbornness, which you mistake for true

determination. And when all these things fail to assist you, you turn

sullen and think yourself ill-used.”

“This is very interesting,” I retorted. “I am learning facts about

myself hitherto unknown. Is it sullenness from which I suffer just at

present?”

“Undoubtedly. You have found some one more than your match and cannot

give in graciously.”

But being dull I made no answer, till at last, seeing he made no effort

to continue, I asked,—

“And who may my match be?”

He shook his head.

“If I told you it might be such a blow to your conceit that you would

scarce recover from it.”

I did not reply. He rose.

“You are losing your one redeeming quality,” he went on. “You never

have an answer ready. When you die we shall raise you a monument and

it shall say, ‘Here lies one who died silently after talking loudly,’

and all those who go by will shake their heads and say it was a bad

practice. But come, let us be off. I wish you to see the great city;

for though you may not know it, I like you better than you think.”

“I am flattered;” and not even dulness could keep bitterness away.

“Now,” said he, when we were outside, “I propose that instead of taking

our journey slowly we take it with the greatest possible speed. There

is nothing to see on the way but what one may see every day; that is,

of course, if one has the wherewithal to travel. What do you propose?”

“I am, as you know, quite at your service. Quickly or slowly, it is all

the same to me.”

“Well, then, we will go quickly.”

With incredible speed we found ourselves within a large cathedral.

Gloomy it was, yet grand, and as we arrived we heard the organ for the

voluntary was playing.

“Why surely,” I cried, gazing about me, “we are back on earth.”

He shook his head.

“No. It’s a good imitation. Splendid, isn’t it?”

“But, pardon me, I recognise this building—”

“One very like it, that is all. This is part of Vestasian’s town house,

and knowing you were coming he has built people up from stunted souls.

He is considerate.”

“At the expense of others.”

“Oh! we are all that,” Plucritus rejoined. He put his arm through

mine. “Come and stand under the shadow of this monument; we can then

see without being seen. But perhaps you would like to say a prayer. We

will go into the choir stalls, there are stools there and the view is

better.”

We went to the stalls he mentioned unnoticed.

By this time Plucritus had recovered his good temper. I never yet had

known him upset for long, since though by nature he never forgave he

never let this interfere with his good-companionship.

“Now,” said he, “look around, do, and don’t miss anything worth seeing.”

“But what is there to see?”

“A church service. And the church and the theatre are much united, so

that when you go to church you see a play, and when you visit a theatre

you see the other thing. Now, observe.”

When we had entered the church had been empty, but now it began to fill.

The first to enter was a most elegantly-gowned woman accompanied by two

children.

She rustled up the central aisle and took her position, as did the

girl and boy to the further side of her. Next she brought out a silver

smelling-salts bottle, and a bottle of scent with a silver stopper, and

other paraphernalia, and set them by the side of her.

“She has nerves,” Plucritus remarked soothingly to me. “Poor thing!

what it must be to be afflicted like that!”

The children, in the meantime, having stared about, began whispering to

one another. She smiled maternally, but let them be.

“Poor little things,” he observed. “What an affliction for them to be

mewed up here.”

“If you talk so loud,” said I, laughing despite myself, for he took

such evident interest in them, “they will hear you.”

“Not they,” he remarked; “they are blind and deaf or they wouldn’t be

here. When the choir comes in we shall have to move away, but we shall

never be seen nor heard. Vestasian and I once stood at either end of

this large building and shouted to one another as loud as we could on

matters secular.”

“And what followed?”

“Nothing appreciable. They sang the Athanasian Creed from memory, I

believe.”

Next came a rather poor girl, who walked up the aisle in a very

undecided way and turned to the left, to a seat opposite the lady.

She knelt down and prayed for a long time, and when she got up

Plucritus noted the time in a little note-book he carried. Then he said

to me,—

“Would you be kind enough to go and see what is the particular scent

that lady carries—eau-de-Cologne or lavender?”

“It won’t be lavender,” I replied, “that’s for the toilet.”

“But we must make sure.”

When I had discovered I returned to him.

“It is eau-de-Cologne, and there is a smaller bottle of wood violet.”

“Out of fashion, but still....” said he, and made a note of it.

Then entered a very respectable-looking gentleman, who at once gave a

tone of staidness to the whole proceedings. And behind him came his

wife, who was matronly and very richly dressed, and behind her came

four children, three girls and a boy, and they all sat down in the pew

behind the elegant lady. The eldest girl curtsied before she went into

the seat at a big crucifix on which Christ was hanging, but it was

lost, except that Plucritus noted it most carefully. Then there came in

three girls all together, and one of them was giggling, and when she

knelt down to pray she giggled more than ever, and then the next began

to titter, and finally the third was overcome also. And still Plucritus

noted it and passed a sketch of it to me, so that I wondered at his

great ability in drawing. Next entered another very, very elegant

woman, and she walked up to the top pew, and when there she crossed

herself and curtsied, and then went in and knelt down and prayed with

her face covered, so that it must have been very real to her.

Next came two young men, who sat on the seat opposite the girls who

giggled, and that somehow or other made them giggle more.

“What are those two young men doing?” asked Plucritus of me.

“So far as I can make out, nothing.”

“I thought so. Did they say any prayer when they came in?”

“I did not notice.”

“You should be more exact. I don’t think they did. At any rate I have

it down that they did not.”

After that a very pompous gentleman with a gold watch-chain arrived.

All the way up the aisle he breathed heavily. He sat down in his place

with an extra sigh, and nodded to his prayer-book, and passed his hand

over the bald place on his head and leant back.

“No prayer again,” criticised Plucritus. “But he does his share in

almsgiving.”

Presently quite a party of ladies and gentlemen entered. They looked as

if they had just come from dinner; they were very elaborately dressed.

The ladies carried fans and wore big picture hats and much jewellery.

Some of the gentlemen had very small prayer-books, that looked like

toys, and were perhaps meant to testify to their clear sight for small

print.

They made quite a bustle as they came in, and many of the people who

had by this time filled up the hinder pews appeared quite awed.

Most of the ladies curtsied before going in the pews, but the gentlemen

did not; they looked bored instead, so that one really wondered what it

was that brought them.

Finally an elderly lady with silvery hair came up the aisle to where

the poorly-clad girl was sitting. As soon as she caught sight of her

she raised a pair of gold pince-nez and gazed at her to see if she

were really there. When she found out that she was there she stood

very straight and a look of extreme hauteur spread over her patrician

features. Without saying anything she went back and brought the verger,

and he explained somewhat brusquely that those were not the free seats.

So the girl got up and came out, and the lady went in and knelt down

and prayed. The verger conducted the girl to where the two young men

were sitting. It was by now the only available seat, as this service

seemed exceedingly popular. She sat down, and one of the young men

coughed.

The organ had just struck up in a jovial key, but not too loud, as the

congregation didn’t like it, and the choir began to appear.

There was a great number of them, boys and men, and five clergymen

followed. As they came the congregation rose, and when they knelt the

congregation knelt, and then they all sat down and waited for the organ

to finish, which it did in due course.

Then they all rose, and the clergyman said, “Enter not into judgment

with thy servant, O Lord! for in thy sight shall no man living be

justified.”

Plucritus, who by this time had moved into the central aisle and stood

gazing about, now wrote down something in his note-book. I looked to

see what it was. It seemed to be just one word—“Evasion.” I think

there was nothing more.

Next began the exhortation, and he walked slowly back and forwards up

the aisle, with his head bent. He could see better that way; he had

a knack of looking out of the corners of his eyes, which at times is

startling to those who do not expect it.

When the exhortation was over all knelt down, except one man who was

lolling in his seat.

Plucritus went up very slowly and quietly and stood beside him for a

second or two, bending his head till his cheek nearly touched the fair

hair. Then he drew back and wrote something, and his lips curled up

into that curious smile of his.

I looked to see what he had written, but he closed the book with a

sharp click and turned round laughing. No one noticed it.

“That was a private memorandum,” he said.

The whole of the service he walked about, never still, yet always

watching. The smile never left his lips as he glided from pillar to

pulpit, and he joined in every ‘Amen’ and led the Creed, even before

the pastor. As the last blessing was being pronounced he went up into

the pulpit and beckoned me to follow. I went, and we looked down upon

the vast gathering. He leant upon the Bible and studied them. Suddenly

the brilliant lights went out, and in the total darkness a harsh red

light began to rise. Beneath us every form had changed, and hideous

demons were shouting, and gesticulating, and leaping from pew to pew.

At last the whole church crashed down like a well-built pack of cards

which has stood some pretty strong rebuffs, and upon the shattered

ruins stood the Spirit who accompanied me: like some great god, one

foot upon the broken crucifix and one upon the topmost fallen spire.

Every wretched soul fled out into the darkness, and he, remaining,

laughed aloud.

Then he turned to me those deep, inhuman eyes, flashing with brilliant

fire.

“Was I wrong?” Plucritus asked, and laughed again. “I shall not be

judged. The merciful Master who excuses one, excuses all. Take me to

that God above myself, that blind power, who year by year and century

by century allows himself to be befooled, and fools.

“Let me see the four and twenty elders and the beasts with eyes, let

me see the horses dashing o’er the ground, and view that lamb—that

little bleating lamb—that sits beside Him on the throne. Let me hear

the senseless Hallelujahs! and the fanatic cry. Let me see the coarse

and vulgar flatterers who crowd around, more fulsome than the meanest

courtier that ever crawled towards a monarch’s throne. Take me to this

God Almighty, this God all-powerful, this God all-merciful, this God

all-seeing and all-hearing. This God all Truth and God all lies. This

Power omnipotent. This Is and Am and Ever-shall-be from Was eternal.

Take me to Him and let me look at Him, if not from the front, then from

the back, for I have never seen Him.”

I watched him at every line he spoke, and saw the gibe and sneer that

marked each sentence.

“You blame them for that which you yourself have formulated.”

“Not I. I blame them for their tawdriness, their mockery, their

arrogant vulgarity. It is none of me nor mine.”

“Yet it is the result of your work.”

He laughed scornfully, then answered whimsically, “But God made me.

His is the greater sin. For I am like the disrespectful son, who, when

accused of ill, speaks of heredity, and blames his father. For I was

good until I sinned, and when I sinned I looked into the past life of

him who made me, and I found that all was quite respectable and quiet,

and the paternal smile still beamed the milder, hiding the devil’s

frown which feared detection underneath.”

He stood still looking round and laughing.

“Had they but known my power to smash their Church I think they would

have prayed to me instead,” he went on. “I was their God Omnipotent

their Lord most merciful, the author of their being and their king.

Yet they despised and knew me not. They mocked my power, would not

acknowledge me, and prayed to be delivered from my kingdom—licking

the very golden dust about my feet the while. Have I not forgiven them

time on time? have I not overlooked their follies? Led them gently

by the still waters, soothed their stricken consciences, smoothed

their guilty paths? Have I not given them gifts for slander, kindness

for contempt—and what is my reward? They renounce me—me and all

my works—the pomps and vanities of the world I gave them and those

delightful pleasures born from flesh. What a thankless office then is

mine! I who give all and get nothing but renunciation for all that I

have done. Why, even the poorest worm of earth would turn beneath the

treatment, and transforming itself into the snake or serpent take God’s

voice and utter blasphemy. I, Lucifer, son of the Light, son of the

Morning, son of God, an you will, how meek am I become to let mankind

walk over me and pry into hell to see my chains and weakness.”

He spoke in that low, contemptuous voice that had the power to cut like

knives.