CHAPTER XIV.

THE WEDDING-GIFT.

It was not so difficult, after this, to make the necessary explanations

and apologies. Sir Philip had heard about Captain Bramston before,

though Hilda had not; and, in the bottom of his heart, he did not

object to regard him in the light of a possible son-in-law. But it

would not do to confess this just at present. Captain Bramston had

stood to his guns, and, on the spot where he stood, had declared his

love for Hilda Kildhurm, and demanded Sir Philip's consent to their

betrothal.

'I can give you nothing of the kind, sir,' replied the Baronet,

endeavouring to look immitigable. 'Your request is as premature as--as

it is contrary to sound principle. Anyone would suppose, Captain

Bramston, that you expected the world to come to an end by to-morrow

morning, by the haste you are in to have your affairs settled!'

'In this case, Sir Philip,' replied the Captain, with equal respect

and firmness, 'sound principle is of no use. The falling in love is an

accomplished fact. The next thing to settle is the date of the wedding.'

'Upon my word, Captain Bramston,' the Baronet exclaimed, 'if you are

as pushing in war as you seem to be in other matters, you should have

been a general long ago. But we will, if you please, dismiss this

subject for the present. I am in no hurry to lose my daughter in the

first place, and moreover, in an affair of this nature, I could not

think of deciding anything without consulting Lady Kildhurm, my mother.'

Lady Kildhurm and Hilda had withdrawn during this colloquy between the

gentlemen, and Hilda had gone into the house. But as the Baronet and

Captain Bramston, still conversing earnestly, slowly made their way

across the lawn, they were suddenly aware that Lady Kildhurm was again

near them. They halted, and were silent.

She was, at this time, almost at the extreme limit of old age; yet her

eyes were clear and her bearing dignified; and so far from her mental

infirmity having become exaggerated, it had grown year by year less

obtrusive, though she was at least as far as ever from being on normal

terms with the material world. She lived in a world of her own; but

she accommodated the latter to the former more easily than before. So

serene and unexaggerated were her tones and gestures, that a stranger

would hardly have suspected that she was virtually unconscious of what

most people call the realities of life.

When the venerable sibyl was within a yard or so of Harold Bramston,

she paused, with her face and the palms of her hands turned towards

him: and without seeming to look at him in the usual way, she still had

the air of taking his measure so keenly and fully, that, unless the

Captain's conscience was cleaner than most men's, he must have passed

an uneasy minute or two. But at length the sibyl raised her hands

slowly and let them fall again with a gesture like a benediction; and

the expression of her face was gracious as she said, in a gentle and

flowing voice:

'He that rode over the Convent Cliff was a true man; and a spirit akin

to his is here. If the treasure reveal itself to him, let him take it:

he is worthy of it. I have waited long, I am weary. Lord, now speedily

wilt Thou suffer me to depart. So be it!'

At this undeniable declaration in the young Captain's favour, Sir

Philip felt a great deal more satisfaction than he was at all disposed

to show; and the end of it was that the two lovers were allowed to

stroll off by themselves beneath the Oak, and there formally to

renew and re-seal the compact, in the making of which the Baronet

had so aptly surprised them. That evening, after Hilda had gone to

her chamber, the Baronet and Captain had a private confabulation in

the former's study. The Captain then and there made a full statement

regarding his position in the world, more particularly from the

pecuniary point of view. It appeared that his circumstances were more

than easy; that he had absolute control over nearly a hundred and

fifty thousand pounds; and that he was prepared to settle any part of

this sum, or the whole of it, according as Sir Philip pleased, on his

wife, on the day of their marriage. He only wished that he could do

something more.

'I must say, Bramston,' exclaimed Sir Philip, laughing, 'that you are

more dangerously in love than any man I ever saw or heard of. You must

go off somewhere for a month and see if you can't get rid of a little

of it. I shall positively refuse to sign settlements with a man in so

pitiable a condition as you are now. Recollect, my good fellow, that

Hilda goes to you literally penniless; and that I never should feel

comfortable if I had not left open to you every avenue of escape in my

power. Besides, don't you see that you will be paying one another a

finer mutual compliment by waiting a while and seeking distractions,

than by coming together at once, and so losing all opportunity of

making sacrifices? Well, whether you see it or not, those are my

orders, and you will have to put up with them.'

'You will of course allow us to correspond?' demanded the Captain, when

he saw that he was beaten on the main point.

'I should greatly prefer not.'

'Then I will write to her, Sir Philip, in spite of you!' cried out the

other, firing up.

'Oh, very well: in that case I agree,' rejoined Sir Philip with a

twinkle in his eyes. 'You may write to her five times in the course

of the month--choosing your own times, whether all in one day, or once

in every six. But are you sure a month will be long enough to get your

affairs in order?'

'Oh, Sir Philip! And they are in order. They have been in charge of a

friend of mine for three years past. I shall have a look through his

accounts, so as to see exactly where I stand--that will take me about

three hours I should say--and then I shall have nothing else to do

until the month is up. Six times a week am I to write, did you say? Why

not make it six times a day?'

'Ha, ha, ha! But as regards this friendly man of business of yours. You

are quite certain he is trustworthy? That's a lot of property to leave

out of your hands for three years, especially if you only require three

hours in which to look through the accounts!'

'I trust him, dear Sir Philip, as I trust myself. If you only knew

him----'

'Quite right! if I only knew him of course I should not have made

the inquiry. As it is--having known what it was to lose money in my

youth--I did make it! And now, Captain Bramston, as I can't ask you to

spend the night here, I must bid you good-bye. I shall be glad to see

you back, safe and sound, when your month is up; and I won't pretend to

say that I don't believe you'll come, and that Hilda won't expect you.

As for the money-matters, of course it's a capital thing to have a rich

son-in-law; but I must confess that I should have liked you a good

deal better if honours had been a little more equally divided!'

On these terms the two gentlemen parted; little anticipating what was

to happen.

Hilda received her first letter on the day following her lover's

departure, he having written it on his way to London, and despatched it

back to her by special messenger. She did not expect a letter on the

next day, nor on the next, and not much on the day after that; and this

was well, for on no one of these days did a letter come. A week passed,

and no letter. Ten days, and no letter. Two weeks, and still no letter.

It was now apparent, even to Sir Philip, who had affected to make great

fun of her at first, that something must have happened. The address

which Captain Bramston had given had been at his business manager's;

Sir Philip privately sent a messenger thither, to make inquiries; but

at the end of the third week the messenger returned, and brought with

him the astounding news that there were no news to bring! Nothing

was known at the address given either of the manager or of Captain

Bramston. Was the man dead, or an impostor, or had he simply changed

his mind? It was at all events plain that he would never again show his

face at Kildhurm Tower.

It was necessary, therefore, to have a very painful interview with

Hilda. Poor Sir Philip recoiled at the prospect; but it was not to be

avoided; and at last he sent for her, and having taken her by both

hands and kissed her, he opened his mouth to begin. But she suddenly

and quietly laid her hand upon his lips.

'I know what you are going to say, father, and you need not say it.'

'You have given him up, then? That's my brave girl!'

'I have not given him up. He is the same to me as ever, and I to him.

I feel that he is true. I should know if he was not. You need not

be uneasy or angry, dear father; and above all you need not try to

persuade me that this is not so. He will come back; and we shall be

happier even than we thought of being before.'

'Has my mother spoken?' demanded Sir Philip, after a long pause.

'She believes as I do: but it is not from her belief that I believe; it

is from myself.'

'I shall not contradict you, my daughter,' said Sir Philip, after

another silence. 'I will even say that it is possible--as everything is

possible--that you may be right. But one thing I must ask of you. How

long do you mean to hope? What day will you call the last?'

'The last day of the month to be sure, father. That is the day on which

he will come.'

'What makes you say that, my daughter?'

'Because that is the day on which he promised to come!' returned Hilda

with an involuntary smile. 'Do you think Harold would not keep his

promise?'

The last day of the month came, and Hilda appeared with her best frock

on, and with fresh flowers in her hair. 'He will be here at dinner,'

she said; and she made her arrangements accordingly, setting a chair

for him, and decorating that and his plate with leaves and blossoms.

Sir Philip looked on with a heavy heart; but he held his peace. The

faith of his child appalled him, but he dared not share it, and the

moment was not yet come to repudiate it. His agitation was so great

that he strove in vain to conceal it: but Hilda, though her colour was

high and her eyes bright, was as calm and confident as if her lover had

arrived the day before. Dinner time drew near; and, shortly before the

hour struck, Harold appeared at the door as if by magic.

Sir Philip started up from his chair with a great hoarse shout, and

remained stationary. Hilda came up to her lover, threw her arms about

his neck, and kissed him heartily! As for Harold, he looked haggard and

grim, and he made scarce a show of returning Hilda's caress.

'Come, now, sit down,' she said, in the most natural and sensible way

in the world, 'and tell us why you have not written, and what all this

trouble has been about!'

'It is better that I should tell you at once,' said Harold, in a husky

voice. 'All the money that I had is gone. I am almost a beggar. The

friend whom I trusted....' He stopped for a few moments and then went

on, 'I followed him--all this month until to-day I have been hunting

after him; but he is gone, and all is gone; and I am come, Sir Philip,

to release your daughter from her engagement, and to be gone also.'

So saying Captain Bramston got up from the chair in which he had

unconsciously seated himself, and stood with his head bent, and his

eyes on the floor.

Hilda broke into an irrepressible little laugh. 'How silly you are,

Harold,' she said, 'to make so much fuss about a little money! Nobody

paid us to fall in love with each other, and why should we be paid to

be married?'

Harold raised his face, now flushed to the roots of his hair, and his

eyes burning. 'But what say you, Sir Philip?' he cried in a sharp,

ringing voice.

'I say I should marry her, if I were in your place,' answered the

Baronet, with humorous indifference; 'and the next time you get a

fortune, take better care what you do with it. Meanwhile, shake

hands, my dear boy; and let me observe that I'm uncommonly glad (and

surprised) to see you.'

'Your happiness is near,' said Lady Kildhurm, who had entered the room

so quietly that none of the three had noticed her. 'To-night the spell

is broken. The saying shall be made perfect. It shall be well with

you, and with me. To-morrow, early in the morning, search the Oak.'

On that night all in the household were visited by strange dreams; and

through the dreams they heard a sound of a voice chanting a weird song,

and rising higher and clearer; until at last there came a deep booming

sound like thunder: and after that the chant was heard no more.

In the morning, early, Harold and Hilda went out, and walked arm-in-arm

to the cliff where the Oak had stood. But lo! the Oak was gone. The

overhanging promontory on which it grew had parted from the main land

during the night, wrenching the mighty tree with it. But the ocean had

received the tree in its arms, and had carried it away, never again

to be seen by mortal eyes. For the waves had been the friends of the

mysterious Oak from the beginning; and they had drawn a veil of solemn

mystery over its end.

But where was the ancient sibyl? She too had vanished, singing her

wild chant; perhaps to find in another world the treasure whereof she

had prophesied so long on this earth. At all events, no one ever saw

her living or dead, after that night; and it came to be believed that

she had been borne on her last journey amidst the branches of the tree

which she had made her home.

But on the brink of the freshly-made chasm still stood a tall and

rugged fragment of the Oak, which had remained in its place when the

bulk of the tree was wrenched away. High up in this fragment there

appeared a narrow and deep crevice or hole, now revealed, section-wise,

by the rending asunder of the wood. At the bottom of this hole was

seen a small wallet of embroidered leather: and when Harold shook the

fragment of the tree, the wallet fell from its place, and bursting open

on the ground, a flash of precious stones greeted the lovers' wondering

eyes. Amidst the stones was found the lost signet ring of Norman

Kildhurm.

In that narrow hole, therefore, these gems must have rested ever since

the felonious right hand of Sir Norman had placed them there. But he,

hurriedly striving to withdraw his hand, was caught by the narrow mouth

of the hole; and fancying, in his guilty fear, that the demon of the

Oak had got hold of him, he had screamed three times in uncontrollable

terror, and had torn himself loose, mangling his hand, and leaving

his signet ring behind. And the desperate vehemence of his effort had

caused him to overbalance himself; so he fell backward through the

branches to the ground, and his neck had been miserably broken by the

fall. Such, at least, is the commonly accepted explanation of that dark

catastrophe.

But to whom belonged the jewels thus strangely brought to light?

Harold, as the nearest living relative of the murdered Colonel, was

his legitimate heir; to him, accordingly, the long-deferred but most

opportune inheritance came. To tell all that he did with it would

require a new story. Whatever it was, it was done with the approval

of his unworldly-wise wife, and of the worldly-wise Sir Philip, his

father-in-law. For, after the days of mourning for the vanished Lady

Kildhurm were over, Harold and Hilda were married, and lived together

in much happiness, though they were never able to agree as to which had

the best of the other in the matter of settlements. In process of time

they became the parents of the child who grew up to be the beautiful

Lady Mainwaring of our own day, and who, as has been intimated, deigned

to furnish so modern a person as the present writer with the materials

for this history of Kildhurm's Oak.

THE NEW ENDYMION.

I.

The term was over, and William Maybold had got his double first.

Under certain circumstances, and especially in youth, the mind

becomes abnormally sensitive to impressions of all kinds. Severe and

long-continued study, a light diet, lack of exercise, and a superfluity

of anxiety, had combined to bring my mental man into a condition

somewhat resembling the ascetic ecstasy ascribed to the monks of old

time--a condition in which the young men see visions and the old men

dream dreams. In other words, I had overworked myself, and my health,

never very robust, now seemed to run some risk of breaking down

altogether. My brain was in a state of nervous exaltation; my hands

were thin and tremulous; my nights were disturbed by strange dreams,

and even by occasional somnambulism; and I no longer felt energy to

undertake the long walks which had been my panacea for bodily ailments.

It seemed likely that my university honours might turn out to have been

bought at too high a price.

My doctor, having felt my pulse, furnished me with the somewhat

gratuitous information that what I needed was rest--rest absolute and

persistent, bodily and mental: to dream beneath green trees; to linger

by still waters; to forget that such things as books and knowledge

existed; to think of nothing, and converse with nobody more stimulating

than birds, beasts, country yokels, and speckled trout. Anything in the

shape of newspapers, railways, days of the week or month, or, in fact,

of time and civilisation in general, were to be entirely ignored. I was

to establish a sort of rural eternity for myself, and to forget that

such a thing as a nineteenth century had ever been born.

I was wholly persuaded of the soundness of this advice; the trouble

was, I had not 'go' enough left in me to follow it. I wanted somebody

to give me a shove in the required direction. Unfortunately, I was

almost alone in the world, and could think of no quarter whence the

external impetus might be expected. I had made few intimate friends in

the university, and none of a temperament at once idle and energetic

enough to provide the sort of companionship I needed. I was an only

child, and my widowed mother had died about a year previous, leaving

me an empty house somewhere in the suburbs of London, a comfortable

competence, and no relations that I could remember ever to have seen. I

was as solitary in the midst of the populous earth as if I had changed

places with the man in the moon.

I was doing my situation less than justice, however. Just as I had

begun to subside into I know not what sluggish depths of despondency, I

received a letter which put a new face upon matters, and lent a fillip

to my jaded mood such as awakened me to something like liveliness. The

letter was from an uncle of mine, whose very existence had been almost

mythical to me, for he was a recluse and an eccentric, who never went

anywhere, and lived in an out-of-the-way place, where nobody ever went.

As his communication was brief and to the point, I will give it here at

full length:

'DEAR NEPHEW,--If your studies have left you brains enough to

apprehend the vanity of double firsts and their consequences, come

to me and let me look at you. If I like your looks you may stay

here a month or two. You will see the country, Diana, and the

stars; you will hear the winds, the birds, and the brook; and of

the world you have hitherto lived in you will see and hear nothing.

I shall expect you the day after to-morrow.--Your uncle,

'PHILIP NORMAN.'

I allowed myself no doubts as to this invitation, but wrote an

acceptance by return of post. The rest of the day was spent in packing

my trunk and making arrangements for my absence. It was only on the

evening preceding departure, when all preparations were complete, that

I found time to sit down and recall what little I knew of my uncle

Philip, and to forecast the kind of life I might expect with him. He

was my mother's brother, and I remember hearing that he had quarrelled

with her on the occasion of her marriage some twenty-five years ago.

Later on, he had himself married, but his wife had died in childbirth

within the year, leaving him with an infant daughter--presumably the

Diana referred to in his letter. But 'Diana--and the stars'--what was

the meaning of that? Was my worthy relative a dabbler in astrology--a

devotee of forbidden sciences? The idea moved me strangely. I had

always been an imaginative youth, and nothing had stimulated the boyish

poetry of my nature so much as the beauty and mystery of the heavenly

bodies. I loved to speculate as to whether they were inhabited, and,

if so, by what sort of beings: I loved to believe that they exercised

some inscrutable influence over human destinies; that, at all events,

the fortunes of our earth were connected with them in some manner

whereof the attraction of gravitation was but the material symbol.

Such speculations used to inspire me with a feeling at once of

insignificance and of exaltation; and I deemed that my life could not

be spent more wisely and worthily than in pondering over these secrets

of the stars, and striving to solve the problem of their affinity

with man. As I grew up, however, the course of my education drew me

away from the region of these fancies; not without a vague sentiment

of disappointment, I learned to open the gates of practical knowledge

with the key of inductive reasoning; and the mystic enchantment of

those heavenly suns and planets was half destroyed by the rude facts of

spectrum analysis, and the ingenious calculations of distances, orbits,

and dimensions. Astronomy, with its certainties and its syllogisms,

repelled me: it revealed too much, and yet nothing to my purpose. I

hated the impertinence of him who would tell me the density of Jupiter,

the composition of Sirius, and the names of the mountains in the moon.

To my sense, such petty knowledge was worse than no knowledge at all,

and I was shocked by the self-complacent irreverence of its professors.

Better, thought I, than these were the astrologers of yore, with their

statistical ignorance, their spiritual insight, and their humble faith.

They, at least, appreciated the awful solemnity that should attend the

thought of other worlds, material, perhaps, as our own, yet for ever

separated from us by a chasm as profound and as mysterious as death.

Away with the modern man of science, ready primed with his dapper

theories, who cares not to meditate upon the divine reason which placed

that eternal gulf between the moon and us, but fancies he has disposed

of the whole matter by informing us just how many miles and furlongs

it measures across! Can he learn no loftier lesson from the ghastly

majesty of that weird sphere?

With such prejudices against astronomy as distinguished from astrology,

it is no wonder that I shunned the former as much as possible, both at

school and at college. Though I could not avoid acquiring a certain

familiarity with the phraseology and the general principles of the

science, what I learned took no root in my mind, but remained lifeless

and barren. It was my intention to improve the earliest opportunity of

clearing it out altogether, and then to endeavour to regain, so far

as might be possible, the poetical superstitions of my earlier time.

Deliberate recantations of this kind are not, however, so practical as

we fain would have them, and, until I read that chance sentence about

the stars in my uncle's letter, I had really bestowed little or no

serious consideration upon the matter. But his words, and the memories

and reflections to which they gave rise, produced in me a singular

excitement, which my abnormal state of health doubtless did much to

foster. My sleep that night was more than usually disturbed, and when,

the next day, I started for my uncle's house, I was in a tremor of

indefinite expectation that was anything but healthful.

II.

The railway station at which I alighted was, the porter told me, about

seven miles distant from Mr. Norman's place. This information rather

staggered me, as there were no cabs in that part of the world, and

walking, for one in my state of health, was quite out of the question.

Just then, however, a country waggon drove up to the station door, with

a stout, serviceable bay mare between the shafts. The elderly farmer

who handled the reins threw them on the mare's back, and, clambering to

the ground, faced about and abruptly asked me whether I were William

Maybold.

'Yes,' I said, amused at his rustic bluntness; 'were you sent here by

Mr. Philip Norman?'

'I'm to drive you to his house,' replied the man, gruffly. 'Get up,

sir. Got any luggage?'

'Only that trunk; can you lift it?'

I needed scarcely have asked the question. My farmer, though not of any

great height, was as broad and muscular as an old Roman gladiator, and

he swung the trunk into the back of the waggon as easily as if it had

been a lady's handbox. He was in every respect a fine type of the men

of that region. His face was dark, and ruggedly moulded, and the deep

lines which traversed it gave it an expression of sternness, which the

gruffness of his tones in speaking seemed to confirm. His grizzled

black hair was cropped short round the lower part of his head; the

crown--as I noticed when he took off his hat to wipe his forehead--was

bald; and he wore a great shaggy beard like a prophet. But the

remarkable features of his face were his eyes, which were large and

dark, and had the steady, distant look in them that is often observable

in the eyes of seafaring men. They seemed to have beheld sights beyond

ordinary human ken.

'I suppose you know Mr. Norman?' I said to my companion as we drove

away.

'Yes; I have charge of his garden.'

'He sees very little of the world, I believe?'

'There are more worlds than one, young man.'

As I did not know exactly what to make of this reply, I was silent,

and gave my attention to the country through which we were passing. It

was fertile, and rich in verdure, but the houses were very scarce. The

road we were travelling wound considerably, but constantly ascended,

and bade fair to land us at last on the summit of a commanding

eminence. The prospect constantly widened around us as we proceeded,

and its beauty, as it reposed in the mellow splendour of the afternoon

sunshine, so wrought upon me that at length I let slip some exclamation

of delight.

'Can a Cockney care for this?' demanded the farmer, fixing his eyes

upon me for a moment.

'I'm not infatuated with London,' I answered, laughing. 'I've travelled

farther away from it than this, before now.'

'Ay, London's not the world, young man, and the world is not the

universe,' rejoined my companion, whom I now began to recognise as a

'character.' After a pause, he added, 'Have you seen the Alps?'

'More than once.'

'What did they make you feel?'

'I think their loneliness and silence impressed me most. I felt that

they were very mighty, and I very little.'

For what reason I could not imagine, this answer appeared to please the

dark-browed farmer. He nodded his head once or twice, and murmured in a

deep, inward voice 'Ay--right--right! But there are mountains wilder,

and mightier, and lonelier than they.'

'You are a traveller yourself, then?' I exclaimed, surveying him with a

new interest 'You have been a sailor, perhaps?'

'I have sailed a wide ocean and a deep one; and I have seen distant

lands; yet I have never set foot off the shore of England,' was the

reply.

Again I was silenced. There was something decidedly mysterious in the

tone of this man's conversation. What did he mean by his talk of other

worlds, and of visiting foreign countries without leaving his own? I

should have set him down as perhaps a little wrong in the head, had

not the stern self-possession and utter absence of extravagance in his

manner discountenanced such a supposition. On the other hand, he was

manifestly a man of some education and even refinement. His dress was

rude enough, but his speech was accurate, and his face, despite its

ruggedness, was sensitive to the play of thought within. It occurred

to me that he might be a spiritualist, and that the strange lands to

which he alluded might be the visions of mesmeric trance. Yet no; there

was in him no trace of the morbid and unwholesome restlessness of the

confirmed disciples of that unlucky science. What, then, was he?

I looked round at him as I asked this question of myself, and met those

far-seeing eyes of his directed upon me with something like a grave

smile lurking at their bottom. This smile quite changed the impression

of his visage, illumining it with a genial light that was singularly

winning. It brought a sudden memory to my mind.

'You take me for a lunatic, young man,' said he; 'well, in a certain

way, perhaps I am one. You must ask your uncle.'

'I dare say he could tell me as much about you as anyone,' I replied,

returning his smile; 'for I believe you are my uncle, yourself!'

'What makes you think that?'

'You smile as my mother used to do.'

At the mention of my mother his face saddened again, and he sighed;

but after a moment, 'Well, my boy, you have found me out,' he said,

patting me kindly on the shoulder. 'I wished to meet you as a man

before I greeted you as a nephew. You seem to be an honest fellow,

though you have but a flimsy body to carry your honesty about with. I

am glad to see you here.'

There was so much quiet heartiness in this welcome, that I felt at home

with my relative at once. He now talked with me more freely, asking

many particulars about my mother and myself, and indulging in no more

of those enigmatical utterances which had made him seem so questionable

at first. In this manner we slowly wound our way to the top of the long

acclivity, and after driving a level mile or so, I saw the summit of a

lofty stone tower peering above the trees.

'That is my travelling-carriage,' said Uncle Philip, pointing to the

tower with his whip. 'The house stands beside it; we shall see it when

we have turned that corner.'

'His travelling-carriage!' thought I. But reflecting that all these

enigmas could not fail to explain themselves under the influence of my

month's sojourn, I held my peace for the present; and in another minute

we had come in full view of the dwelling. It adjoined the tower, and,

like it, was built of grey stone. It was an old farmhouse, of no great

size, with a red-tiled roof and gabled ends; a clustered brick chimney

divided the ridgepole, and two dormer-windows pushed themselves up

above the low eaves. The windows beneath were cut down to the ground,

and served as supplementary doors: they opened vertically, and from

within was a glimpse of pleasant, low-ceiled rooms. As for the tower,

which was half draped with ivy, it was evidently a much more ancient

structure than the house; it must have been at least seventy feet in

height, and its top rose well above the trees; and standing as it did

on the highest point of ground for many a mile round about, it would

overlook an amazing expanse of country.

'You are very near the moon, up there!' I remarked; and then I caught

sight of a figure standing in the open doorway, which immediately

commanded every faculty of my mind to the one function of looking.

III.

The waggon drew up to the door. 'Jump down, sir,' said my uncle.

'Diana,' he continued, 'this is your cousin William. I think you may

trust him.'

She came forward and gave me her hand--it was soft, and smooth, and

slender. She conquered me with the first glance of her great hazel

eyes. Her whole figure and bearing were goddess-like, and withal

completely feminine. She was well-named after the chaste huntress of

mythology. I never saw a woman's form at once so stately, so supple,

and so refined.

Her pale auburn hair was massed over her low forehead like the crescent

moon. Her nose was straight and delicate, her cheeks oval, her mouth

curved like a bow, her chin round and white. She was dressed in white,

with a black bow at her throat, and a black sash round her waist; and

a black velvet ribbon bound her hair. She was tall, but not too tall;

and the lines of her figure were at once graceful and severe. She would

have impressed me at any time and in any place; but in this secluded

spot, and in my condition of peculiar sensitiveness, she came upon me

almost like a being from a superior world. The ordinary daylight seemed

too rude and familiar for her. She should have dwelt, methought, under

the mystic influences of the moon; the original reserve and innocent

dignity of her demeanour were somehow suggestive of the pure cold

glamour of that strange companion of our earth.

While her father took the waggon round to the stable, she led me within

doors, and made me sit down in the pleasant little parlour. It was full

of the odour of flowers.

'You look tired, Cousin Will,' said she. 'It is a long way from London

here.'

'It seems so, indeed. If I had journeyed to another planet, all this

could not seem more fresh and delightful. Have you ever been there?'

'In London? Oh no; why should I? I was born here, and this is my home.'

True enough, London with its smoke and turmoil was no place for this

young sibyl. Her beautiful feet were made to tread nothing lower than

mountain-tops. I asked her whether many people visited them here.

'Last year we saw a great many--twelve, I believe,' she answered quite

simply, as if the population of the earth were but a small multiple of

that number. 'But they were all scientific persons, who came to find

out about our discoveries. You are not scientific?'

'No, indeed! I am nothing--only a young man.'

'You are the first young man I have seen.'

'I wish I were a better specimen!' I said rather ruefully. 'They are

not all like me, I assure you!'

She turned upon me the full gaze of her changing eyes, and I felt that

she was looking very far into me. After a pause she said thoughtfully,

'It is strange! You look a little--yes, a great deal--like.... Are you

like your mother?'

'I believe more like my father.'

She shook her head, still thoughtfully. Then, rousing herself, she said

with a smile, 'You look pale and tired; but that we shall cure you of.'

'Why I begin to feel cured already, what with this pure air and--and

all! But tell me, Cousin Diana, what are these discoveries you speak

of?'

At this question her face became quite grave again, and she answered

with a somewhat altered manner, and a lower intonation, as though

touching upon a subject invested with a kind of sacredness:

'We do not speak of it to strangers--that is, we never speak of it. But

you are not a stranger: and father said I might trust you: and--I think

I may! Well, you shall know in good time.'

At this juncture my uncle came in.

'Now, nephew, your room is ready for you. You and Diana have had time

enough to become good cousins, I hope? Very well, come up and get ready

for dinner. This way!'

He conducted me along a passage to a narrow door, on opening which a

winding staircase was discovered. Ascending this--a somewhat weary

journey for me--my uncle paused on the third landing and ushered me

into a nearly circular room, fitted and furnished with dark carved

wood. Two or three dusky oil-portraits hung on the walls--which last,

judging from the deep embrasures of the windows, must have been of

extraordinary thickness; and the massive groined ceiling seemed

designed to support a vast superincumbent weight.

'This is the lower chamber,' observed my uncle. 'As long as you stay

with us it will be yours.'

'I'm not turning you out of your travelling-carriage, Uncle Philip?'

'That's overhead,' he answered, with a smile. 'After dinner, if

the evening turns out clear, you may go up there, and try a little

excursion.'

A light began to dawn upon my slow wits.

'It is an observatory!' I exclaimed. 'You are an astronomer?'

'Yes and no. I have been an astronomer, but only as a necessary

condition to being something higher than that. But I gave it up, for

the most part, years ago: I found myself growing old--my mind losing

its delicacy of perception. Diana is the master now: and she--if she

chooses--may indoctrinate you in the mysteries.' And nodding kindly to

me, he shut the door and was gone.

He had not left me without food for reflection. I now understood--or

at all events I had the key to--all that had puzzled me from the time

I received his note of invitation down to the present hour. 'Diana

and the stars' were to be my entertainment here: well--nothing,

certainly, could so well have suited my own inclinations. The lore of

the heavens, followed in such companionship, would be heavenly lore

indeed! My aversion from astronomy now appeared to me unreasonable;

or, rather, my uncle's words had enabled me to assign to astronomy its

true place--that of an instrument to the study of 'something higher.'

And Diana was the master--of this loftier science, that is. It was not

likely, indeed, that my beautiful cousin would be content to spend her

time in the pursuit of mere technical details; but, on the other hand,

who was so fitted as she to enjoy a sort of imaginative existence among

those far-shining planets, divining their strange secrets, and catching

the aroma of their marvellous life? These, then, were the journeys to

which my uncle had figuratively alluded; the seas that he had crossed

were the profound abysses of space, and the foreign countries that he

had visited were foreign in the largest sense. The longer I reflected

upon the romantic conditions of this life, the more powerfully did it

seize on my imagination; I seemed to have a glimpse of possibilities

beyond what had hitherto been deemed the limits of human attainment;

the thought of what they had perhaps dared to know made my hand tremble

and my breath come fast. That discovery that Diana had mentioned--was

it not some device whereby the magnifying power of the telescope had

been vastly increased, enabling the student to behold sights such as

man had scarcely as yet dreamed of? Oh, in that stone-built chariot

of theirs, fast-bound to the whirling earth, what ineffable mysteries

might not Philip Norman and Diana have explored! And now--was I to be

admitted the companion of their sublime voyages?

To calm my excitement, I threw open the window, and, leaning upon the

broad window-sill, looked out. The sun, swathed in clouds of golden

dust, was just about to vanish behind the mighty shoulder of the

glowing world. Beneath me stretched a wide and fertile plain, broken by

hills, variegated with woods and fields, and dotted here and there with

towns and hamlets. All the happiness and homely prosperity of human

lives were there, at home in the bosom of benevolent nature, busied

with lowly cares, ignorant and careless of aught beyond the familiar

earth on which they were born, which yielded them food and raiment, and

which at death resolved their mortal parts into itself again. Beautiful

and peaceful was the prospect to look upon; beautiful and peaceful

might be the lot of him who should cast his lines in those pleasant

places, nor ever vex his soul with loftier things. And I myself, not

longer ago than yesterday, would have been well content to settle down

in some such fruitful valley, basking in the sunshine by day, sleeping

dreamlessly by night, and not at any time caring to lift my eyes above

the horizon rim. But that yesterday was gone for ever. To-day, in the

stone chamber overhead, hung poised, I knew, the wondrous engine framed

to overcome all space. What interest had this earth compared to the

sights that piercing crystal eye had looked upon? Penetrating by its

aid into the depths of the universe, the spirit would breathe a finer

air and rise to grander heights than any known to earthly experience.

Already I felt myself impatient of my corporeal trammels, and longed to

push aside the veil that separated me from those far-off worlds. And

now, happening to glance eastwards, I saw, pallid amidst the darkening

blue, the great white moon stealing upwards like a ghost, solitary,

silent, and inscrutable!

IV.

A hand laid upon my shoulder caused me to start nervously. I turned,

and met the grave dark eyes of my uncle Philip.

'What are you dreaming about, young fellow?' said he. 'How pale and

nervous you are! We shall have to put you on a strict regimen, I see:

early hours and plenty of milk to drink. Come, let's see what sort of

an appetite you can show!'

'Would not you feel rather at a loss, Uncle Philip, if the moon were to

drop out of the sky some day?'

'I see your mind is running on the observatory,' he returned, with his

short deep laugh. 'Ask Diana! She knows more about the moon than I

do--or than anyone else does, for that matter.'

The conversation at dinner was not, however, much more transcendental

than is customary on such occasions in England. Diana said but little;

and her father and I kept our feet pretty constantly on _terra firma_;

soaring but rarely beyond the attraction of gravity. The two things

which chiefly affected me were, the luminous grace of my cousin's face

and figure, and the airy potency of the wine, which was unlike anything

I had heretofore tasted. It glowed like the warmth of a better life

within my veins, and, while seeming to brace and clear my perceptive

faculties, it stimulated and encouraged the poetical side of my nature.

I felt, under these combined influences, as if my soul were obtaining

a delightful mastery over my body. I noticed meanwhile, not without

surprise, that although Diana vouchsafed to join me in more than one

glass of this exquisite beverage, her father never touched it, but

confined himself instead to a bottle of doubtless excellent burgundy.

'No,' he said, in answer to my remark, 'no, it is many years since

I have drunk that wine. It is the wine of youth; and, for genuine

youth, it possesses precious properties. Old age, whether premature or

natural, finds it insipid and ineffective stuff enough. To its full

enjoyment, a tender and sensitive texture of both mind and body are

indispensable.'

'You are the first man who has cared to drink it,' observed Diana,

looking at me. 'Generally, I have it all to myself!'

'How can anyone who has once tasted it care for other wine?' I

exclaimed. 'It inspires one like beautiful music.'

'Your appreciation compliments you, nephew,' my uncle said. 'Most young

fellows of your years would prefer a glass of brandy-and-water to a

whole hogshead of that liquor. Among its other merits, therefore, it

acts as a test of character.'

'How did you come by it?'

''Tis of a very ancient vintage,' he replied, 'and I believe every

bottle of it now extant is in my cellar. It was grown in a famous

comet year, and under favourable aspects of the heavenly bodies. I can

remember when I used to find it an agreeable tipple, previous to taking

an observation. It has--for those who can drink it--the rare quality

of brightening the faculties without afterwards reacting upon them. A

child could use it without injury.'

I looked at Diana, curious as to whether she had been brought up on

this marvellous elixir; but, as if she had divined what was in my mind,

and preferred to remain unquestioned, she arose at this point and went

out, leaving her father and me to our decanters.

'You are fortunate in having made such good friends with your cousin,'

he remarked. 'You are about the first man, except myself, to whom I

have ever heard her volunteer an observation. Yea and nay is the sum of

her speech to most of the inhabitants of this planet.'

'She is certainly not talkative,' said I, disguising the pleasure I

felt at discovering that I had found favour in her sight. 'You see very

little company, I believe?'

'Well, I don't seek men much, and they find little encouragement in

seeking me,' returned my uncle, taking a draught of burgundy, and

fixing his dark eyes upon me. 'We do not sympathise with their aims,

nor they with ours. And yet, nephew, I sometimes wish that Diana could

see the world. She has strange fancies: perhaps I have no right to call

them mere fancies, either!'

He stopped abruptly: I was silent: presently he resumed again.

'I have tried to follow her in those strange flights of hers; if I were

her own age, perhaps I might follow her after a fashion; but women

are mysterious to men, especially young women like Diana--innocent as

a flower, and fathomless as the ether. She is alone, quite alone, as

far as human companionship goes. Ay, it might be well for her to see

the world, were that possible, without the world's seeing her! I tell

you, I sometimes fear the effect of this solitary life upon her--upon

a girl with such a mind and heart. Heaven knows--I dare not ask--what

unearthly friends she may hold communion with, up yonder in her tower!'

'I can imagine no communion so fitting for her as that of the stars,'

said I.

'She was born to those studies, and has grown up in them: and she has

divined secrets which no other human being has attempted. When she was

born, I was full of the faith and eagerness of youth; and Diana, even

as a child, showed traces of the influences that were uppermost with

me. He who would fathom the stars, nephew, must needs be reverent,

humble, and of a willing mind: they will not reveal themselves to

self-conceit and prejudice. Age has stiffened my mental movements; the

epoch of my deepest insight is gone, long since! Some rays of the great

light once shone upon me; but they have faded--faded! Diana inherits

all, and has made it more. Why, she is more at home among the craters

of the moon than in her own boudoir!' and with this my uncle laughed

again.

'She is the new daughter of the old astrology!' said I.

'Astrology? humph!' said my uncle. 'Mediæval astrology was crippled

by religious superstition and intellectual darkness. But there was,

no doubt, in prehistoric ages, an ancient race of men who had a

profounder knowledge of this subject than modern minds are apt to

imagine. From that primitive wisdom the science of ancient Egypt

was a derivation--one of great subtlety and ingenuity, but lacking

the celestial light of the earlier men. And the Egyptians, in turn,

furnished the stock-in-trade upon which is founded the lore of our

later Nostradamuses.'

'And is there truth in horoscopes and nativities?'

'They are but a paltry matter after all. There is better wisdom in the

stars than that. The universe is human nature writ large; and he who

learns to spell the least word of that great page will never afterwards

condescend to work out horoscopes with compasses and logarithms. No:

in those worlds yonder,' said my uncle, rising and sauntering towards

the open window, 'live human races in every conceivable degree of

development. Ay, think of that!'

'And is there most wickedness or goodness there?'

'They shine fair enough, don't they?' answered my uncle, after a short

silence; 'but all their light cannot elucidate that question. You must

ask your own heart; the elements of the solution are there.'

V.

It was a warm clear night, and we sat out on the balcony for an hour,

smoking my uncle's excellent cigars, and sipping coffee; but our

conversation died away as the shadows deepened, and for a long time no

word passed between us. At length a lamp was lighted in the room--a

moonlike globe of creamy glass, which contended in its homely way with

the calm lustre of the great satellite that now stood high above us in

the dark immutable ether. A figure was moving slowly to and fro within,

which I knew, without directly looking at it, was Diana's. By-and-by

she came to the window, and stood there between the lamplight and the

moonlight, looking up.

'Which does she belong to?' I murmured to my uncle.

He understood me, and answered with a smile, 'The man in the moon has

had it all his own way thus far; but now I shall take it kindly if

you set up a wholesome rivalry with him!--Come in, nephew: I feel the

dew--Diana, will you give us some music?'

She took a violin from a small table in the corner, and, sitting down

where the moonlight fell into the room, she fixed her eyes dreamily

upon the cold planet, and began to play. The violin, when skilfully

touched, has always affected me more than any other instrument, and

I had never been in so susceptible a mood as I was to-night. But ah!

what music was that--so strange, so sweet, so wild! Wild it was as

the far-off howling of wolves, when the moon shines upon snow-covered

prairies; but organised, proportioned, and enriched by the subtle

intelligence of a human musician's brain. It stirred my blood with

eerie thrills; the home-like room in which I sate grew indistinct

and vanished. I was alone with Diana and the music--and where were

we? Not on earth, surely--not in any region where men and women ever

lived and breathed. My eyes followed hers towards the moon; the white

rays touched my heart and spirit, and mystically waived me thither.

Slowly the burnished disc waxed larger and brighter: the fairy melody

of the violin sounded keener and intenser in my ears: in the rarefied

atmosphere I almost ceased to breathe: Diana was before me, but she

too seemed fading out of sight: if I lost her, I should be alone in the

bottomless void of space. The vibration of the strings died away....

'Drink this,' said my uncle's deep but kindly voice. 'That's it! You

were within an ace of fainting dead away, my dear boy. You must be more

exhausted by your journey than I thought. Hadn't you better turn in for

the night?'

'It's nothing!--only a sort of--of momentary drowsiness that sometimes

comes over me,' I replied, greatly mortified at such a display of

my feebleness. 'I shall be all the better for it presently. As for

turning in, I can't think of doing that before I've been up to see the

telescope!' In saying this, I turned and met the glance of my cousin

Diana. I thought--it may have been only a fancy--that she looked upon

me with much more tenderness and interest than she had done heretofore.

She bent down towards me, resting her beautiful hand on the arm of the

sofa, close to my shoulder.

'You shall see it,' she said, in a tone so sweet and gentle that it

brought the blood to my cheeks; to see her so near me made me feel warm

and happy. 'You shall see what no one else has seen. But not to-night!'

'Oh, why not to-night?'

'You need strength to look at what I have to show.'

'I am not so good-for-nothing as I seem--indeed I'm not!'

'Father, do you think it would be safe?' said she, turning towards

my dark-browed uncle, who was standing aside, with his arms folded,

thoughtfully gazing at the lamp.

Eh?--safe?--why not?' returned he, rousing himself from his reverie. 'A

peep through a telescope ought not to upset a young fellow who has seen

Europe, and got a double first! Besides, my dear, you mustn't expect

that he will see as much as you can!--well, at all events, you can let

him see the observatory and the arrangements, and then, if it seem

advisable to put off the rest till another evening, why, so be it!'

Diana stood silent a few moments, with her head lifted, in an attitude

common with her, looking out into the night. Then she moved towards

her father with a slow, sauntering, royal step--no other woman ever

trod as she did--and, placing her hand within his arm, drew him to

the window. They had some conversation together in an undertone; I

did not willingly listen to it, and I cannot even be sure that what

I heard was not--in part at least--the creation of my own fancy. But

my invalid condition had made my hearing, as well as my other senses,

preternaturally acute, and the conversation seemed to me to run

somewhat thus:

'Did you see his face, as he lay there?' Diana had asked.

'Yes, my dear; a good-looking set of features enough: what then?'

'Don't jest about it, father.'

'Well, well, my dear, I see what you are driving at. Yes, there is a

resemblance, certainly; I noticed it from the first; but it might occur

in a dozen or twenty instances beside this one. There are more handsome

fellows in the world than you think for!'

Diana smiled. 'And the day--is that an accident, too, father? And--'

here she pointed upwards, apparently at a certain constellation near

Orion--'is that conjunction one that might occur again?'

'Now, Diana! no fatalism! Be yourself, my little girl!'

'But ... it frightens me, father!' she murmured, with a sudden

tremulousness, clinging closer to his arm, and leaning her cheek on his

broad shoulder. But at this juncture, being determined to hear no more,

I got up from the sofa, and, walking to the other end of the room,

began to turn over a portfolio of drawings that was resting on an easel

there. I had just come upon one representing a young man in a reclining

posture, the right knee drawn up, the left arm hanging relaxed, and the

head bowed forward in a shadow that obscured the face, rendering its

contour indistinguishable:--I was just examining this sketch when my

uncle and cousin, still arm-in-arm, approached.

'Your lunar passport is made out,' said the former; 'and here is the

courier to guide you thither, if you feel equal to the journey. Ah!'

he added, bending over the sketch that I still held in my hand, 'how

does that design strike you?'

It puzzles me!' I replied. 'In the general pose it is very like a

famous antique bas-relief of Endymion that I remember seeing in Rome,

and which is supposed to date back to the time of Phidias.'

'An antique bas relief of the time of Phidias!' repeated my uncle,

musingly. 'How now, Diana!'

'Of Endymion, did you say?' she asked, withdrawing from her fathers

arm, and taking hold of the free end of the paper with a hand that

quivered a little, though her voice was steady. 'And this is like it?'

'Except this, and this,' answered I, indicating certain parts of the

design, 'it might have been copied directly from the bas-relief.'

'But in those parts the sketch is original, eh?' put in my uncle.

'No--not even there,' I replied; 'and that is what puzzled me. There is

another design of an Endymion--an Egyptian or an Assyrian one, I forget

which--but at any rate it was evidently the model of the Greek, and of

course immensely more ancient. Now, though the two designs--the older

and the later one--closely resemble each other in the main, there are

two or three marked points of difference; and this drawing, following

as it does the ancient version in those points, while in its general

style it takes more after the Greek, seems to be a sort of combination

of them both. Certainly,' I added, 'it is more life-like and natural

than either. Where did you get it?'

'It's one of your cousin's performances,' said my uncle, carelessly.

'You have been in Europe, then?' I demanded of her, surprised.

'No!' she answered softly, with an in-drawing of the breath.

'How strange, then, that you should have independently hit upon so

wonderful a likeness!' I exclaimed. 'I am more puzzled than before!'

'It is strange! and yet,' said she, with an unfathomable look in her

hazel eyes, 'perhaps I may have copied it from an original older than

either the Grecian or the Egyptian! Cousin Will, do you remember the

faces? were they alike in both? and was there anything--anything

noticeable in the features?'

It seemed to me that these last questions were asked with an especial

earnestness which her low utterance could not wholly conceal. Whether

or not my answer relieved her suspense I could not determine.

'No, they were not alike,' I said: 'and so far as I remember there

was nothing remarkable about either of them. They simply followed the

ordinary classical type of their several schools.'

'I have made a separate study of a head and face for my drawing,' she

remarked, after a pause. 'Some time, perhaps, you will see it. But

now, if you are ready, we will go up to the observatory.'

'Meanwhile I shall have another cigar on the balcony,' said my uncle.

'If you should wish to join me any time during the next hour or two,

nephew, you will find me there.'

He grasped my hand for a moment, and then I followed Diana out of the

room.

VI.

We were at the top of the tower staircase. Diana pressed against a

panel at the side of the door, and it swung inwards on its hinges,

easily and yet ponderously. We entered, and I found myself in a tiny

antechamber, with a heavy curtain of embroidered leather in front of

me. This Diana pushed aside sufficiently for me to pass on to the room

beyond, while she closed the door behind.

It was a circular room, like my own chamber below, but much loftier,

and without any sign of windows. A mild half-light descended from a

ring of shaded lamps affixed round the walls at a height of nine feet

from the floor, leaving the vaulted ceiling in shadow. The walls below

the lamps were draped with a kind of tapestry of rich dark hues; and at

one side stood a tall carved cabinet of black wood, furnished with a

pair of folding-doors and a broad desk, upon which were books and some

small instruments of polished brass. On the side opposite the cabinet

was a deep niche in the stone wall, supporting a slender antique vase

of embossed silver.

These particulars I noticed but passingly: that which immediately and

predominantly commanded my attention was the mighty instrument which,

with its appurtenances, rose pyramid-like in the centre of the room;

lifting heavenward its awful eye, that had looked familiarly upon the

mysterious faces of the planets, and revealed their secrets to man. The

upper portion of the shaft was enveloped in the obscurity which brooded

in the vault; but this dusky veil only deepened its impressiveness.

Below, the softened lamplight shone upon a complex arrangement of

machinery; wheels and grooves and chains, and subtle levers, all

artfully contrived to turn and slide without jar or irregularity,

obedient to the light touch of Diana's taper finger. She was the

priestess of this temple; here were her virgin stronghold and her home.

During the few moments that I had been plunged in contemplation she had

thrown on, over the black silk demi-toilette which she had worn during

the evening, a flowing mantle of delicate texture, dark as night, with

wide drooping sleeves, and falling in soft folds from her shoulders

to the floor. Upon her auburn hair she had placed a black velvet cap,

such as the astrologers of old used to wear; and as she now stood

before me, smiling at me out of her unfathomable nixie eyes, she looked

more like an enchantress, wise with the arts of witchcraft than like

a mortal maiden with warm blood and human affections. Was she a witch

indeed?

'This clockwork can be adjusted so as to keep any one of the stars or

planets within the field of the telescope,' said she, quietly, laying

her hand upon one of the wheels. 'I have only to move this, and one

of these, and then there is nothing more to be done but to sit in the

chair, there, and look through the lens.'

'Shall we see the moon to-night?' I asked.

'Yes, if you like.'

She pressed a lever somewhere in the machinery, and immediately the

vast tube, that seemed fixed so immovably, swung noiselessly and

steadily towards the right, and, pausing there without shock or tremor,

waited motionlessly as before.

'It looks at the moon now,' said Diana in a low voice.

'It obeys you as if it could hear you speak,' I responded in the

same hushed tone; for as the moment of vision approached nearer, a

nervousness which I could not wholly control pervaded my body, and

made me fearful of betraying some symptom of unmanly agitation to my

companion.

Diana touched the spring which she had before pointed out to me; then

laid her finger on her lip and drew me back a step.

All the wheels were in motion; and grandly, slowly, almost

imperceptibly, as the sweep of that far-distant planet which it was

following in its course through space, the marvellous engine moved

along its orbit. At the same moment a strain of subdued melody,

resembling somewhat the music of Æolian harps heard far off, floated

out and palpitated upon the still air of the vaulted room. The strain

grew louder and clearer, then sank again to whisperings almost

inaudible: and then once again increased in power and volume, seeming

now like a chorus of angelic voices chanting a hymn of praise. I held

my breath to listen, and, for a time, forgot surprise in the pure

pleasure of the ear.

'What is it?' I whispered at length.

'I call it the song of the moon,' answered Diana. 'You will hear it

whenever the moon's rays fall upon the glass. I love it the best of

all.'

'There are others, then?'

'Each planet has its song, different from all the others: and the stars

also: but those we cannot hear.'

This was said so quietly, and with an air so grave, that I knew not

whether my cousin expected me to take it seriously. 'Are you really an

enchantress,' I asked, 'that you can bring down to earth the music of

the spheres, as well as make their mysteries visible?'

'Why not? is one more wonderful than the other?' she returned, with a

faint smile. 'But you must not expect me to tell you all my secrets at

once, Cousin Will. Think of me as an enchantress for to-night. I am not

the first who has practised magic in this tower. It was built they say,

in the time of King Arthur, by the magician Merlin; and Friar Bacon

once lived here, and worked upon the problem of the Speaking Head. But

none of them could do what I can do, or ever saw what I have seen a

thousand times!'

If it had been Diana's intention--as it certainly was not--deliberately

to inspire me with a sentiment of superstitious awe and expectation, by

working upon an imagination always apt enough for the marvellous and

recondite, she could not have chosen a more fitting time and means. The

strange aspect of the lofty room, dimly illuminated below and shadowy

overhead; the fantastic legends associated with it; the weird music

that still trembled through it; and above all the spectacle of that

potent instrument even now moving in harmony with the march of the

universe;--these things alone might have stimulated the emotions of one

of firmer nerves and sturdier health than mine. But, such as I then

was, their influence upon me was profound and overmastering. The facts

of my past life in the world, the little learning I had acquired--the

material certainties, in short, whereby men are accustomed to steady

themselves when assailed by aught that threatens to undermine the

teachings of their experience--were become to me as nothing. Not what I

had known and touched and could explain was true; but, rather, all that

was inexplicable and supernatural. I was in love with mystery, and with

Diana, and desired no better than to believe in them and do homage to

them.

As for Diana, familiar from childhood with the scene and the

proceedings, her mood was of composed and deep-seated enjoyment; and

she was doubtless far from suspecting my overstrained and almost

hysteric plight: nay, I myself was as yet unaware of the degree of my

prostration. I watched my cousin walking hither and thither, quietly

and methodically completing I knew not what further preparations

for the coming revelation, until, unable longer to endure inactive

suspense, I asked whether the moment for looking through the telescope

were yet arrived.

'There is only one thing more to do, but that is the most important of

all,' was her answer. 'Sit in this chair, and you shall see.'

She took hold of the lower end of the telescope, which was there about

nine inches in diameter, removed the brass cover from it, and then,

with a few light turns, unscrewed the ring that held the lens in place,

and brought away the lens itself in her hands. I noticed that it was

thicker through the centre than the generality of lenses, and that

at one part of the rim there was a small projection, like the neck of

a phial, giving the whole something of the appearance of a circular,

flattened crystal flask.

She was about to set it edgewise in a velvet-covered frame evidently

made for the purpose, when, glancing at me, she seemed to alter her

intention.

'You may hold it if you like, Cousin Will,' she said: 'but hold it

fast, for it is more precious than adamant. There is none other like it

in the world.'

She put it in my hands. 'This is not a lens!' was my thought, as I felt

its weight; 'it is hollow!'

'Yes,' she said, answering my look with a smile; 'it is a phial, made

to hold an elixir more precious than itself. That silver vase is full

of it; and now I am going to pour some into the phial. Then you will

see something beautiful!'

'Is this that discovery you spoke of this afternoon?'

'Not the elixir; but the use to which we put it. The receipt for the

elixir is a heritage from some of those old alchemists who used to

carry on their experiments in this tower hundreds of years ago; and my

father thinks it had been handed down to them from some philosopher far

more ancient still. At all events he found the parchment on which the

receipt was written in a concealed hollow of this wall--in that niche

where the silver vase now stands. After long study, he succeeded in

deciphering it; and then the elixir was made.'

'But what was it originally intended for--by the alchemists?'

'My father thinks it may have been their famous drink of Immortality,'

replied Diana, taking the silver vase from its niche as she spoke.

'But he did not taste it, for he neither wished to live for ever nor

to die by poison--and this may as well be an _aqua toffana_ as an

_elixir vitæ_! But, while brewing it, he had noticed the strange effect

of moonlight upon it; and as he was there searching for some means of

strengthening the telescope, it occurred to him to try an experiment.

And this was the result!'

In saying these words, she slipped a funnel into the neck of the phial

or lens, and, while I steadied the latter upon my knees, she poured

into it about a pint of liquid from the vase. Then, taking it heedfully

from my hands, she replaced it in its proper position in the neck of

the telescope, secured it there by screwing on the ring, and finally,

by turning a button attached to the pipe that supplied the lights, they

were at once extinguished, and we were left in darkness.

Yet no--not entirely so! For, when my eyes had had time to recover from

the first impression of blackness, I began to perceive that there was

still light in the room, though proceeding from a different quarter.

It seemed to have a deep crimson hue; and in the course of a minute

or two I could see it coming through the lens of the telescope, and

evidently taking its colour from the liquid with which Diana had just

filled it. But whence did this light originate?

I must have asked this question aloud, for I heard Diana's voice

answer:--

'It is the light of the moon. Stoop down, now, and watch the elixir

change. But be careful not to look through it, until I give you leave!'

I stooped accordingly, and fixed my eyes upon the crystal. The sound

of the mysterious music, rendered more weird by the darkness, did not

prevent me from hearing the soft breathing of my companion, whose

presence I felt close beside me, though I could not see her. She, too,

was watching the changes of the magic liquid; and strange and beautiful

in truth they were!

The crimson tint, at first deep and turgid, gradually cleared, until

it shone like the purest ruby. A kind of fermentation, momentarily

increasing, seemed to be at work within it, and I presently noticed

minute currents of blue twisting about like tiny serpents, and

multiplying as they moved, until the crimson grew to violet, which, in

the course of a few minutes, cleared and strengthened in its turn to

a brilliant and superb purple, perfectly translucent, and emitting a

lustre so powerful as partly to reveal the figure of Diana, kneeling,

with her hands folded upon her lap, in an attitude of thoughtful

contemplation. But the fermentation was not yet complete. Again the

slender serpents twined and wreathed themselves, dispelling more

and more the remaining rays of crimson, and creating a uniform and

ever-intensifying light of azure. It was an azure as pure as that of

an Egyptian sky, but possessing a wealth and sparkle of colour such as

no atmosphere can rival--the sparkle of the ideal sapphire which no

lapidary has yet discovered.

'What causes this?' I whispered at length; 'and how is it to end?'

'It is the moon purging the elixir of its last earthly impurities,

and making it fit to hold its image,' replied Diana, gravely. 'These

changes that you see following each other so rapidly would ordinarily

last for days; it is the power given to the rays by the other lenses

that hastens the work. See! the blue is already becoming green: now the

green brightens into yellow: and now....'

As she spoke, the fermentation gradually ceased; the liquid, having

passed through all the preparatory stages, now gleamed white and pure

as a diamond. The illumination which it gave forth was so intense, and

yet so soft, that it permeated the whole chamber with an unearthly

radiance--with the cold, colourless radiance of another world. It was

as if the spirit of the moon, obeying the mandate of some irresistible

spell, were present with us in that ancient tower.

'It is finished!' said Diana, with a vibration of solemnity in her

tones. 'The moon is as near us now as the valley over which you saw her

rise this evening. Are you ready?'

Why did I hesitate? The moment for which I had so ardently wished was

come. I needed but to turn my face to behold a spectacle which no

human beings save Diana and her father had yet looked upon, and which,

perhaps, none other than ourselves might ever see. Was it fear that

withheld me? Fear of what? Of the revelation on the brink of which I

stood? or of myself?

'Are you ready?' Diana repeated.

'No!'

She gazed at me with eyes in which I dreaded to detect indignation or

contempt. But no!--their glance was of grave and searching inquiry,

nothing more. I forced myself to attempt an explanation of what I

myself did not understand.

'I cannot trust myself, Diana. What right have I to know things

which God has kept secret from other men? might it not be a kind of

profanation? I am not like you--I have not lived so spotless and serene

a life. You are worthy of this revelation: no one besides you is worthy

of it. Even your father dares not share it with you any longer--in

spite of his strength, he distrusts his strength for that. What would

you think of me, if I were to look, and yet not see what you see, or

feel what you feel? The risk is too great.'

It seemed to me a long while before Diana answered; and first, she

sighed.

'You may be right: I have not thought of it--I do not wish to think of

it,' she said. 'And perhaps all my life has been wrong--a mistake! Why

should what is wrong for you be right for me?'

'There is no parallel between us, Diana.'

'I am a woman and you are a man; we were both born on the earth, to

live here and to die here. Only I have lived alone in this tower, and

no one has taught me what was good or bad. I tried to find the good in

my own way: my father left me to myself; you are the only other man I

have ever talked with. I had no companions in the world, so I tried

to find one somewhere else. But perhaps it was only something within

myself that I found, after all. I cannot tell: I hoped you might be

able to help me, cousin.'

'You misunderstand me,' I replied, startled and agitated by the new

tone in which she spoke, so different from her usual quiet and cool

reserve. 'I would not presume to criticise you, Diana: you seem to me

so good and noble that--that sometimes, for my own sake, I almost wish

you were less so! It was of my own weaknesses and imperfections that I

was thinking.'

'If all the world were no more imperfect than you, I think I should

love the world,' said Diana, simply.

I felt the blood come to my face; but I feared so much to shock her by

speaking too soon what was in my heart to speak, that I kept silence.

Presently she said--

'You will not look, then?'

There was in her voice an accent of such wistful appeal as made my

refusal seem cowardly and selfish.

'If you ask it--if you wish it--I will!'

There was a moment's pause.

'I do not wish it!' she exclaimed, standing erect and lifting her head

with a gesture of decision. 'If I have done wrong, I must teach myself

to feel it--will you leave me now, cousin? I need to be alone a little,

I think.' I went to the door; she followed me, and held out her hand.

'Good night, Will,' she said: 'pleasant dreams! we shall see each other

again in the morning.'

VII.

It is needless to say that I did not go back to the dining-room in

search of my uncle. What with the turmoil of one emotion and another,

I had never felt myself less capable of coherent and rational

conversation. My whole body was thrilling with excitement; my brain was

confused and dizzy. Once or twice I narrowly escaped missing my footing

on the narrow winding stair. Having gained my room, I dropped into the

chair by the window, thoroughly exhausted. The moon, I remember, though

now high in the zenith, was visible from where I sat, and her rays

fell upon my upturned face as I lay back, breathing heavily. Before

many minutes had passed, I must have fallen asleep. How long my sleep

lasted I do not know; but it was long enough for me to have a very

vivid and painful dream.

It seemed to me that a tall dark figure, whose face was concealed by

a veil, stood beside me and put his hand over my eyes. A dull reddish

light was before me: I felt impelled to arise and move towards it. The

path by which I went was narrow and uneven; it ran along the summit of

a ridge which divided an apparently bottomless valley. Lurid vapours,

green and yellow, rolled about far below me, or crept sluggishly up the

precipitous sides of the ridge. Suddenly the red light which I followed

disappeared; I was upon a rock in the midst of a black, waveless ocean.

Far away towards the north a small boat flew horizonwards without

sails or oars. In the boat sat the tall dark figure, and by his side

was Diana. A feeling of anguish and bitter jealousy burned within me:

the woman I loved was being taken away from me by a malignant creature

who was neither man nor angel. Further sped the boat: yet I saw Diana

turn towards me and wave her hand, as if calling me to save her. I

sprang into the black water and swam after her with desperate strokes,

but the current swept strong against me, and I made no headway. There

was no wind, yet the waves now broke in foam around me, and the foam

changed to white serpents, coiling in hissing knots. Then I knew that

it was no longer a sea in which I struggled, but the infinite void of

space. I moved with the constellations, in an appointed orbit, and in

that orbit I must move for ever. The boat had spread a pale luminous

sail that gleamed against the darkness: it swept on a course concentric

with my own, but a myriad leagues away. Never should that fatal gulf

be crossed, or its breadth diminished. Rounder grew the sail; it shone

like burnished metal; against the disc I saw the shadowy form of the

robber, and Diana in his arms. Through all eternity must I behold her

thus, without the power to help or comfort her. Suddenly I passed into

a great shadow, like the shadow of utter blindness. I heard a soothing

melody, as of fairy choristers. A soft hand clasped mine. My dream was

over. I was awake!

Awake--yes, that was certain; but where was I? No longer in my own

room; I was standing in a silvery gloom, my temples still throbbing

with the agony of my dream. Not yet fully master of my faculties, the

idea possessed me that, in my course through space, I had fallen upon

a grey cloud, which was bearing me gently onwards towards a great

brightness, some glimpse of which I saw above the cloud's edge. Guided

by the same soft hand, I reached the edge and sat down upon it. The

brightness broke upon my eyes in a white lustre, which for a moment

forced me to cover my face with my hands. Then I looked again.

Below me, and close at hand, stretched a vast plain, lit by a ghastly

light. Vividly clear it was, but terrible: for there was no colour on

those pinnacled mountain-summits, nor along their headlong flanks, nor

in the depths of the gaping valleys. No colour, no vegetation, no life:

but everywhere a frozen, voiceless, stony immobility, and a metallic

lustre, as if the silent feet of innumerable centuries had worn the

surface hard and smooth. It was a land of dead volcanoes, whose jagged

shadows, blacker than night, lay like blots along the plain. No kindly

winds blew down the awful cañons; no tender atmosphere softened their

iron outlines; no clouds mercifully swathed their grim nakedness. Here

seemed to lie the mighty bones of a creation which God had cursed and

forgotten, upon which the sun shone only in mockery, and which was

cast adrift upon the universe as an appalling warning, and symbol of

the doom of sin. Amidst the happy throng of living, sentient planets,

this burnt and frozen skeleton was doomed to glide eternally, seen but

unseeing, fleeing for ever, but for ever held in place and pitilessly

exposed by a mysterious spell. And what was this accursed world, that

hung so near beneath my feet that one step, it seemed, would cast me

downward upon its needle peaks? Had it a name? That which it had borne

when living was buried in the oblivion of countless ages; never again,

through all time to come, should tongue of man repeat its forbidden

syllables: but there was another name, lawful to know and speak, which

now rose intuitively to my lips and found utterance there: 'the Moon!'

And at my ear a low voice that I dimly recognised seemed to confirm my

divination: 'Yes,' it said, 'the Moon!' I pressed the little hand that

still lay within my own, and thanked God that in this hour of unearthly

vision it linked me with humanity.

I had beheld enough; but my eyes, sternly fascinated, gazed on in my

own despite. In the foreground of the spectral plain an irregular chasm

opened, whose perpendicular walls plunged straight down into pitch

darkness. On the further verge of this chasm I saw an object which, at

the first glance, I took to be a shapeless boulder, arrested there on

its way from the mountain summit to the depths below. But, as my glance

continued to dwell upon it, it took on form and meaning--a meaning

which made my pulses torpid with dismay--which I strove to reject and

disbelieve, but which revealed itself in defiance of my efforts with

inevitable distinctness. Was it a carven statue? Or had that petrified

figure once had life? Some day in the immeasurable past had it stood

erect, moved and breathed, loved and hated? The last survivor of its

race, had it witnessed the destruction of all existence, and then lain

down defiant, unrepentant, and calm, and composed itself to the stony

sleep from which not time itself should see the awakening? There he

lay, the nameless Titan, more alone than a mortal brain dare conceive,

a being who had spoken his last word, were it curse or blessing--who

had done his last deed, were it good or evil--æons before the first

vague dawn of life awoke upon our earth--there he lay, lifeless and

soulless, yet with the power to shake my soul to-night, and even to

assert a weird rivalship with me in the heart of the woman I loved!

For this was the figure whose likeness I had found that evening in

Diana's portfolio; it was with his ghastly fate that her girlish fancy

had conceived a lofty sympathy: with him her pure thoughts had dwelt

throughout her youthful years, dreaming who could tell what dreams of

strange romance!--seeing in him, who was revealed to herself alone of

all women, who knows what stern ideal of supernatural manhood! So had

this immemorial relic of another world swayed the life and moulded the

character of a mortal creature of to-day, giving to her feminine heart

the companionship which it demanded, but which, in the world of men,

had been thus far denied her.

And what were the features of my wondrous adversary--he with whom I

must struggle for Diana's love? A shadow lay upon them; as I sought

to penetrate it, methought the figure stirred! Was its repose of ages

at an end, and had it roused itself to meet my human challenge? It

stirred: its stiffened limbs moved with slow majesty; the vast trunk

swayed and turned. But lo! the whole mountain side moved with it: the

frozen crust, contracting with force irresistible, was crushed against

itself, and broken; vast masses, bursting from the rocky bed, piled

themselves in jagged pyramids. The lips of the great chasm trembled,

and approached each other: but ere they met, I saw the form of the

Titan sweep downwards to the brink, shattered and riven, but the Titan

still. He paused for an instant over the abyss, then plunged headlong

in, and the irrevocable lips ground together above him. Even as he

plunged his face met mine, and in its stony lineaments I recognised the

prototype of my own!

* * * * *

It was not until two or three months afterwards, as I lay recovering

from the brain fever brought on by this night's adventure, that I

learned how it came about. I had risen from my chair in my sleep,

climbed the tower stairs, and re-entered the observatory, where Diana

still remained. The touch of her hand and the sound of the music (which

was produced by connecting a sort of organ with the machinery of the

telescope) had partially awakened me, though not sufficiently to show

me where I was. In this condition I had looked through the lens, and

the vast spectacle of the moon, brought within the apparent distance

of a mile or two by the magnifying power of the elixir, had burst

unexpectedly upon me.

That magic lens, by the way, did not long survive the catastrophe which

I witnessed by its aid. I believe Diana destroyed it that same night;

I know, at all events, that she never used it again herself. She gave

up the moon, much to her father's satisfaction, and, I need not say, to

my own unspeakable happiness. It has been the care of my life to make

her feel that better possibilities of enjoyment exist in the world than

in the world's satellite. It was only a few years ago, however, that

I trusted myself to tell her the story of the Titan's annihilation.

We had been looking over an old portfolio of her drawings together,

and a Diana of four years of age, with brown hair and hazel eyes, was

assisting us in the work.

'Oh! here's papa,' she suddenly exclaimed.

Diana's mother took the drawing and examined it.

'I did this before I ever saw papa,' she said.

'Then how did you make it so like him?' demanded the small lady.

'I had a presentiment of him, my dear.'

'What's a pre-sent----?'

'My presentiment, in this case, was the man in the moon!' said Mrs.

Maybold, laughing. 'Do you remember, love,' she added, handing the

drawing to her husband, 'my telling you, on a certain evening, that I

had made a study of a certain face, and that I would show it you some

time? Well, the time has come!'

'I never was so good-looking as that,' said Mrs. Maybold's husband,

with a sigh. 'However, no one will ever be able to compare your

presentiment with the reality, for the former disappeared at the moment

of my introduction to him.' And hereupon I told my tale. 'Do you regret

him?' I asked, when it was finished.

'If you had told me this five years ago, I might have felt relieved by

it,' said Mrs. Maybold, after a moment's reflection. 'As it is, the

news does not affect me one way or the other.'

* * * * *

I shall not easily forgive my friend Mr. Edward Kemeys, the

animal-sculptor, for depriving me of the right of claiming undivided

credit for this story. He suggested the main idea, and some of the best

details. As told by him, they seemed to me both poetic and powerful.

If my version impresses the reader otherwise, it is my fault. I should

regret that Mr. Kemeys had not treated the subject himself, were I not

familiar with his genius as embodied in clay and bronze. If I could be

the author of his 'Deer and Panther' or 'Bison and Wolves,' which had

the place of honour at the Paris Salon this year, I would willingly

forego the renown of a better story than I ever expect to write.

_Spottiswoode & Co., Printers, New-street Square, London._

* * * * *

[Transcriber's Note: Inconsistent hyphenation left as printed.]