THE EVIL GATE
Such was the end of the diary of Stella.
Morris shut the book with something like a sob. Then he rose and began
to tramp up and down the length of the long, lonely room, while
thoughts, crowded, confused, and overwhelming, pressed in upon his
mind. What a woman was this whom he had lost! Who had known another so
pure, so spiritual? Surely she did not belong to this world, and
therefore her last prayer was so quickly answered, therefore Heaven
took her. Many reading those final pages might have said with the
philosopher she imagined that the shock of love and the sorrow of
separation had turned her brain, and that she was mad. For who, so such
might argue, would think that person otherwise than mad who dared to
translate into action, and on earth to set up as a ruling star, that
faith which day by day their lips professed.
Yet it would seem after all that this “dreamer and mystic” Stella
believed in nothing which our religion, accepted by millions without
cavil, does not promise to its votaries. Its revelations and rewards
marked the extremest limits of her fantasy; immortality of the personal
soul, its foundation stone, was the rock on which she built. A heaven
where there is no earthly marriage, but where each may consort with the
souls most loved and most desired; where all sorrows are forgotten, all
tears are wiped away, all purposes made clear, reserved for those who
deny themselves, do their duty, and seek forgiveness of their sins—this
heaven conceived by Stella, is it not vowed to us in the pages of the
Gospel? Is it not vowed again and again, sometimes with more detail,
sometimes with less; sometimes in open, simple words, sometimes wrapped
in the mystic allegory of the visions of St. John; but everywhere and
continually held before us as our crown and great reward? And the rest,
such things as her belief in guardian angels, and that it had been
given to her mortal eyes to behold and commune with a beloved ghost, is
there not ample warrant for them in those inspired writings? Were not
the dead seen of many in Jerusalem on the night of fear, and are we not
told of “ministering spirits sent forth to do service for the sake of
them that shall inherit salvation?” and of the guardian angels, who
look continually upon the Father?
Now it all grew clear to Morris. In Stella he beheld an example of the
doctrines of Christianity really inspiring the daily life of the
believer. If her strong faith animated all those who served under that
banner, then in like circumstances they would act as she had acted.
They would have no doubts; their fears would vanish; their griefs be
comforted, and, to a great extent, even the promptings and passions of
their mortality would be trodden under foot. With Stella they would be
ready to neglect the temporary in their certainty of the eternal, and
even to welcome death, to them in truth, and not in mere convention,
the Gate of Life.
Many things are promised to those who can achieve faith. Stella
achieved it and became endued with some portion of the promise.
Spiritual faith, not inherited, nor accepted, but hard-won by personal
struggle and experience; that was the key-note to her character and the
explanation of her actions. Yet that faith, when examined into, was
nothing exotic; no combination of mysticism and mummery, but one
founded upon the daily creed of the English and its fellow churches,
and understood and applied to the circumstances of a life which was as
brief as it seemed to be unfortunate. This was Morris’s discovery, open
and obvious enough, and yet at first until he grew accustomed to it, a
thing marvellous in his eyes; one, moreover, in which he found comfort;
since surely that straight but simple path was such as his feet might
follow.
And she loved him. Oh! how she had loved him. There could be no doubt;
there were her words written in that book, not hastily spoken beneath
the pressure of some sudden wind of feeling, but set down in black and
white, thought over, reasoned out, and recorded. And then their
purport. They were a paean of passion, but the dirge of its denial.
They dwelt upon the natural hopes of woman only to put them by.
“Yet how can I choke the truth and tread down the human heart within
me? Oh! the road that my naked feet must tread is full of thorns, and
heavy the cross that I must bear. . . . So I go to my marriage, such as
it is, so I bend my back to the burden, so I bow my head to the storm,
and through it all I thank God for what He has been pleased to send me.
I may seem poor, but how rich I am who have been dowered with a love
that I know to be eternal as my eternal soul.”
That was her creed, those were the teachings of her philosophy. And
this was the woman who had loved him, who died loving him. Her very
words came back, spoken but a few seconds before the end:—“Remember
every word which I have said to you. Remember that we are wed—truly
wed; that I go to wait for you, and that even if you do not see me, I
will, if I may, be near you always.”
“I go to wait for you. I will be near you always.” Here was another
inspiration. For three years or more he had been thinking of her as
dead. Or rather he had thought of her in that nebulous, undefined
fashion in which we consider the dead; the slumberous people who forget
everything, who see nothing; who, if they exist at all, are like stones
upon the beach rolled to and fro blind and senseless, not of their own
desire, but by the waves of a fearful fate that itself is driven on
with the strength of a secret storm of Will. And this fate some call
the Breath of God, and some the working of a soulless force that
compels the universe, past, present, and to be.
But was this view as real as it is common? If Stella were right, if our
religion were right, it must be most wrong. That religion told us that
the Master of mankind descended into Hades to preach to the souls of
men. Did he preach to dumb, ocean-driven stones, to frozen forms and
fossils who had once been men, or to spirits, changed, but active and
existent?
Stella, too, had walked in the valley of doubt, by the path which all
who think must tread; it was written large in the book of her life. But
she had not fainted there; she had lived through its thunder-rains, its
arid blasts of withering dust, its quivering quicksands, and its
mirage-like meadows gay with deceitful, poisonous flowers. At last she
had reached the mountain slopes of Truth to travel up them higher—ever
higher, till she won their topmost peak, where the sun shone undimmed
and the pure air blew; whence the world seemed far away and heaven very
near. Yes, and from that heaven she had called down the spirit of her
lost sister, and thenceforward was content and sure.
She had called down the spirit of her sister. Was it not written in the
pages which she thought that no eye but hers would see?
Well, if such spirits were, hers—Stella’s—must be also. And if they
could be made apparent, why should not hers share their qualities?
Morris paused in his swift walk and trembled: “I will be near you
always.” For aught he knew she was near him now—present, perhaps, in
this very room. While she was still in life, what were her aspirations?
This was one of them, he remembered, as it fell from her lips: “Still
to be with those whom I have loved on earth, although they cannot see
me; to soothe their sorrows, to support their weakness, to lull their
fears.” And if this were so; if any power were given her to fulfil her
will, whom would she sooner visit than himself?
Stay! That was her wish on earth, while she was a woman. But would she
still wish it afterwards? The spirit was not the flesh, the spirit
could see and be sure, while the flesh must be content with deductions
and hazardings. If she could see, she would know him as he was; every
failing, every secret infirmity, every infidelity of heart, might be an
open writing to her eyes. And then would she not close that book in
horror?
A great writer has said in effect that no man would dare to affront the
ears of his fellows—men much worse than himself perhaps—with the true
details of his hidden history. Knowing all the truth, they would shrink
from him. How much more then at such sights and sounds would a pure
spirit, washed clean of every taint of earth, fly from his soiled
presence, wailing and aghast? Nay, men are hypocrites, who, in greater
or less degree, themselves practice the very sins that shock them, but
spirits, knowing all, would forgive all. They are above hypocrisy. If
the Lord of spirits can weigh the “dust whereof we are made” and still
be merciful, shall his bright messengers trample it in scorn and hate?
Will they not also consider the longings of the heart and its
uprightness, and be pitiful towards the failings of the flesh? Would
Stella hate him because he remained as he was made—as herself she might
once have been? Because having no wings with which to rule the air he
must still tramp onwards through the foetid, clinging mud of earth?
Oh! how he longed to see her, that he might win her faith; win it
beyond all doubt by the evidence of his earthly eyes and senses. “If I
die, search and you shall see,” she had once said to him, and then
added, “No, do not search, but wait.” Wait! How could he wait? “At your
death I will be with you.” Why he might live another fifty years! That
book of her recorded thoughts had aroused in him such a desire for the
sight, or at least the actual knowledge of her continued being, that
his blood was aflame as with a madness. And yet how should he search?
“Stella,” he whispered, “come to me, Stella!” But no Stella came; no
wings rustled, no breath stirred; the empty room was as the room had
been. Its silence seemed to mock him. Those who slept beneath its
marble floor were not more silent.
Was he mad that he should claim the power to work this miracle—to charm
the dead back through the Gates of Death as Orpheus charmed Eurydice?
Yet Stella did this thing—but how? He turned to the volume and page of
her diary which dealt with the drawing down of Gudrun. Yes, here she
spoke of continual efforts and of “that long, long preparation”—of
prayer and fasting also. Here, too, was the whole secret summed up in a
dozen words: “To see a spirit one must grow akin to spirits.” Well, it
could be done, and he would do it. But look further on where she said:
“I shall call her back no more, lest the thing should get the mastery
of me, and I become unfitted for my work on earth. . . . I will stop
while there is yet time, while I am still mistress of my mind, and have
the strength to deny myself this awful joy.”
Was there not a warning in these words, and in those other words: “No,
do not search, but wait.” Surely they told of risk to him who, being
yet on earth, dared to lift a corner of the veil which separates flesh
and spirit. “Should get the mastery of me.” If he saw her once would he
be able to do as Stella did, and by an effort of his will separate
himself from a communion so fearful yet so sweet? “Unfitted for my
work.” Supposing that it did get the mastery of him, would he not also
be unfitted for his work on earth?
His work? What work had he now? It seemed to be done; for attending
scientific meetings, receiving dividends, playing the country squire’s
only son and the wealthy host whilst awaiting the title which Mary
wished for—these things are not work, and somehow his days were so
arranged that he was never allowed to go beyond them. All further
researches and experiments were discouraged. What did it matter if he
were unfitted for that which he could no longer do? His work was
finished. There it stood before him in that box, stamped “Monk’s
aerophone. The Twin. No. 3412.”
No; he had but one ambition left. To pierce the curtain of thick night
and behold her who was lost to him; her who loved him as man had been
seldom loved.
The fierce temptation struck him as a sudden squall strikes a ship with
all her canvas spread. For a moment mast and rigging stood the strain,
then they went by the board. He would do it if it killed him; but the
task must be undertaken properly, deliberately, and above all in
secret. To-morrow he would begin. When he had satisfied himself; when
he had seen; then he could always stop.
A few minutes later Morris stood beside his wife’s bed. There she lay,
in the first perfection of young motherhood and beauty, a lovely,
white-wrapped vision with straying golden hair; her sweet, rounded face
pink with the flush of sleep, and the long lashes lying like little
shadows on her cheek.
Morris looked at her, and his doubts returned. What would Stella say?
he thought to himself. It almost seemed to him that he could hear her
voice, bidding him forbear; bidding him render unto his wife those
things which were his wife’s: all honour, loyalty, and devotion. If he
entered on this course could he still render them? Was there not such a
thing as moral infidelity, and did not such exercises as he proposed
partake of its nature? Perhaps, perhaps. On the whole it might be well
to put all this behind him.
It was three o’clock, he was tired out, and must sleep. The morning
would be a more fitting time to ponder such weighty questions of the
unwritten matrimonial law.
In due course, the morning came—indeed, it was not far off—and with it
wiser counsels. Mary woke early and talked about the baby, which was
teething; indeed, so soon as the nurse was up she sent for it that the
three of them might hold a consultation over a swollen gum. Also she
discussed the date of their departure to Beaulieu, for again Christmas
was near at hand; adding, however, somewhat to Morris’s relief, that
unless the baby’s teeth went on better she really did not think that
they could go, as it would be most unwise to take her out of the care
of Dr. Charters and trust her to the tender mercies of foreign leeches.
Morris agreed that it might be risky, and mentioned that in a letter
which he had received from the concierge at Beaulieu a few days before,
that functionary said that the place was overrun with measles and
scarlatina.
“Morris!” ejaculated Mary, sitting bolt upright in bed, “and you never
told me! What is more, had it not been for baby’s teeth, which brought
it to your mind, I believe you never would have told me, and I might
have taken those unprotected little angels and—Oh! goodness, I can’t
bear to think of it.”
Morris muttered some apologies, whereon Mary, looking at him
suspiciously through her falling hair, asked:
“Why did you forget to show me the letter? Did you suppress it because
you wanted to go to Beaulieu?”
“No,” answered Morris with energy; “I hate Beaulieu. I forgot, that is
all; because I have so much to think about, I suppose.”
“So much? I thought that things were arranged now so that you had
nothing at all to think about except how to spend your money and be
happy with me, and adore the dear angels—Yes, I think that perhaps the
nurse had better take her away. Touch the bell, will you? There, she’s
gone. Keep her well wrapped up, and mind the draught, nurse.
“No, don’t get up yet, Morris; I want to talk to you. You have been
very gloomy of late, just like you used to be before you married,
mooning about and staring at nothing. And what on earth do you do
sitting up to all hours of the morning in that ghosty old chapel, where
I wouldn’t be alone at twelve o’clock for a hundred pounds?”
“I read,” said Morris.
“Read? Read what? Novels?”
“Sometimes,” answered Morris.
“Oh, how can you tell such fibs? Why, that last book by Lady
What’s-her-name which came in the Mudie box—the one they say is so
improper—has been lying on your table for over two months, and you
can’t tell me yet what it was the heroine did wrong. Morris, you are
not inventing anything more, are you?”
Here was an inspiration. “I admit that I am thinking of a little
thing,” he said with diffidence, as though he were a budding poet with
a sonnet on his mind.
“A little thing? What little thing?”
“Well, a new kind of aerophone designed to work uninfluenced by its
twin.”
“Well, and why shouldn’t it? Everything can’t have a twin—only I
suppose there would be nothing to hear.”
“That’s just the point,” replied Morris in his old professional manner.
“I think there would be plenty to hear if only I could make the machine
sensitive to the sounds and capable of reproducing them.”
“What sounds?” asked Mary.
“Well, if, for instance, one could successfully insulate it from the
earth noises, the sounds which permeate space, and even those that have
their origin upon the surfaces of the planets and perhaps of the more
distant stars.”
“Great heavens!” exclaimed Mary, “imagine a man who can want to let
loose upon our poor little world every horrible noise that happens in
the stars. Why, what under heaven would be the use of it?”
“Well, one might communicate with them. Conceivably even one might hear
the speech of their inhabitants, if they have any; always presuming
that such an instrument could be made, and that it can be successfully
insulated.”
“Hear the speech of their inhabitants! That is your old idea, but you
will never succeed, that’s one blessing. Morris, I suspect you; you
want to stop at home here to work at this horrible new machine; to work
for years, and years, and years without the slightest result. I suppose
that you didn’t invent that about the measles and the scarlatina, did
you? The two of them together sound rather clumsy, as though you might
have done so.”
“Not a bit, upon my honour,” answered Morris. “I will go and get the
letter,” and, not sorry to escape from further examination, he went.
Whether the cause were Mary’s doubts and reproaches, or the infant’s
gums, or the working of his own conscience,—he felt that a man with a
teething baby has no right to cultivate the occult. For quite a long
period, a whole fortnight, indeed, Morris steadily refrained from any
attempt to fulfil his dangerous ambition to “pierce the curtain of
thick night.” Only he read and re-read Stella’s diary—that secret,
fascinating work which in effect was building a wall between him and
the healthy, common instincts of the world—till he knew whole pages of
it by heart. Also he began a series of experiments whereof the object
was to produce an improved and more sensitive aerophone.
That any instrument which the intellect of man could produce would
really succeed in conveying sounds which, if they exist at all, are
born in the vast cosmic areas that envelope our earth and its
atmosphere, he believed to be most improbable. Still, such a thing was
possible, for what is not? Moreover, the world itself as it rushes on
its fearful journey across the depths of space has doubtless many
voices that have not yet been heard by the ears of men, some of which
he might be able to discover and record. At the least he stood upon the
threshold of a new knowledge, and now a great desire arose in him to
pass its doors, if so he might, for who could tell what he would learn
or see behind them? And by degrees, as he worked, always with one
ulterior object in his mind, his scruples vanished or were mastered by
the growth of his longing, till this became his ruling passion—to
behold the spirit of Stella. Now he no longer reasoned with himself,
but openly, nakedly, in his own heart gave his will over to the
achievement of this monstrous and unnatural end.
How was it to be done? That was now the sole dilemma which tormented
him—as the possible methods of obtaining the drink he craves, or the
drug that gives him peace and radiant visions, torment the dipsomaniac
or the morphia victim in his guarded prison. He thought of his
instruments, those magic machines with the working of which Stella had
been familiar in her life. He even poured petitions into them in the
hope that these might be delivered far beyond the ken of man, only to
learn that he was travelling a road which led to a wall impassable; the
wall that, for the lack of a better name, we call Death, which bars the
natural from the spiritual.
Wonderful as were his electrical appliances, innumerable as might be
their impalpable emanations, insoluble as seemed the mystery of their
power of catching and transmitting sounds by the agency of ether, they
were still physical appliances producing physical effects in obedience
to the laws of nature. But what he sought lay beyond nature and was
subject to some rule of which he did not even know the elements, and
much less the axioms. Herein his instruments, or indeed, any that man
could make, were as futile and as useless as would be the prayers of an
archbishop addressed to a Mumbo-jumbo in a fetish house. The link was
wanting; there was, and could be, no communication between the two. The
invisible ether which he had subdued to his purposes was still a
constituent part of the world of matter; he must discover the spiritual
ether, and discover also the animating force by which it might be
influenced.
Now he formed a new plan—to reach the dead by his petitions, by the
invocation of his own spirit. “Seek me and you shall find me,” she had
said. So he sought and called in bitterness and concentration of heart,
but still he did not find. Stella did not come.
He was in despair. She had promised, and her promise seemed to be
broken. Then it was that in turning the pages of her diary he came
across a passage that had escaped him, or which he had forgotten. It
ran thus:
“In the result I have learned this, that we cannot compel the departed
to appear. Even if they hear us they will not, or are not suffered to
obey. If we would behold them we must create the power of vision in our
own natures. They are about us always, only we cannot see or feel their
presence; our senses are too gross. To succeed we must refine our
senses until they acquire an aptitude beyond the natural. Then without
any will or any intervention on their parts, we may triumph, perhaps
even when _they_ do not know that we have triumphed.”