FLOATING FANCIES
AMONG THE
WEIRD AND THE OCCULT.
BY
CLARA H. HOLMES.
[Illustration]
F. TENNYSON NEELY,
PUBLISHER,
LONDON. NEW YORK.
Copyright, 1898,
by
CLARA H. HOLMES.
TO MY FRIEND,
WILLIAM MONTGOMERY.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS.
PAGE
NORDHUNG NORDJANSEN 7
IN THE BEYOND 29
THE TRAGEDY OF THE GNOMES 51
AN UNFAIR EXCHANGE 67
LIMITATIONS 99
A TALE OF TWO PICTURES 119
A NINETEENTH CENTURY GHOST 152
WHAT BECAME OF THE MONEY? 169
HIS FRIEND 196
A TALE OF THE X RAY 214
AN AVERTED TRAGEDY 231
FLOATING FANCIES.
NORDHUNG NORDJANSEN.
Very many years ago, in an age when departures from the regular line of
thought were accounted but vagaries of a diseased brain, when science
was a thing of dread, and great knowledge deemed but sorcery, Nordhung
Nordjansen was born, and grew to early manhood on the far northern coast
of Norway.
Through all his boyhood days—whenever he could steal away from his
father and his father’s plodding work—he would climb the bold crags
which overlooked the Northern Sea, and gaze with hungry eyes over the
vast expanse of water.
“If I could but know what lies beyond that cold horizon,” he would sigh.
He expressed this longing to his father.
“Get your mother a bundle of fagots, and pry not into the unknown,”
answered his father, so sternly that Nordhung dared not mention it
again, and being an obedient boy he went into the forest; but with every
stick he gathered, he also gathered a doubt of his father’s wisdom.
“How can it be wrong to wish to know what lies in that beautiful
beyond?”
He gathered another stick or two, and idly twirling them in his hand, he
murmured, “My father says it is a sin to pry into that which is hidden;
perhaps it is not hidden, but just lies there waiting to be admired, as
did our beautiful Norway, long, long ago.”
He piled the sticks in a little heap, and sat beside them, idly throwing
pebbles at a little bird which sat on a branch, and mocked his
restlessness with happy song.
“I wish that I could know what lies beyond my sight. The sky has stooped
down to meet the waves, and they are so glad that they leap and dimple
in the sunlight. Oh, it must be very beautiful in that far country! Why
must the longing for all things beautiful be a sin? It is no sin to
work, to pick up fagots to make the pot boil, but I do not like to do
this! My father says it is a sin to sit on the crags, and look across
the sea, and wish and wish that I were a bird, so that I could fly; but
I love to do that. I wonder why the sinful cannot be ugly, and those
things which are right be beautiful and nice to do!”
Thus the battle went on in this mind, thirsty for knowledge; a battle as
old as man himself, with his ignorance, and the prejudice of false
teaching.
One day Nordhung climbed the boldest of the crags overlooking Tana
Fiord, and gazed long and wistfully over the many islands which lay
along the coast.
A stately ship sailed out of Sylte Fiord, and made its way around the
headland to the open sea. With fascinated gaze he watched it spread its
white wings; the waves lapped and beat about its prow, it kept on its
majestic way as though scorning their childish gambols. His heart
swelled with eager desire; if he could but own that wonderful ship and
sail away into the unknown! If he could but reach the home of the
beautiful Aurora Borealis and search out its mysteries!
There sprang into life in that hour the firm resolve that some day he
would know—that some day _he_ would stand on the deck of a beautiful
ship of his own, and proudly sail away into the pale glory of those
northern skies, and discover the wonderful things lying beyond those
opaline tints. Then the mist creeping up from the sea began to envelop
him, and he cried aloud, thinking it a spirit sent to punish him for the
sinfulness of his desires, and he ran home as fast as his legs could
carry him.
* * * * *
Fifteen years later Neiharden Nordjansen, father of Nordhung Nordjansen,
died and was buried in the little churchyard; he was born, he breathed,
he ate, he slept, he died and was buried with his ancestors; what more
could man desire? Before the tears were dried upon his cheeks Nordhung
remembered that he was free, and his heart throbbed with impatience.
Three years more passed by; he stood upon the deck of an outgoing ship,
his shoulders thrown back, his head erect; proudly conscious that he was
commander. He bawled arrogantly to the sailors; he cast his eyes over
the great spread of canvas, set to catch ever little flurry of wind, and
lifted his chin a trifle higher.
“Commander Nordjansen!” he murmured delightedly.
Away to the north-northeast he sailed. Threading his way carefully past
the many rocky islands, he entered the frozen sea; ever in danger,
trembling at the near approach of icebergs, or crouching awe-stricken in
the shadow of their immensity, yet never did Nordhung forget that he was
“Commander Nordjansen.”
After long, weary months of sailing, when provisions ran low, when cold
and hunger had pinched the sailors sorely, they openly grumbled at
Nordjansen’s rule; they wearied for home, for wives and sweethearts.
“Why seek further?” cried one; “we are already too far from home!”
“What do we seek?” said another bitterly.
“A fool’s desire! The commander’s Jack-o-lantern!” answered a third
derisively.
But though they grumbled and cast many black looks, the tones were low
and they were careful that they spoke behind his back.
Nordjansen paced his deck with fierce impatience; he strained his eyes
for indication of that which he sought—the North Pole. The beautiful
Aurora Borealis lighted his way with streaming flames of red, that
quivered into golden glory, or faded into palest silver—only to flame,
and shoot, and dart across the heavens again like fantastic, serpent
tongues; he approached the beautiful wonder—it seemed to him not one jot
nearer than in the beginning of his journey. His heart lay heavy within
him.
He surprised the fierce, scowling glances of his sailors, as by twos and
threes they grumbled together. He sternly ordered them about their
business; they grumbled still more as they obeyed.
His heart sank with dread; the chill wind blew through the frozen
cordage, and whistling shrilly, mocked the lure of his lifetime. Was all
his effort to end in failure; were all his hopes and lofty ambitions to
yield no fruition? Was he never—never to fathom the secret of the
Unknown and the Wonderful?
For hours he paced the deck; true, at his command the sailors had slunk
away, but with scowls of bitter hate; each heart filled with wrath and
grievous longing. Habit of obedience is strong, and Nordjansen was
commander, as he was careful that they should remember.
In his pacing to and fro he passed the compass; he paused in
astonishment, the needle was vibrating strangely, and he became
conscious that the vessel was no longer going steadily on her
course—although the water appeared smooth—but was pitching in short,
sudden lurches; now slightly to the right, then to the left;
quivering—quivering—like some frightened living thing.
Strange thrills ran through his body; a terrible fear shook him.
The flames of the Aurora seemed to hang directly over the ship, and to
be of a fiery hue, anon changing to all the prismatic colors of the
rainbow, so brilliant as to frighten him; a thousand fiery tongues
seemed to lick at the reeling ship, as though to devour her, and all
contained therein. He covered his eyes with his shaking hands to shade
his tortured eyeballs from their satanic gambolings.
One by one the terrified sailors crept on deck and huddled together,
talking in awed whispers, or crouched around the mast in abject fear. At
last three, more bold—or more desperate—than the others, walked up to
Nordjansen; one, a grizzled old fellow, pulled his tangled forelock
awkwardly.
“What do you wish?” asked Nordjansen sternly.
“If you please, sir, me and my mates wants to know if so be as you’ll
turn back. We’ve naught to eat, and it’s sore goin’ without feed, when
it’s growin’ cold—c-o-l-d-e-r e-v-e-r-y m-i-n-u-t-e,” his teeth
chattering so that he could scarcely speak.
“Go below! You cowards!” shouted Nordjansen fiercely. “Cold! You are
frightened! No wonder your teeth chatter like the boughs of the trees in
the winter wind!” he shrieked, hoarse with rage. They crept away, more
affrighted of his wrath than of the cold or the fiery phenomenon over
their heads.
Nordjansen drew himself up proudly:
“Let them not presume to dictate to me; _I_ am the commander! But it
_is_ c-o-l-d; y-e-s, c-o-l-d;” his lips trembled, and _his_ teeth
chattered so that his speech halted.
The strange thrills increased in force, and shot through him in more
rapid succession.
A wind had arisen, which each moment increased in velocity. Of a sudden
the ship lurched wildly, then spun half around, and with an awful thud
the iron sheathing of her bow adhered to the North Pole, as the cambric
needle is attached to the magnet with which children play. One glimpse
of icebergs so awful, so terrible in their magnitude; higher than the
highest peaks of the Himalayas, numerous beyond computing; each one a
perfect prism, lighted into a blinding radiance of color by the midnight
sun. Nordjansen knew that he had found the home of the Aurora Borealis.
He had scant time to notice these wonders; all that he saw in that
fleeting glance made a horrible impression upon his awe-struck mind, yet
no one thought was distinct or clearly defined—one awful throe of fear
possessed him.
The wind had increased to a shrieking gale, and although the force of
magnetism held the vessel sealed to the pole, it quivered, groaned, and
strained for release like a living thing.
Nordjansen’s knees trembled; he turned his terror-stricken gaze away
from the awful illumination—the dizzy commingling of rays of every
hue—from the vast, unnumbered prisms of ice; his eyeballs ached with the
glare; which, though so brilliant, was permeated with a chill more
terrible than the rigor of death.
As in affright he turned his eyes away it was but to encounter another
horror; before him lay a cavernous entrance, glooming downward and
forward, into the very bowels of the earth; he loosed his hold upon the
mast—to which he had been clinging for support—to wipe the cold drops of
perspiration from his brow, brought there by terror. He wished his
sailors were on deck that he might hear the sound of a human voice. He
wished—he wished that he had been less harsh. When all is well we are
filled with self-sufficiency, but when adversity comes upon us we crave
human sympathy as much as does the little child who holds up a hurt hand
for mother’s healing kiss.
He had no sooner loosed his hold upon the mast than the strong wind
lifted him bodily, and carried him—feet foremost—into the terrors of the
abyss which swallowed him up in darkness. He had no time for thought as
he was borne rapidly forward; swept along as a feather is borne on the
autumn gale; he lay on his back, as the swimmer floats on the water, his
arms pressed closely to his sides, his feet held stiffly together. The
strange incongruous thought occurred to him: “This is the position in
which I shall be placed when I am dead; my feet will lie thus, side by
side; my hands should be crossed upon my breast—” he tried to raise his
hands and so place them, but found that he had no power to stir them. “I
wonder if I am dead! Is this the dread change?” He laughed whimsically,
for at this instant the strong wind, sweeping his hair backward, made
his head itch; that was no _post-mortem_ sensation.
A strange rumbling noise greeted his ears; the clank of ponderous
machines, the whirr of enormous belts, as the earth turned on her axis.
The wind, which had been bitterly cold, grew gradually warmer; a
strange, dreamy lassitude stole over him, a wavy, half-light helped to
soothe his senses.
On—on, he floated; how long he knew not; days—weeks—he had no idea as to
time. A desperate hunger assailed him; he fancied that trees loaded with
luscious fruits mocked him as he was swept by; odors strange but
delightful seemed to fill his whole being with longing; his mouth
dripped with moisture. Oh, how dreadful the onward sweeping! Would it
never end?
All sound had died away—I should say—had been left behind; no more
creaking and groaning of the horribly ponderous machinery; but a silence
still more horrible reigned. We have little realization of what perfect
silence would be. Our world is one vast hubbub. Who ever knew the day or
night, the time or place, that we did not hear the rush of the wind
among the treetops; the calls of birds; the lowing of cattle; the bark
of a dog, or the blow of an ax; perhaps the crack of a whip? Noise,
noise everywhere, and at all times. Were perfect silence to reign for
one hour, the tones of the human voice would strike upon the ear with
the force of a blow.
Nordhung must have swooned; how long he remained in this unconscious
state he had no means of knowing; indeed, he felt that here time was
not. As his faculties once more became active, he noticed, first, that
he was being carried forward much more slowly; secondly, that instead of
going straight ahead, he was describing an immense circle, with an
occasional sharp turn. He also observed that the wavering light had
increased to a steady white glow, a brilliancy almost blinding to his
unaccustomed eyes; faint sounds came to him from time to time, not like
the ponderous noises which had affrighted him, but human
sounds—laughter—a child’s cry—but with something strange in the tone.
His heart swelled rapturously! Was he nearing the earth’s surface again?
Oh, that he might once more sit on the crags of Norway, and look upon
his beautiful land!
We are prone to consider that most beautiful which we looked upon while
the heart was young; then, all the world was fair, and we loved much.
When disappointments have come to us, and hope has grown jaded, we look
back, even upon a rocky desolation, and say in all sincerity, “How
beautiful it was,” not knowing that it was but our hearts’ hopes that
were beautiful. Alas, _that were_!
Nordhung sadly thought: “My father was right, and I am well punished for
prying into the unknown.”
Sounds became more distinctly audible; the wind had fallen to a gentle
breeze, and he felt himself settling, settling as you have seen a
balloon descend as the gas gradually escaped.
Gently he floated into the midst of an excited group, who scattered with
cries of fear and wonder. Strange sounds issued from these strange
beings; tones of dismay, and astonishment, in which no one voice
differed from another; a thin sound, lacking timbre; as the wind blows
with the angry force of the storm, or gently sighs of a placid summer
day—so these voices were in anger high and shrill, in joy softly
reaching the consciousness. Their bodies—if that could be called a body
which possessed no substance—were as strange as their voices, being but
a vapor surrounding the soul—the shadow of a form; each emotion, thought
or impulse was therefore plainly discernible. Of speech there was no
need, consequently there was none; all sound emitted was but that of
spontaneity; laughter, cries of wonder, horror, and the like.
The shriek of amazement that greeted his ears; the strange appearance of
the people; the weird surroundings so impressed Nordjansen that little,
cold shivers chased each other down his spine. He saw their thought,
their wonder and fear; as I have said, there was no need of language;
each spirit saw, and perfectly comprehended the thought of the other; it
was cause of amazement to these people that they could not see his
thought—the working of his mind; this wonderful fact—much more than the
mode of his advent, or of his presence—dominated each intelligence.
He raised upon his elbow, and watched their growing awe; presently, he
saw this thought leap into one mind: “It is a God!” Instantly half a
dozen minds followed suit, the spark igniting the tinder as readily in
these strange intelligences, as it does among us. He watched with
fascinated curiosity the skepticism, the doubt, the hesitation, changing
to a slow growth of belief in the various understandings.
Above all his wonder, above all his curiosity—a minimum of awe, and much
gratified vanity—one fact made itself felt; he was hungry, and he said
so.
The panic was terrible! A multitudinous shriek answered him; no
variation in sound, no distinction of voices—a single, horrible note of
fear—and they flitted away—I cannot say walk, or run—for how can a vapor
do either?—they floated away in affright.
He, seeing their dismayed thought, laughed; he arose to his feet,
stretched his muscles; it seemed enjoyable to stand upright once more
after lying inert for so long a time.
As he moved about another shriek arose; the sound held an element of the
horrible in that one level, unvarying tone, and sent a fresh shiver
adown his spine. Soon, however, curiosity overcame their fear, and one
by one they timidly floated toward him; one, more courageous than the
rest, came so close that the vapory body half-encircled him; a
wonderfully pleasant sensation went through all his being; a moist
warmth, which conveyed a sense of fellowship—a kinship of soul, pure and
delightful.
One after another gained courage, and approached, until he was
completely enveloped in the living mist. He saw the growing worship in
every mind; that adoration of the mysterious, which ofttimes serves for
a worship of the divine.
“It is well,” thought Nordjansen, “Nordhung, people always look up to
you; these people recognize your superiority!”
Notwithstanding his satisfaction, and self-laudation, he did not forget
that he was very hungry; he opened his mouth and pointed down his
throat, and used his jaws as though masticating; only bewilderment
greeted his most eloquent pantomime. How could they understand? Being
without body or substance they needed no food except that which entered
each vapory environment by absorption. Then occurred a strange thing to
Nordjansen; he cried out in anguish: “My God! Must I starve?”
He sighed; a long, deep inspiration, and was instantly conscious of a
delicious sweetness in his mouth, a taste like a strange, but most
luscious fruit. He repeated the indrawing process until he felt
perfectly satisfied, without the unpleasantness which repletion gives.
He wandered around a space which seemed inclosed, to which he could find
no limit; he had no conception of distance, perspective was lost in a
bewildering unreality of all surroundings; for instance, Nordhung
thought that he beheld a most beautiful tree, he desired a nearer view;
he wandered on and on until exhausted before he realized that here,
space, like time, had no known law; such being the case, of course,
Nordjansen had no means of knowing how long he dwelt in this strange
place.
All these fantastic beings, with one exception, worshiped him as a God
sent among them for some great, but unknown purpose; he, seeing their
awe and worship, took pains to foster and increase it. To himself he
said: “Nordhung, you are indeed great; these beings know it; they are
fine creatures!” He lifted his shoulders a trifle more, and endeavored
to assume a godlike tread.
The one exception of which I have spoken was a female; she worshiped him
as a woman often does, when she should but love. She hovered around him
by night and by day, she enveloped him, she would have permeated him;
she watched his every act, she hung upon, and learned to interpret his
looks; she suited herself to his moods, and her thoughts to his desires
as nearly as she could divine them; in fact, she would have thought his
thoughts could she have seen them as he saw hers.
He learned many things which to him were very strange; he found the
source of the illumination of this place, a light that shone with steady
radiance; not as our sun shines for a few hours which we call day, and
kindly gives place to the darkness of night, that many may rest from
toil, and a few may sneak into evil under cover of its shadow. The two
poles, one entering from the north, the other from the south, here
formed a positive and a negative; which, with the power engendered as
the world turns on her axis, was made to produce an electric light of
wonderful brilliancy. He also learned to communicate his desires to
these beings with whom he mingled. Their amazement at his flesh, bone,
sinews, hidden mind, in fact, his entire personality grew continually;
they could not understand how such a condition could exist; _he_ was to
them a miracle, consequently to be worshiped.
Nordjansen grew to admire these souls, so perfectly pure; so free from
all deceit, and truthful perforce; loving and faithful, as no taint of
evil _could_ find lodgment in their transparent minds.
Pure and sweet as they were, his heart at times grew sick for his own
kind, and instead of the faint, moist, languorous atmosphere, with never
a disturbing storm, he longed for the rocky promontories of his Norway;
the reverberation of the rolling thunder among the hills, and the wild
lashing of the sea on the rocky base of the cliffs. Sometimes he
dreamed—half-awake, half-asleep—that the briny spray was dashing in his
face, and thought that he could taste the pungent savor of the salt, and
awoke to find the tears trickling down his cheek, moistening his tongue.
His heart grew faint unto sickness for the light of the sun, and the
shifting shadows of the clouds on the distant hills, where the grass
grew like a flower-decked carpet, and the white sheep bleated lovingly
to one another. And oh! for a sight of the stately, white-robed ships as
they sailed away into the unknown which he now deplored. He numbly
wondered what had become of his good ship, Nord Rhyn.
Alas, that he had not been content with his father’s land, and his
father’s homely ways!
He grew unutterably weary of the unreality of all things surrounding
him, he longed for the interchange of day and night; he longed for
food—actual food—with a throe of maddening pain, so keen was his desire;
he longed for creatures of flesh and blood, with their inborn
predilection for evil, which gave the doing of right things so much
sweeter flavor. He wearied of the love of the She which so completely
enveloped him, as men ever tire of that which is so wholly their own
that they cannot for one fascinating hour escape it; it is worse than a
diet of sweets, although the effect is the same, a nauseated surfeit.
She, poor soul! She learned to dread his scowling brow, his harsh tone;
to shrink and tremble in wild affright whenever he ordered her away; she
sought ever to win a more kindly regard by added devotion, by hanging
more fondly and constantly about him. After all she differed not so
greatly from her sisters on the face of the earth. He grew more
intolerant of her presence, and violently ordered her to leave him; he
noted her agony of fear, her deathless devotion, and her hopeless pain
with indifference, as with a cry of despair she turned away.
He seized the opportunity and fled, whither he knew not; he could but
die, which meant surcease from all the wild longings that so beset him.
On, ever onward! How far! How long! Oh, it was terror not to know—to
have no account of time—no knowledge of distance; it was like sailing a
ship through eternal void, no landmarks—no limit—just on, and on—so far
as he had knowledge of it.
Ah! A change came over him. The spirit of the explorer stirred once more
within him. He felt that he was once again describing an immense circle,
as had been his experience upon entering; he felt that there was a
reason for this, and his mind became busy trying to solve the problem.
“There is some purpose in this; come to think of it, there is a purpose
in most things, and I shall arrive at an understanding of this one,” he
murmured complacently.
His surroundings were visibly changing, distance seemed tangible, all
things more real. A strange awesome stillness had fallen around him like
a mantle of dread, and every instant seemed to deepen its intensity; the
air, from being languorously balmy, had grown chill, and a strong
current hurried him forward.
His perplexed mind began to grasp the solution which had evaded him;
were it not for these many turnings, and the immensity of the circle,
the cold draught from Pole to Pole would sweep through with all the
devastating force of a cyclone. He stopped and straightened himself,
bringing his hands together with a resounding thwack: “To be sure! Why,
of course! Nordhung, I thought you would master the problem; there is
very little that baffles you!” he cried approvingly.
His voice sounded horrible; it echoed, and re-echoed like the laughter
of a thousand demons; in wild affright he started to run, but stumbled
and fell; a groan was wrung from his lips as he tried to rise; he
thought he heard a soft sigh, and a moist, warm vapor swept his bruised
cheek like a tender, clinging kiss. He stumbled to his feet regardless
of his wounds, and screamed out, as he struck furiously into the
darkness: “Go back; go to your own kind; I hate you!” he screamed,
crazed with rage and his fear of restraint, and as he was—as purely
animal fear ever is—brutal. A single, sad note answered him; sad as the
wail of the autumn wind when the last leaf floats down to earth; sad as
the cry of the Soul which—seeing Heaven’s wide-open gate—must still pass
by on the other side; as sad—oh, saddest of all, as when all love’s
hopes lie slain by one’s best beloved. Adieu! adieu!
His hand was again lifted to strike, and—“Ah!” he caught his breath in a
sharp gasp; a gust of wind lifted him off his feet, precisely as in
entering, forcing his hands close to his sides, feet pressed
together—toes up—like the feet of the dead. Swift, swifter he sped; all
thought, all feeling lost in that mad rush; a vague consciousness alone
remained to him. It seemed that for ages he was borne along, then into
his dim consciousness entered the same rumbling sounds; heavy, jarring,
indistinguishable noises; cold, colder grew the atmosphere, the wind
pierced to the marrow of his bones; his very vitals seemed freezing.
Happily he lost consciousness.
For many days a wild storm swept the far southern sea, and a half-dozen
sailors, with their small boat, were thrown upon a rocky point which was
continually lashed by the icy waves; there they found a gaunt,
white-haired old man, who sobbed at sight of them. When, after weeks of
suffering from cold and hunger, they again put to sea in their small
boat, they took the old man with them.
After many days of suffering—days which were like a horrible dream of
cloudless sky and lapping water, with never a drop to quench their
thirst; a ball of fire by day, which yet gave no grateful warmth, and a
maddening calm of moon at night; a nightmare of wandering thoughts, and
gibbering tongues, amid which the face of Nordjansen looked like a
fabled Gorgon, with eyes of restless fire—after many days of this
inexpressible horror they were taken on board a ship bound for the East
Indies.
Nordjansen had crouched down by a coil of rope, his long gray beard hung
in matted strings, his scant white hair tossed wildly in the breeze. A
seaman, attending to his duty, stumbled over a loose end of the rope and
came near falling; he gave vent to an impatient exclamation in his
native tongue—Norwegian. No matter how fluently one speaks a foreign
language, in moments of emotion the tongue falls naturally into its
national speech.
Nordjansen sprang to his feet, his eyes glowing wildly; his words came
tumbling over each other in voluble incoherency; he clasped his
compatriot’s knees and kissed the hands that would have pushed him away;
the fiery light died out of his eyes, leaving them sad and pathetic; at
last the man understood, and lifting him to his feet said kindly:
“Tell me what you wish?”
“I want to go to my Norway! I wish for my friends! I am weary of strange
lands, and stranger things! I long for the land of my birth, and would
once more hear our beloved language spoken by all!” he poured forth
volubly.
“Yes, yes!” answered his friend soothingly, as he hurried away.
Nordjansen’s eyes followed him hungrily, and from that time he watched
the leaping waves with glad delight as he stood for hours at the prow of
the boat.
“Fly! Begone! Away with you, that the more speedily I may see my beloved
land,” he would cry with all the happy abandon of childhood.
He waylaid Varman, and plied him with endless questions until the man
took every means of keeping out of his sight.
Day followed day in sickening monotony, until Nordjansen laid his aching
head upon his coil of rope and wept in weariness of heart.
“I shall never see my land again; Varman is deceiving me. I wish that I
had been less unkind to She; I should know _her_ thought; _She_ would
not deceive me!”
He was so soon regretting that which he had cast side so carelessly,
forgetful that dead love knows no resurrection; neither can the divine
passion be put on or off as easily as we can reconsider our decision as
to cast-off garments.
Thus he fretted until the hours were as days, and the days interminable;
when they hailed a passing ship, and he was transferred to the
homeward-bound vessel, and thus at last he reached the haven of his
desire—Norway.
As his old feet tottered through the streets of his native place, all
things looked sad and strange; he looked piteously around, seeking a
familiar countenance, and when he found not one, he hid his face in his
shaking hands and wept aloud.
Little children hid in their mothers’ gowns, and the old people shook
their heads stolidly when he asked in trembling tones if they knew his
old-time friends, and they replied, in accents of wonder:
“We know them not; we heard never the names.”
He asked but one more question: “Did you know my beautiful ship, the
Nord Rhyn, and her goodly crew? I was her commander!” with a sad attempt
at his old air of pride.
“No, no! We never heard of such a ship,” they answered impatiently. He
sighed deeply and sadly, as he turned away, and climbed to the summit of
the crags his memory held so dear.
At last he stood on the rocky height and looked around with saddened
eyes; it seemed as though the sun shone less bright, and that the hills
had grown bald and ugly; and as he looked toward the north which had so
fascinated him in the long ago, it appeared cold and forbidding. He sank
down forlornly, and with hand closed over his dim eyes he watched ever
the white-clad ships sailing past, and eagerly peered at each to learn
her name.
“The Nord Rhyn will soon come into port; my sailors must have heard of
their commander’s return; they will know, and welcome me,” he would
repeat again and again, persistently clinging to this last hope.
At times when the autumn winds sighed he would start up tremulously; “It
is _She_! I hear her voice! I wish that she would come!” He sighed
sorrowfully for the jewel which he had thrown away.
One sweet spring morn found him, still with that quietude which ends all
weariness; he had found rest on the highest crag overlooking Tana Fiord,
on the same spot where he had sat and wished with restless heart in his
boyhood days. A sweet moisture rested on his cheek, a happy smile
touched his lips and the careworn wrinkles had smoothed away from his
brow. Perhaps She had known his sad longing, and with love’s tender
forgiving had answered his call in that last hour; the hour in which
with clearer vision and unselfish thought he stood on the threshold of
the higher plane.
With kindly hands the simple people laid him away, afraid to neglect or
despise one of “God’s Children,” as they called those of unbalanced
mind; and as they passed around the open grave, each cast in a flower
and whispered pityingly: “God receive the poor old lunatic!”
IN THE BEYOND.
The summer sun beat oppressively down upon the heads of August Blair and
Aimee Herne, as they walked their horses slowly down the hilly road.
Aimee took off her hat and fanned her heated face: “Mercy! the lower
regions can’t be much hotter than this!”
August laughed as he flicked at the overhanging branches of the trees
with his whip: “According to all accounts there isn’t very much shade
there.”
“Just at present I could imagine only a mitigation of heat and a
perpetual breeze, as fitly belonging to that plane of existence,”
replied Aimee, in that light tone which either means nothing or hits the
truth without positive conception of its being such.
“That speech embodies every person’s idea of heaven, doesn’t it? We wish
most earnestly for the condition we find lacking to our comfort in this
world; thus, to-day a cool wind and shade seem most desirable; next week
it might be quite different——”
“A fire for instance,” said Aimee sarcastically.
“That is another of man’s ideas constructed from the purely material,
and grafted into the spiritual tree; burning by fire is man’s conception
of the worst possible torment. Our ideas of the hereafter—and
incidentally of heaven—are very vague and uncertain; no mind can build
higher than its purest ideal, and our knowledge gained only from the
material world cannot grasp the spiritual. We speculate a little, and
take a flight in this or that direction; but like a bird at
night—bewildered by the arc lights in the street we fall back to
earth—and material things for all our types of happiness.”
Aimee threw up her hand impatiently, “Oh, what ideas! I don’t want to
talk about such things; I prefer thinking how pleasant it is under this
great old oak. Let us rest here, August.”
“All right,” he answered as he alighted and assisted her from the
saddle. They seated themselves on a grassy knoll at the foot of the
tree, and restfully watched the horses crop the short, sweet grass.
August’s thought seemed to persistently linger on the subject of the
beyond: “There could be nothing more heavenly than this—were one’s mind
but in perfect accord with one’s surroundings,” said he.
“Which very seldom happens to be the case,” answered Aimee.
“Our own discordant restlessness is all that hinders this world from
actually being heaven!” replied he emphatically.
“Oh, nonsense! This is earth, and that is good enough for me; I do not
wish to think on such gruesome subjects; life is so pleasant. Some time
I must prepare for eternity, I suppose; but I wish to enjoy myself now;
it is time enough when I have grown old to be solemn, and give up all
pleasures,” she half-pouted.
August laid his head back against the boll of the tree and laughed
heartily. “So you think that one must be solemn to prepare for eternity?
In the first place we are in eternity now—the present is just as much a
part of eternity as the future state will be; eternity is only an
expression, meaning all time; it always was and always will be, and it
seems to me that the very best way to prepare for the future state is to
be innocently happy in this——”
“_I_ think that you are talking nonsense—you make me afraid!”
“Of what are you afraid? Afraid of opening the door to step into the
next room? Afraid to go to sleep in the evening of life, to awaken in
the sunlit morning of an advanced day? I’ll tell you what, Aimee, if I
go before you do—and return is possible—I will come back and tell you
what I find in the Beyond.”
Aimee jumped up nervously, and walked away without speaking.
August arose at the same time, and leaned against the trunk of the tree.
“Come back here!” he called.
“No, indeed! I do not want to hear that kind of talk,” she replied
irritably.
The clouds had been gathering in the west, and once or twice the thunder
had growled menacingly; but in the shelter of the trees they had not
observed the signals of the coming storm.
A great drop of rain struck Aimee on the cheek, causing her to utter an
exclamation of surprise.
“Come here, Aimee!” called August again, holding out his hands, a smile
on his lips; her petulance amused him.
At that instant a bolt of lightning shot from the sky, blinding and
bewildering Aimee; it appeared to be at her very feet; her scream of
affright was drowned by the crash and reverberation of the thunder; she
essayed to go to August for protection, but a numbness paralyzed her
brain and limbs; the horses snorted wildly, and galloped away over the
road toward home.
In a short time Aimee aroused herself, and called quaveringly, “August!
August!” but received no reply.
She made an effort to cross the road, but her head swayed dizzily and
her limbs refused to support her body; a cloud-like haze seemed to float
between herself and August, where he sat apparently leaning back easily
against the tree. A few great drops of rain plashed down—making
miniature globes in the dust of the street—they pelted her in the face
and served to revive her a little.
“August! August!” she called complainingly; still he made no reply. She
shaded her eyes with her hand and peered at him wonderingly; she thought
the sunlight was dazzling her vision, everything appeared blurred,
distorted and out of proportion; she petulantly resented the smile upon
August’s lips, she thought that he derided her fear.
“It’s mean of you August!” she whimpered as she giddily crossed the
dusty road, staggering from side to side as she walked.
The clouds had been gathering thick and fast, and the gloom of a late
twilight prevailed; the heavy thunder crashed and roared,
following—almost blending with—the blinding flashes of electricity.
As she dropped at his feet complainingly, the flood gates of heaven
seemed opened; she crept to him, and reached up her arms to clasp his
neck in a childishly confident way: “Oh, protect me, August! Do let us
seek shelter!”
As her arms closed about his neck his head fell forward inertly, the
body lurched over heavily, fell from her weak arms and rolled over
sidewise. The heavy rumble of the thunder, the roar of the rain, the
wild swaying of the sodden branches, and the flapping of the wet leaves
drowned her frightened cries.
“Help! help!” she shrieked again and again; at times high and shrill,
again, almost inarticulate—scarcely above a hoarse whisper—as clutching
at his clothing she frantically tried to lift him and hold him erect.
“Oh, August, my darling, what ails you? Speak to me! Speak to me!” she
cried wildly.
A half-dozen men came dashing down the hill; they had spoken with August
and Aimee as they passed on their way; then when the storm was at its
height, seeing the horses galloping by riderless, they knew that some
accident must have befallen them.
Aimee saw them coming, and redoubled her cries.
“What is the matter?” “Are you hurt?” “Were you thrown from your
horses?” It was a babel of sounds; a confusion of questions.
“I do not know! Oh, it is August!” answered Aimee incoherently.
“Stand back,” said one who had been stooping over August. Continuing in
a low tone, “He is dead, struck by lightning.”
“No! no! no!” shrieked Aimee shrilly: “He was speaking but an instant
ago; can’t you see that he is not dead! Why, he is smiling!”
She clasped him more closely in her arms, and rocked herself back and
forth as a mother soothes her child. Gently they loosed her hold, and
through the sobbing trees bore their dripping burden to the nearest
farmhouse, soothing Aimee’s frantic grief with sympathetic words.
August had been so amused at Aimee’s petulance and childish fear that he
had reached out his hands to call her to him as he would have called a
wayward child; in this attitude the descending bolt struck him. He
experienced for one brief instant the shock and sense of earthly pain,
followed immediately by a feeling of lightness and freedom—which none
but children experience in the physical body, and they but seldom—glad
to be, glorying in existence—which, instead of being lost through the
change, had become intensified and augmented. It seemed that a film had
been swept from his sight; all things were clearer and larger; and
things which had appeared enveloped in mystery—difficult to
understand—stood out plain and simple, like the white letters upon a
blackboard.
His spirit, freed from earthly aches and pains, from the uncomfortable
sense of incumbrance, rose like a bird on the wing; his first sense of
bewilderment—caused by his rapid transit through space—gave place to an
exalted delight as he beheld the wonderful panorama spread out before
him—waves of silvery hue, tinged with violet shades—exactly proportioned
one with another—like a softly lapping, iridescent sea; long, low slopes
clothed in the same subdued color swept by him; he grew weary of the
sameness, and wished that he might catch a glimpse of the mountains
which should lie beyond those hills; their deep shadows and high lights
would be a restful change. Even as the discontent swept over him he
plunged into a gulf of shadows—shadows filled with silent voices—desire
made manifest without sound or motion—the spiritual understanding of the
purely spiritual.
The multitudinous shadows were on every side; pressing on the right,
crowding on the left; before him and in the rear; close, closer—urging
for companionship; shrieking for guidance through the gulf of the vast
Unknown; through the trackless No Land which lies between the material
and the spiritual world. He felt their silent despairing cry, that they
were lost in this horrible void; they clutched at him as he swept past
them, and although there was no sound all this reached his spiritual
consciousness like the roar of the tempest, or the tumult and crash of
falling worlds, so magnified was his understanding of all things.
The commotion horrified him; instincts of the plane of life now left
behind prompted resentment; he would have fought the impalpable—given
physical blows to things of no substance—to shadows. He felt a strange,
incongruous sense of mirth as he realized the absurdity of it—was he not
a disembodied spirit among a countless throng like unto himself? A wave
of pity for himself and all that surging throng swept over him.
He was carried rapidly onward, although he realized no volition of his
own; darker, darker grew the way; all the accompanying shadows
disappeared until there was nothing to stir the deadly silence and
gloom; his longing for sound became torture—it was like holding the
breath expecting disaster—he felt an agonized desire to scream, and thus
break this horrible, waveless void into billows of uproar. This laying
off the flesh—and retaining all of the spiritual activity augmented by
being set so entirely free from all limitations of the material plane,
yet without chart or compass on the unknown spiritual sea, was
suggestive of difficulties bordering upon punishment, instead of the
unalloyed happiness expected.
He grew very weary of this continued progress, with no known end in
view; it is the hope of accomplishment which makes all things—even
waiting—bearable. He whimsically likened himself to a fly in a sea of
ink; he was but a somber atom in a shroud of darkness, just a trifle
more dense than his environment.
After that which seemed to him ages of time and limitless
space—forgetful that beyond the physical life there could exist neither
time nor space, as both are of man’s comprehension—the density lightened
a trifle; a seeming wall rose somberly before him, a tantalizing
suggestion of a means of ingress; and as he looked in fear and amaze a
door opened, from which there issued a blinding light, and illumined by
its rays he beheld a creature more beautiful than the imagination of man
ever conceived.
The strong, onward-bearing current seemed at once to set in that
direction; thus, he became aware that his wish, his desire, governed the
current; heretofore he had drifted aimlessly—having no body to
control—and failing to comprehend that the spirit could be directed. The
knowledge came to him as does that which we call intuition—which is
nothing more nor less than spiritual understanding—that his wish
controlled the spirit, as his desire had governed the body.
We often hear the departed spoken of as the “shade;” he found that upon
which he now gazed quite the reverse; a luminosity—outlining a charming
vagueness—a suggestion of the beautiful rather than a fact. The reality
never yet possessed the lure for man which suggestion holds; there was a
delusion of starry eyes, flowing hair, lips glowing with the enticement
of kisses, like the bewilderment of an entrancing dream; a seeming vague
roundness of form, which was but a figment of the desire.
Warm and languorous grew the compelling current; fear fell away, a mad
desire for possession taking its place. His gaze seemed fixed upon the
entrancing vision. He was almost within the portal when a shudder ran
through his spirit as a chill goes through the body; a sudden wavering
of the spiritual vision, then—an appalled shrinking.
The dismay caused a quick turning of the onward-bearing force, which
shot him out into the darkness; the door closed behind him, and his
intelligence collapsed for a brief space of time.
That which had so frightened him was an abysmal pit, filled with
fighting, struggling fiends, each bearing a horrible impress of his
particular sin stamped upon his pain-distorted, shadowy semblance of a
human face, in characters as legible as words upon a written page. Their
sins continually mocked them; all their evil desires remained,
accentuated by their inability to gratify the evil propensities. His
most poignant fright was caused by recognizing many whom he had known in
the material life, who had stood high in the world’s esteem, and had
worn a cloak of superior sanctity.
Helplessly he floated on; in his awful collapse he was unable to will
his course—if indeed he had known any course or destination. The awful,
crowding shadows seemed to bear him with them; he thought that he had
escaped them, yet here they were, and he was again but one of a
gruesome, soundless throng.
He soon recovered from his fright, and was carried forward, if not more
hopefully, yet more resignedly, and thus he came to another door;
inscribed thereon in mellow radiance was this legend, “Knock, and it
shall be opened unto you.”
With a thrill he remembered his earthly teaching. He drew near in fear
and awe—he thought to gently knock. Alas! Hands he had not!
Grief surged through his spirit: “Ah, if I could but knock, that I might
enter in out of the shadows and despair!” he sighed. Even as the wish
formed, the door seemed to roll gently away; a soft glow enveloped him;
sweet odors encompassed him; a warm wave wafted him onward; the door
silently slid into place. With joy he realized that his humble desire
had typified knocking. All within was light, glory and beauty.
Fear seized him; shame of his imperfections held him motionless.
On every side, wafting around him, were creatures of surpassing
loveliness; no blemish visible in any one of them. In the body absolute
perfection of mind or matter is not to be found; here, the rule seemed
to be reversed—there existed not the slightest variation from lines of
perfect symmetry. Waves of intelligence floated out from each released
spirit, pure as the flawless diamond, and as calm as the waveless sea;
it seemed to him that over all there rested—not a chill—but the absence
of warmth; warmth and love are not compatible with absolute perfection.
All human love is more or less riotous and selfish; the passion is like
an ocean, whose billows roll high, or rock in a gentle lullaby, but
never, never an unbroken calm. Also, ardor and warmth are the fruit of
desire, not necessarily sinful, but of the leaven of humanity.
He felt, in the presence of these spirits of purity, the taint of the
world clinging to him like a soiled garment; he fancied he could smell
the mold of the grave, the odor of his decaying body.
He looked with amaze upon those spirits from whom no thought emanated
save eternal worship of the Eternal One, seated forever on a “Great
White Throne” in their midst; before which even the fronded palms seemed
to lift up their heads in adoration.
All have read that the floor of heaven is laid over “with gold and
precious stones;” and whose “walls are of jasper and onyx, and all
things costly and precious.”
All other emotions now gave place to wonder. How could the earthly be so
mixed up with the spiritual? How could the love of “all things costly”
remain, and no taint of humanity linger? The desire for gold was born of
greed; and the love of precious stones was sired by selfishness.