"It was a foolish action, and I feel ashamed of having given way to the
momentary instinct which prompted it."
"What! saving the girl's life?" I said.
"No," he replied, "but the way I did it. You can easily fancy that I
possessed other and simpler means of saving her without attracting
attention to myself. But it is very difficult at times to check the
inclination which we all have for exciting bodily action."
"Well," I answered, "I do not think, considering the power you possess,
any one could accuse you of making a display of it. Why, the breaking
of the bars by your horse's feet was, I fancy, unnoticed by any one
except myself. Others probably thought they had given way under the
strain; while even your horse's rearing up and falling backwards would
be considered only a fortunate accident."
"That is quite true," he replied, "I was not thinking of display, to
which weakness my nature at present tends very slightly; but rather that
for the time being I allowed my body to do what my will could have
effected better without its assistance. However, this is its day out,
and perhaps it was only fair."
I have mentioned this incident to show that Sydney, even while he
possessed faculties so remarkable that one might have expected his body
to influence his mind no longer, at times still allowed the former to
hold temporary sway. He always impressed this point most strongly upon
me, saying that those who profess most emphatically that they have the
power to ignore material things, are, often, without knowing it, under
the most serious bodily servitude, the servitude of disease; and that
though it is quite true that the body should be brought into subjection
to the spirit, this can only be done by keeping it always, as far as
possible, in perfect action and health.
*CHAPTER XIV*
I was sitting alone in my study one morning about two days after our
run, busily engaged in writing an account of it, when I found that
Sydney was standing beside me. I started up, his presence taking me by
surprise.
"I never heard you come in," I said.
"No," he answered, "I have been at Aphar since we last met, and seeing
that you were alone I returned here instead of going to my house. As we
are neither of us busy to-day, I thought you might like to hear the
continuation of my story."
We talked for some time about various subjects which led back eventually
to the experiences which Vera had related to me.
"Tell me," I said, "was the girl really present? Or was this simply a
delusion which you threw over me?"
"It is rather difficult to explain," he replied. "Vera was neither with
you in body nor in spirit, yet it was her past nature that spoke, called
up by the force of my will, even as it was her past form that you saw. I
cannot fully explain this even to you, for in common with others you
hold a false estimation of what people call time. Past, present, and
future are convenient terms for men to use; but as a fact there are no
such limitations, though it may be as difficult to comprehend this as it
is to try and think of a universe that had no beginning and shall have
no end. Many people accept the truth of this latter mystery, but would
laugh at the possibility of the former; yet they are inseparably knit
together. It is this which makes what we call sinning so terrible; it
is the inability to understand this mystery that has led to some of the
revolting views which are held in connection with the eternity of
punishment and the indestructibility of Satan. But to continue my
story.
"Though I made the strongest appeal possible, in the hope of saving Vera
from the trouble which must follow if she still continued to allow her
lower nature to rule her, I at the same time felt convinced that her
moral power was not sufficiently developed to withstand the temptation.
Impressed as she was at the time, this feeling was too likely to be
transient. Future events proved that this view was correct. Whatever
struggle Vera may have made at first, the effect was not noticeable
after a few week's' time, and I knew that all my watchfulness would be
required to prevent some great misfortune. It would have been easy to
remove Captain Frint out of the way of temptation, either by what you
might call hypnotism or in many other ways; but I was guided now by an
influence which showed me that such actions can only delay the growth of
nature. Under certain circumstances they may be justifiable, but should
be employed only as a special opiate. For as in certain cases
chloroform may be used on the body to prevent pain, but when the cause
of the evil is not removed, proves only a dangerous means of delaying
its effects, so the temporary destruction of another's will-power can
only be right if employed in a special emergency.
"Though my chief interest was centred in Vera, I felt far more
compassion in this case for her lover. It was a sad sight to see the
terrible battle that at this time raged in his heart. One night while
my body lay entranced, I visited him in spirit. How few of us suspect
the double nature which lies concealed behind the superficial manner of
any man or woman we meet. That proud bearing, that laughing face, that
self-confident ease of manner, what may lie beneath each of these, those
only who read the heart can say.
"The man was on his bed; his face was deathly white and damp with the
dew of agony. He was speaking in that low, terrible accent of despair
which some persons in moments of mental pain utter when alone, if they
think that none can hear them. There is something very strange and
weird in such soliloquy: as a rule we talk for effect, but in moments
like these the words follow the mind, disregarding all rules of
coherency or consistency. Part of the cause of this confusion is that
the mind, acting more quickly than speech, leaves a sentence often
unfinished.
"'Oh! that I might die!' he cried. 'Now--even now--I have no
power--Vera, I shall harm you--you whom I love more than life--I have
harmed you--I see it day by day--little actions show it--and, oh God! I
dare not think of it--where is the end?--what can all this lead
to?--misery! Oh! my mother--you who taught me to love that which is
noble--to hate and scorn a weak and unmanly action--can you see me now?
Do you watch me hour by hour, learning to despise and hate me?--Oh! that
I could die and go to you--or if death is but the end--if there is no
awakening, how peaceful to close one's eyes and know no more! It will
kill me--kill me--when every spark of good that once was in my heart is
gone--But why not now? I am going mad!--Things all seem confused--right
and wrong--honour and dishonour--love and hate have no meaning--Vera,
when I see you, I forget--I am happy--wildly, madly happy--yet I know
not why. You belong to another, and I hate him. Oh! we are
friends--only friends--and love is no earthly passion, but a communion
of souls--What a farce--what folly! Would a soul feel as I do? it is a
mockery--there is no soul anywhere--I doubt if there is a God. We are
apes, dancing for the amusement of an audience of fiends! Oh! Vera,
what have I said? That there is no spirit in you--it is impossible--I
am the fiend who would drive the pure angel of your spirit into hell!'
"Thus did the wretched man ramble on until, exhausted by the excitement
of remorse, he lay down and fell into a troubled sleep. While watching
him I was conscious of a spiritual presence beside me, and knew that
there had been another witness of his agony. The spirit of a woman was
present, and I saw her, as it were, bending over him, and knew that it
was his mother. What unending, untiring love was here! That pure
affection which Saint Paul tried to explain when writing to the
Corinthians by the word [Greek: agape], which taketh not account of
evil, but covering all things, believing all things, hoping all things,
and enduring all things, never faileth!
"I felt deeply concerned about the fate of this man, after what I had
just seen and heard. His mental weakness, his morbid and excited
rambling showed plainly that his mind was unhinged, and was beginning to
give way under the strain put upon it. Moreover, to one who knew even
as little as I did of the spirit world, the presence of his mother
indicated some coming change in his existence, probably his death; for
though there are exceptions, it is not often that the spirits of the
dead are allowed to watch over the living: and this is a loving order of
Providence, for as they cannot influence material things, their
knowledge could only cause them useless suffering and be of little value
to those they love. Sometimes, however, for the purifying of the souls
of the dead, they are permitted to witness the misery of the loved when
it is the outcome of their own selfishness on earth. And this is verily
the Gehenna, or place of purification spoken of, in which the worm dieth
not and the fire is not quenched."
I stopped Sydney at this point to ask him a question. "You," I said,
"often mention passages from the Bible. Tell me what you think about
this book."
"I think," he replied, "that much of it is the word of God echoed on the
mind of man, and that it is terribly neglected and sadly misunderstood.
It is so written that all who will, may understand it as far as their
mind is at one with the author. The purer, the wiser, the holier a man
becomes, the more will it continue to reveal, till it shall stand out at
last the miracle of miracles--the Book which contains all the mysteries
of earth, yet is capable at the same time of concealing them from those
who are not yet ready to receive the knowledge; for it follows its own
teaching, and casts not its pearls before swine. To the beast nature it
gives the bit, bridle, and lash, till they shall be guided by these to
higher ground and purer air; but to the unselfish and pure, it is the
true revelation of the Word of God. Of course it has had to go through
the treatment, which an uncivilized humanity bestows on all spiritual
gifts--the curse of worship. Once men had an elephant god, then a sun
or moon god, and many have now a paper-and-ink god. For the animal
nature clings to matter, and to good solid matter that it understands.
Hence the extraordinary dislike which so-called believers in the Bible
show for anything which is called spiritualistic or scientific; whereas
the book they worship is, without exception, in the right interpretation
of the word, the great book on spiritualism, and the most advanced
treatise ever written on the higher branches of a science, to which the
world at present is only feeling its way. It is the funniest sight in
creation to see pigmy man getting angry, and struggling fiercely to
protect the Word of God from His works; but after all, though it does
not help the book, it may help its would-be protector, for he means
kindly by his patronage, and cannot be expected to foresee with what
reverence the greater wisdom of the future will hold the book of
knowledge.
"But I had better continue my story now, and leave this subject, which
opens out so many fields of thought, that there is no saying where we
may wander.
"I knew that Captain Frint had been invited, together with some other of
Mr. Soudin's friends, to stop at Somerville as soon as the shooting
commenced, and I looked forward to this time with considerable anxiety.
Vera would then be thrown much into her lover's society, and if she
wished it, doubtless would be able often to attract him away from the
sport, in which case they would be alone together. In the meantime I was
watching Amy Howell's actions, yet without feeling that I had the right
to interfere.
"Much had passed between this girl and Major Jackson, toward the end of
her stay at Somerville, of which Vera knew nothing. The Major was, as
you have already heard, wealthy, but this money had only been left quite
recently, by an uncle who, up to this time, had given him a liberal
allowance. The story is not very interesting. Sir Ralph Cane, after
the death of his widowed sister, adopted her only child, William
Jackson. The boy was brought up with his bachelor uncle, and became the
presumptive heir to his property. The uncle, however, had a perfect
mania against marriage, and told his nephew that if ever he took a wife,
he must give up all hope of inheriting a fortune. This restriction did
not trouble young Jackson at the time, nor in fact for many years; but
while he was quartered with his regiment, in an out-of-the-way part of
Ireland, he met a young girl with whom he imagined he was desperately in
love, and married her privately. When Mr. Hancock, the girl's father,
who was an unprincipled scoundrel, found that his daughter was married,
and heard of the reason for secrecy, he commended the young Captain's
prudence, and agreed to help him in every way to keep the marriage a
secret till Sir Ralph Cane's death. As the old man was then
seventy-six, he might have been expected to leave them free at any
moment; but he nevertheless kept them practically separated for ten
years. They had only one child, a boy, who was born seven years after
the marriage, and was therefore at the time of which I am speaking,
three years old. It is probable that if Major Jackson had not met Amy,
he would have sent for his wife, though he no longer cared for her; and
there is still less doubt that had his father-in-law been alive, he
would have been compelled to do this, whether he wished or not. As it
was, he made no mention of his uncle's death in the letters he wrote to
Ireland, and his wife being in so out-of-the-way a part, had little
chance of learning the news. Yet though the Major was infatuated, he had
no intention of being prosecuted for bigamy, and after consideration
decided to put his version of the case before Amy, and chance the
result. He had been working up to this point when Vera discovered him
at the Castle (an account of which incident you have heard), and it was
some little time before he had another opportunity. When Amy heard the
news she was not only much upset, but very angry. In a way she cared
for this man, though his wealth was probably the chief attraction. The
thought of having to give up all her bright dreams of ease, and comfort,
and return to her poverty-stricken home, was very bitter. Major Jackson
had fully expected an outburst of indignation, and was, or appeared to
be, duly repentant for the way in which he had acted. He pretended that
he had no hope of getting her to consent to his plans, which were that
he should retire from the army, gather his wealth together, and with it
and the girl he loved leave the country. He persuaded her that his wife
would be sure to get a divorce, especially if he consented to make her a
liberal allowance on this condition; that he would then be able to marry
Amy, and she would be an honest woman, able to live in society without
reproach. In fact, he talked much the usual nonsense, going only as far
into the regions of improbability as he thought safe. For though the
girl was unprincipled, she was no fool.
"To make this unpleasant account as short as possible, he eventually
succeeded. Amy decided to return home for the purpose of getting
certain things together which she might require, and he was ostensibly
turning all his property into cash. As a matter of fact he did no such
thing, the idea being strongly impressed on his mind, that a few
thousand pounds would probably last as long as the girl's attraction.
Vera had asked Amy to return as soon as possible, and as the Major had
been invited for the shooting, they decided to meet at Somerville, and
take their departure together a few days afterwards.
"Nothing happened to upset these plans, and the party met, as had been
arranged, on the thirty-first of August. It was not long before Jackson
was confirmed in his previous suspicion, that Frint and Vera were
engaged in a dangerous flirtation, and the idea occurred to him, that it
might not be impossible to persuade these two to join him. He had hired
a yacht, which was now lying ready at Southampton, and he would by no
means have objected, under the circumstances, to the company of a
friend, who, being in a similar position, could not possibly reproach
him. He decided, however, to consult Amy before doing anything; and in
this he was wise, for while approving his plan, she gave him no little
valuable advice as to the method most likely to succeed. In fact, she
finally concluded that as the matter required delicate handling, it
would be advisable for her to take the chief part of the task into her
own hands. Her decision led to the following conversation between this
clever schemer and Captain Frint--
"'Do you not think,' she said in the course of a conversation, 'that
marriage is often a great mistake? That people would be much happier if
only they had courage to put an end to this relic of barbarism?'
"'It often seems so,' her companion answered, wondering not a little
what this unmarried girl had in her mind; for it is more often that we
hear these sentiments from those who have experienced the bond. 'But,'
he continued, 'we should require considerable alteration in the law and
in public opinion before it would be wise to break through the custom.'
"'I don't know,' she said; 'public opinion will not change till the few,
who are brave enough to oppose it, act. And the law is always a
laggard, leaning on the crutch of stupidity until someone kicks it. Now
look at Vera. She is tied down to a man for whom she cares nothing--a
regular blackguard--bound to him by a mere legal act, and nothing more.
Yet on account of this meaningless bond she is destined to go through
life deprived of love, unprotected, and missing all the true joy of
home. Now if I were a man and loved her, I should refuse to consider
that a farce like this had any right to keep us apart, and if the world
chose to think differently, well, so much the worse for the world!'
"'But you do not,' he said, 'consider the girl, and the position in
which she would be placed. It is all very well for the man--he would
lose little by such an action; but the woman's social life would be
ruined.'
"'I ought to consider the girl's side,' she said, 'and I do. But men
never understand us. Which do you think is better--to lose social life,
as you call it, or real life? To be able to go everywhere and care for
nothing, or to remain at home and be happy? But even the social
question is only a matter of time if there is wealth. There would
probably be a little scandal and then the world would forget all about
it.'
"'I do not fancy,' he said, 'that you understand Lady Vancome. I feel
certain that she would never consent to such a proposal even from a man
she loved. And what is more, she would never allow herself to fall in
love.'
"'Oh, indeed!' Amy replied laughing. 'So you think, Captain Frint, that
girls are the same as men, and fall in love or out of it as prudence and
conscience dictate. Vera could no more help falling in love if the
right person turned up than--well, than I could! And what is more, she
would disregard conventionality and follow her inclination if, mind, I
say if, she did so at her lover's bidding; and so should I.'
"'You say that,' he replied, 'because you have not been tried; but I
feel quite certain that you would never do anything of the kind.'
"'Can you keep a secret?'
"'I fancy so.'
"'Will you promise me, on your word of honour, however much you
disapprove of what I am going to say, that you will not, directly or
indirectly, act in opposition to me, or tell any one my secret?'
"'I promise.'
"She then told him what she intended to do; at the same time, by way of
justifying her act, she libelled innocent Mrs. Jackson in a most
outrageous manner. These libels were entirely the result of
imagination, as she knew nothing about her, and had not felt inclined to
inquire. Then, little by little, she drew the subject round, and
without giving her companion a chance of remonstrating with her, spoke
once more of Vera.
"'I feel so sorry to leave her,' she said, 'and wish that she and you
were both coming, but of course you are far too proper a person to dare
to think of such a step.'
"'I think,' he answered, 'that it is hardly necessary to go into my
feelings in the matter, as whatever I wished, you must know full well
that Vera--Lady Vancome, I mean--would never consent to do such a thing,
even if she loved me, which is most improbable.'
"'It is nice to see such modesty,' Amy answered; 'but I know Vera pretty
well, better a good deal than you do, and have no hesitation in saying
that if she loves you, and I feel certain she does, you have only to ask
her to come, and she will be delighted to follow you even to the other
end of the world. However, I have said enough. If by any chance you
two should care to join us, we should be most pleased. We leave here in
three days from now, so you have not much time to think over your plans,
but should act at once. I shall not refer again to the subject, but if
you decide on anything you can let me know.'
"Having said this, and thinking it better not to give her companion time
to reply, she got up and left the room.
"That afternoon Vera and Captain Frint were alone together. The girl
was leaning back on a comfortable wicker lounge in the cool fernery
which opened out of the house. The half-veiled sunlight which passed
through the amber-tinted glass roof fell on her head, and lit up her
soft wavy hair till it shone like the natural silk in which the
chrysalis lies hidden. Behind her on a rockery of porous stone, delicate
maidenhair and other semi-tropical ferns grew in luxuriant profusion,
their roots entwined in the rockwork or twisted among the various mosses
which covered it. A toy rivulet wound in and out among the ferns, now
and again escaping from its confined bed and trickling over the rocks.
This little watercourse was caught up at last by a miniature lake, and
soaking through the bed of porous stone which formed the roof of a
grotto, dropped down into a larger pool beneath, where gold and silver
fish lay dreaming. The pleasant sound of water and the delicate scent
from the flowers of an overhanging creeper made this favourite spot
suitable for quiet talk or half-dreamy rest.
"Vera, who was peculiarly sensitive to her surroundings, could hardly
have chosen a more unsuitable place had she known of the proposition
that was about to be made to her, and supposing she wished to refuse it.
Though she did not know, she suspected that her companion had something
important to say, for Amy had not neglected an opportunity in which to
throw out a few hints on the subject.
"'Vera,' Frint said almost as soon as the girl had made herself
comfortable, 'how lovely you look to-day!' And as he said this he bent
over and kissed her hair.
"She took no notice, and he kissed her forehead. She half raised one
hand and he kissed her cheek. She put one finger on her lips, and he
touched it with his own.
"'You are very naughty to-day, Albert,' she said. 'You must sit down
over there where you will be out of the way of temptation.'
"As he sat down he said, 'Vera, I have been thinking a good deal
lately.'
"'I wish you would give up the bad habit,' she replied. 'It is a
foolish thing to do, and usually ends in making you grumpy and
uninteresting. Let us be children, and live in the present as long as
we can. Let us play, and be contented with our toys. If a child once
begins to analyze his wooden horse, the interest vanishes, and he wants
a real live one. If you persist in analyzing your game of love-making,
you will end in wanting me to run away with you.'
"'But,' he said, 'in this case it is so difficult to know where to draw
a line.'
"'Then don't try. That is what I told you just now not to do,' she
said. 'Why cannot you be contented?'
"'Because I love you, and want to have you always with me,' he answered.
'Because I hate to see another man near you. Oh, Vera! it is all very
well to talk about playing at love. When I am with you it is all right,
I am happy. But when I leave you it is like going down to hell. It
cannot go on, it is killing me. I must have you all in all or I must
go. Tell me,' he said, 'do you not know some such feeling? Is it to
you only a game of play? Am I nothing more than a toy which at any
moment you could cast aside? Oh, Vera! do you not in your heart love me
even a little?'
"'You are quite interesting to-day, Albert,' she said. 'You play your
part to perfection. I will try to live up to you and play mine. We
will pretend we are in earnest. Yes, dearest, I love you.'
"He fell into her mood. It would be easier in this way to say what he
had decided to tell her.
"'Then let us picture a position,' he said. 'Amy and Jackson have
decided, we will suppose, to run away together because, for some reason,
they are unable to be married. And we will suppose that they are
anxious for us to join them. A yacht is waiting to carry them away from
this chilly land, and in some bright and sunny country they will live
together, beyond the reproach of man, contented in their mutual love.
Now the question is shall we go with them, dearest? It is impossible
that we shall much longer be able to live as we are doing now. People
will begin to talk, and then we shall be unable to see much of each
other. Do you love me enough to do this? I know that I have no right
to ask you.'
"When Frint looked up to see what effect his words had upon Vera, he was
surprised, and even frightened by the expression on her face.
"'Tell me,' she said, 'is this true? Do you really mean what you say?'
"'It is true, dearest,' he answered.
"And then he told her the story, winding up by a passionate appeal that
she would come. Though Vera had guessed something from Amy's words, and
had promised not to repeat anything which Frint might tell her, she had
little expected the whole truth, and was perfectly overwhelmed by the
sudden proposal. Had she been allowed to think it out quietly, I feel
convinced that she would have refused to go; but her lover, having
thrown all scruples to the wind, and seeing his fate in the balance, got
up and knelt beside her, and placing his arm round her, overwhelmed all
reason in a torrent of passionate language and endearments till the
smouldering embers which she had striven to smother burst out into a
fire which she had no longer strength or inclination to control.
Casting all thoughts of prudence, all fear of danger from her, she told
him of her love, and burying her head upon his breast swore that without
him she could not live, and would do whatsoever he desired.
"'I trust you, dearest,' she murmured, 'and would have no will but
yours. Where you bid me go I will go; with you is life and joy, without
you all is darkness, and I only seem to live. What do I care about the
world, if you think that I am doing right?'
"I stood near them all the while, invisible to their eyes, and uncertain
if I should reveal my presence. But some force restrained me; the time
had not yet come.
"As I stood again beside the man's bed that night, I knew why I had not
been permitted to interfere. A higher power than mine ruled and ordered
his life. I have witnessed many terrible scenes. No person able to see
into the inner lives of others can fail to do this, but neither before
nor since have I been so moved to pity as on this occasion. The man
slept, and his dream-thought wandered at first to one subject and then
another. But in every case his fevered brain pictured some terrible
scene. At last, as it were, the changing waves of painful thought
concentrated in a series of pictures.
"In the first of these he was sitting in a dimly-lighted room. He was a
boy once more, and his mother read to him pages from the Bible, but the
texts were disconnected. 'Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall
see God.' 'Whosoever shall offend one of these little ones, it were
better that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were
cast into the depths of the sea.' 'And the smoke of their torment
ascended up for ever and ever, and they have no rest day nor night.'
'Blessed are the dead.'
"The scene changed. Vera was beside him even as he had seen her that
day in all her beauty. They were sitting together on the deck of a
vessel; the sun shone brightly, the sea was calm, and the gulls floated
over them, moving splashes of glistening white against the deep blue of
the sky. Yet even as they thus sat dreaming of love, and surrounded by
calm and sunlight, he felt that they were sinking, and that no power
could save them. Slowly the blue line of water rose till it was on a
level with the deck, but still the motion of the vessel held the water
in check. It rose to the bulwarks, and glistened in a dark steely line
above it. Fear held them from moving, save that Vera threw her arm
around him, pleading for a protection which none could give. The line
broke in foaming torrents over the deck. There was a moment of
struggle, and then darkness. From the midst of the darkness he heard a
voice saying, 'Look up, for the hour of judgment is at hand.' Then he
looked up, and behold hell lay open before him, the hell of human
tradition in all the ghastly horror which man, in the deformity of his
imagination, has conjured up out of his instinctive cruelty to make part
of the creation of love. There lay Vera, condemned to eternal torment.
The terrible anguish of her expression as I saw it through the medium of
his distorted brain haunts me even now. Her white child-like arms
thrown out in hopeless supplication, as she cried aloud to him in
pitiful tones to save her, or at least to come near in this awful
solitude of suffering; but he was unable to move or speak. The terrible
realistic flames enveloped her; flames which none can quench, which
violate every law of nature save one, which neither purify nor set free
nor stay corruption, but only cause the pain which is their note of
warning. Nor was this all. As if one torment that must necessarily
absorb all powers of feeling which we know on earth--nay, which merciful
nature would stay at once by her opiate of insensibility--were not
enough, other horrors of man's imagination were added which are too
revolting for words, yet which had all at one time been taught to this
wretched man as essential parts of the Gospel of God, the good news of
love. Had he not been mad such a picture must have been a revelation;
if he, selfish as he was, could be thus overwhelmed with remorse and
horror, what of the Father, the Creator who for ever must watch his
child; who, being almighty was not bound; who being the Creator of all
things was the Creator of this! As it was, the strain of anguish roused
him from his dreams. He sat up in bed and cried aloud, 'My God! My
God! It is not too late! I will save her! Though I die--though I be
damned for ever! Vera, oh, my love, I will save you from this!'
"And even as he spoke, I was conscious that we were surrounded by a
great company, and that the sweet sound of spiritual praise that no
earthly ear can hear passed on, for ever vibrating through the universe
of God. But the first chord was struck by a woman's love, for the
mother now knew that her son was saved."
*CHAPTER XV*
"After breakfast on the following morning, Captain Frint found an
opportunity of asking Vera not to say anything to either the Major or
Amy of their plans, but to leave all to him. He was standing in the
girl's sitting-room dressed for shooting, and had his companion been
more observant she might have noticed the strange fire which burned in
his eyes, and the suppressed excitement of his manner.
"'You are going out then, to-day,' she said. 'Well, perhaps it is
better. It might seem strange if you did not; and after all we shall
soon have as much time as we like together; so much that I expect you
will soon get tired of me.'
"He was unable to answer; but before leaving he bent over and kissed her
on the forehead. Had she seen his face she must have known the
truth--for love, self-sacrifice, pain, and madness were written there.
"About two o'clock in the afternoon a mournful procession returned to
Somerville. Captain Frint was dead. No fault or suspicion could rest
on any of the party, for the accident had happened in the sight of Mr.
Soudin and four of the beaters. The Captain, before getting over a
stile, had placed his gun on the opposite side to avoid danger, and
while leaning over to do this, some obstacle had caught the trigger, and
the contents of one of the barrels had entered his heart.
"Fortunately a messenger had been sent on to break the news, and when
the body arrived Vera was lying insensible on her bed; nor did any one
see her again for many days. But at night, when all had gone to rest,
she got up, and taking a light, crept softly to the room where they had
placed the body of the man she loved.
"It lay upon the bed, the hands folded, the head raised as though in
sleep upon the pillow. The eyes were closed. Never in life had that
face looked so noble as it now appeared in death. The lines of thought,
of passion, of pain were gone: the expression of the mouth was that of a
contented child. There was no smile on the lips; nor have I ever seen,
nor should I like to see, that smile which we so often read of on the
face of the dead. When the spirit goes away and leaves the body, the
features no longer under control fall back into the natural position of
perfect rest, which is only partially noticeable during the sleep of
grown-up people, but sometimes perfectly represented during the same
condition in childhood. I have seen a dead child, that, save for the
whiteness of the skin and lips, showed no change of expression other
than that which I had often noticed during slumber.
"As Vera looked upon her dead lover, the spirit of life, which is the
spirit of true love, was for the first time born in her heart. The
Angel of Death was to her, as to so many, the winged messenger of God
bearing the germ of eternity. As some fair blossom, differing not in
appearance from others, that have already been made fruitful, will for
some reason remain long barren, so many natures linger here, fair it may
be in form, but missing the pollen of fruition. To some it is borne by
the fairy butterfly of love; to others only by the death's-head moth of
suffering. Some, as the barren flowers, fall and die, having, perhaps,
made the earth more beautiful by their presence, yet leaving no fruit.
Their harvest-time is yet to come, but under other circumstances and
beneath other skies.
"It did not occur to Vera, as she bent over the dead man, that he had
died to save her. She thought that an accident had separated them; that
God, in His anger, had punished their sin.
"'Oh! that I might have died instead of you!' she murmured. 'Oh, God!
it was my sin--not his--my fault. Why did you spare me and slay him?'
"Could she have looked upon the picture of herself there would have been
no reason for answer; fear, anguish, and desolation were written on her
face--what a contrast to the peaceful expression of the dead! Her eyes
were strained with weeping, her swollen throat ached so that she could
scarcely speak, and though she stood barefooted, and with only her thin
night garment to cover her, yet every limb burned as though with fever.
Her beautiful hair hung in tangled tresses down her back, and waved in
wild disorder round her forehead and neck. As she knelt upon the bed
and kissed the dear dead face, she seemed almost to cover the body with
a pall of golden silk.
"'I want you, Albert,' she whispered. 'Oh! come back--come back, my
love, my love!' And when she had said this she fainted.
"I carried her back to her own room, for I did not wish that any one
should know her secret. And having done this, I returned once more to
where the dead lay, and bent over and kissed the face of the man who had
died to save from harm her whom we both loved.
"Captain Frint's death necessitated the breaking up of the shooting
party, and Amy and Major Jackson took the opportunity thus afforded of
carrying out their plans. They left England in the yacht, and travelled
for some time together; but as is nearly always the case under such
circumstances, instead of finding happiness, they tasted the fruit of
selfishness, which is pain and disgust. It says a good deal for the
girl's cleverness that she was not left entirely destitute in some
foreign country; for with a forethought which showed that she had not
altogether overlooked the possibility of desertion, she, before leaving,
made her lover settle a considerable sum upon her. When he eventually
left her in America, less than a year after the elopement, she was
consequently fairly well provided for. She had one child, a girl, and
not caring to return to England, she settled in New York, and soon
afterwards married a clever scoundrel, named Halcome, who, though at the
time badly off, succeeded eventually in making a moderate fortune. At
his death, Amy returned with her only child to England, where she was
soon received into good society."
"The man she married was called Halcome," I said. "Was not that the
name of the girl we met at Sir James Folker's dinner on the night of the
spiritualistic performance?"
"Yes," he replied; "she has always passed as Miss Halcome, for her
mother, who is now dead, kept the secret of her birth even from the girl
herself."
"Was the man whose face I noticed the Major's legitimate son?"
"Yes. After a life of horrible dissipation and vice, Major Jackson, by
this time Sir Henry Jackson, died, and his son came into the property.
Jackson acknowledged his wife soon after leaving Amy, and the awful life
which he led this unfortunate woman has often made my heart bleed. I
interfered on the evening to which you refer, partly in the hope of
saving her further trouble, and partly because I knew the terrible
secret of the young people's relationship."
"Is Miss Halcome like her mother in appearance?" I asked.
"Yes; she bears a most remarkable resemblance both in manner and face to
what Amy was at her age, though if you had seen Mrs. Halcome a few years
back you would hardly have believed it possible; she had grown coarse,
and stout, and lost all her good looks, for this style of girlish beauty
wears badly. She, however, retained her bright and pleasant manner to
the end, though her temper in private was bad. Before Sir Henry's death
she was more than his match, and by threats of exposure she managed to
extort a considerable sum of money from her former lover. But she did
it so discreetly that no breath of scandal was ever whispered against
her. She, moreover, never revealed to any one her maiden name, and her
family have no idea that she returned to England."
"I am surprised that Jackson cared for any scandal after the life he had
lived," I said.
"It would have been the last straw. He was at the time seeking a
valuable Government appointment, and though his life was notoriously
vile, this did not prevent him obtaining it; but a public scandal in
Court is quite a different thing. The conscience of the people of
Britain, who know only what the papers tell them, is more sensitive than
that of their rulers. I am, however, glad to be able to close this
unpleasant account; those chiefly interested are dead. They sowed to
the flesh, and of the flesh they reaped corruption and pain. But we
must not forget that they are still children of the great Father, loved
by Him, though still wandering in the dark and fighting against the law
of order and love which can alone bring happiness. Let us hope that
now, when they have been freed from the bodies they degraded; their
spirits, reclothed, may be purified through the pain which is bound to
follow them; for _whatsoever_ a man soweth, that shall he reap, and
neither repentance, prayers, nor tears can alter the inevitable
harvest."
"Do you not, then," I asked, "believe in repentance and the forgiveness
of sins?"
"Certainly," he replied. "Without repentance there can be no upward
progress, no hope of salvation; and the Father's forgiveness waits only
on our ability to receive it and become conscious of His love. But
though the moment we receive our Saviour's lesson and accept the
fatherhood of God we know that we are cleansed from all sin, it will not
alter the inevitable law of retribution; we must suffer, either now or
hereafter. For every sin that we commit, we shall have to give account
when the Day of Judgment comes--it may be to-day, or after many years.
Of all the detestable doctrines that were ever taught, the creed that a
man can sin and by repentance do away with the painful consequences of
that act is the most degrading and the most dangerous. It is the
outcome of a low animal instinct, which recognizes forgiveness as a
purely material quality. As soon as man is brought to understand that
by every deed of cruelty, by every mean action, he is raising a lash for
his own back, and that as surely as it is raised so shall it fall--not
because God wishes to hurt him, but because he is wilfully going out of
God's light--then, and not till then, will he learn to love order and
strive to follow its rule. The intention which many persons cherish of
a future repentance is simply a contemptible form of selfish cowardice,
and what is called repentance itself is often little or no better. I
have more respect and hope for the man who dies cursing God as he has
lived to curse Him, than for the blubbering, repentant sinner who,
having by his selfishness fought all through life against his Maker, and
having been the damnation of those who crossed his path, thinks to
propitiate an angry deity by saying he is sorry. Yes, he is
sorry--sorry that he can sin no more, and that the whip is
waiting--sorry even, perhaps, that he ever sinned, for he has found out
that even in this life it did not pay. But would he take the trouble to
repent if he knew that it made no difference to his future happiness or
sorrow? If this is so, he is no better than the dog which grovels on
its back at the sight of an uplifted cane. Which is the better animal,
the one which stands up to take the blow, or the one that lies at your
feet? Does the wise master spare the coward and thrash the braver
animal? No; if he hits at all he will hit both for their own good; and
the one on his back will probably get the worst of it; and so will the
repentant sinner.
"But come, we have wandered far enough out of the way, and I have by far
the pleasantest part of my story yet to tell. I will go back to the
truly repentant sinner whom we left weeping, not for herself or for her
own pain, but because she had harmed the man she loved, and God, as she
thought, had punished him by death.
"I will pass over some months, during which little of importance
happened. Mr. Soudin, always a weak man, and having now little to
occupy his time, fell more and more into the habit of drinking. He had
for years taken more than was good for him, but not in a way to cause
remark, his head suffering less than his body. But now, being much
alone, he frequently overstepped the line of orthodox sobriety--a line
which society draws in this case, as in all others, where its own
convenience is affected.
"Fortunately for Vera she had at last found a companion who was in every
way worthy of her affection. Agnes Thomson was at this time about
thirty, and had little physical beauty, though her eyes and expression
redeemed her from plainness. She possessed one of those natures which
seem created from birth to minister to others, and are never so happy as
when occupied in relieving distress, or in making the lives of those
around them brighter. When in the presence of such we are unconscious
of effort, see no strain of renunciation; they minister to those around
them, as the bird feeds its young--because they want to. Such persons,
though often imposed on, are seldom appreciated at their true worth, on
account of the high quality of their natures. I have even heard it
said, 'Oh, there is no merit in such unselfishness--she cannot help it.'
But what an unconscious tribute to the soul is this! And what has such
a spirit passed through before it so perfectly reflects its Maker!
"It was chiefly owing to my action that this girl went to Somerville.
She had broken down while looking after an orphanage in Manchester, and
the doctor had said that it was absolutely imperative that she should
give up all work for some time. She dreaded the idea of parting from
the little children, and struggled as long as possible; but the body at
last gave in, and I was then able, by indirect influence, to bring her
and Vera together. As soon as Agnes came to live with the beautiful
young girl, she loved her as she had loved her orphan children, and
indeed as she would have loved any man, woman, or child, good or bad,
fair or ugly. She saw that her companion was suffering, and had little
difficulty in drawing from her the story of her life; and Agnes wept
with her, feeling all the time as if she had been in the young girl's
place. When she came to think over it afterwards, what she called her
conscience reproved her for not having even remonstrated. How wrong it
all was! And she felt that she ought to have given reproof. Fortunately
she never acted down to her conscience, which being an illuminated
reflection from the creed of lesser minds, would only have retarded her
influence. She taught her lessons, without knowing it, by the example of
her own life.
"Two months after she came, Mr. Soudin was taken dangerously ill, and as
his body had of late exhausted all its power in trying to digest four
times as much food as it required, and had also been drenched with
alcohol, he sank rapidly from weakness, dying the common death of
starvation through excess of nourishment which so often takes the form
of either diabetes, gout, or dropsy. As the death of each man is felt
through loss of sympathy, he was but little regretted, and even his
daughter, after the shock, was unwillingly conscious of relief.
"Thus Vera was left alone with her companion, whose bright influence day
by day made itself felt, and revealed to her the lesson which is so hard
to learn, that happiness on earth comes but by reflection. Pour out joy
on others, and it shall overwhelm you. Forget yourself in others, and
the tormentor strives in vain to harm you. See good in all things, and
hell cannot hold you.
"But it is time that I told you something of Vancome. I had made him a
fairly liberal allowance on condition that he did not try to interfere
with his wife's freedom. As soon as he returned to England and the
conditions were explained to him, he consulted his solicitor with the
hope of being able to get hold of Vera and her fortune, but his adviser
gave him little prospect of success, and he decided, at any rate for a
time, to accept the offer. He was the more willing to do this owing to
his superstitious dread of some fiendish power which he believed me to
possess. It is a curious fact that evil natures always regard an
exhibition of force incomprehensible to them as some eccentric trick of
the devil. The most superstitious men will be found among those who
profess atheism. They scoff at the idea of God, while trembling at the
shadow of Satan; and dread a dinner party of thirteen while denying the
Last Supper.
"For a year Vancome followed much the same dissipated life as he had
done previously to his marriage. He gambled, at first with caution, for
he was no longer desperate, and for a time was successful, being thus
enabled to indulge all his other extravagant tastes. But about the time
of Mr. Soudin's death his luck turned, and he began to lose heavily.
One night while playing piquet at the W---- Club he was caught cheating.
He had been suspected for some time, and a trap was laid into which he
fell. As there was no room for doubt he was expelled from the Club, and
no longer dared to show himself in society. His future, all the future
that he cared for, was ruined, while his title only assisted to
advertise his shame. For days the papers increased their circulation at
his expense, and the scandal in high life was placarded on every station
and shouted through every town. His wife was commended for her
forethought in having refused to live with him, while the more
scurrilous papers exhausted their energy in raking up as many past
scandals in his life as they could discover, feeling that there was
little danger of an action for libel.
"It was during this outburst that I decided to see him. I had no longer
any bitter feelings towards this man, and though while feeling certain
that he would think at first I had come to gloat over his misery, I
hoped to show that this was not the case, and that my desire was to help
him. I found him sitting alone in his chambers; he had been drinking
heavily for some time to drown his misery, and as I came in he looked up
with dull glazed eyes which at first showed no sign of recognition. But
suddenly they changed; his face became livid with anger.
"'Fiend!' he cried. 'It is your doing--and so you have come to see the
end of your work! But you are mistaken--we will go down to hell
together--you shall not escape me this time!'
"He took up a revolver which I had noticed lying on the table, and
pointed it at me.
"'There are five chambers,' he said, 'and one is enough for me--I can
spare you the other four!'
"I looked him in the face for a moment, and then said, 'Vancome, you
cannot kill me, and for the present you shall not kill yourself, for at
the moment you are not responsible for your actions.'
"'I will kill you!' he cried. 'Damn you! I will!' And he strove with
all his might to pull the trigger, but was powerless. His right hand
sank slowly down till it lay by his side, and his revolver dropped
between his fingers on to the rug at his feet. He staggered back to his
chair, and I went up to him, and placing my hand on his burning forehead
made him sleep.
"At this moment the door opened, and a young, showily-dressed girl
entered.
"'Oh!' she cried. 'Goodness, what is the matter?'
"'Lord Vancome is ill,' I said, 'and will have to be carefully watched.
Is there any one here who could look after him?'
"'Ill,' she laughed, and her laugh, as her speech, told her origin and
life. 'D. T. ay? Well, I was a-thinking of cutting it just now--that
settles the business!'
"'Wait a moment. Lord Vancome is not suffering from _delirium
tremens_.'
"I said this, not because I wished for her services, but because there
were enough reports about already without her adding a false one.
"'Who are you?' I asked.
"'My!' she said. 'Well, you are a beauty! Where do you hang out not to
know Totsey Ben of the ---- Theatre?'
"I was not previously aware of Totsey Ben's existence, but though she
did not give me the details in words, I now knew that she took a very
minor part in a comic opera being played at that rather disreputable
theatre. I could see also the vile and filthy slum in which she had
passed her childhood, and many of the coarse and revolting experiences
connected with her early life before she blossomed out into a
ballet-girl. Nor were the visions connected with this transformation
scene much more entrancing.
"This girl, and such as she, without refinement, possessing only the
coarse animal attractiveness, had been the chosen associates of Vera's
husband, a man who had been brought up surrounded with all the delicate
associations of noble birth and culture. It takes many centuries to
create a gentleman and refined taste; but sometimes only a few years to
revert to the lowest order of civilized brutishness.
"'Well,' I said to the girl, 'I do not fancy you would be of much use as
a nurse, so perhaps you might as well pack your things and go.'
"'I reckon you're about right," she answered. 'But before I clear out, I
will have my money or know why.'
"She went up to Vancome and shook him.
"'Leave him alone,' I said. 'Can you not see that he is ill?'
"'Ill!' she cried. 'I knows that there sort of illness! Ain't a bad
sort neither till you wakes up with a splitter!' She took hold of a
half empty whisky-decanter that was on the table, and putting the bottle
to her mouth, took a draught of the raw spirit.
"'Girl,' I said, 'you shall have your money; it is dearly enough
earned.' And I laid some notes on the table. Her manner immediately
changed.
"'Oh! you're a swell, are you?' she asked; and I was surprised at the
extraordinary difference the new expression made in her face. She
looked now what some men would call pretty, and her manner of speaking
became less offensively vulgar. 'Sorry I made a row, but my temper's
been tried simply awful these last few days. I know how to behave, I
do!' And she curtseyed to me with her cheek resting on her hand, which
was evidently part of the accomplishment taught her at the theatre.
"'Go and look in the glass,' I said.
"She took up the notes, and going to a long mirror, looked, expecting to
see the simpering expression called up for the occasion; but though
there is little hope of rousing such a one even by fear, I thought it
better to give her one chance before she left.
"What she saw it is unnecessary to tell you. I called up before her
mind pictures of what her future life would probably be, as she sank
lower and yet lower on the downward path. She stood there motionless
with horror as the pictures changed from bad to worse, till at last she
saw the well-nigh unrecognizable image of herself as she lay in one of
the hospital wards: then with a shriek of fear she turned, looked at me
for one moment with terror-stricken eyes, and fled from the room.
"I sent for a trained nurse, and, with her assistance, watched over
Vancome till he recovered. Before many days his dislike wore off, and
in the depth of his misery and loneliness, he turned to me as a friend,
the only one now left to him. When he had sufficiently recovered, I
persuaded him to go abroad and travel.
"I saw him off. When we parted he said to me--'I am very sorry to lose
you, and still more sorry for the way in which from the first I have
acted. It is no use going into the matter. You are a strange being,
Sydney; it is hard to know what to make of you. I used to think you
were the devil, and now am half inclined to fancy you are an angel. But
angel or devil, you are certainly not a man, for no man would have done
all you have for nothing. You never make use of an opportunity even if
it is thrown in your way. Now why did you not let me die? You could
then have married Vera, and, as the books put it, lived happy ever
after.'
"'I will tell you why,' I said. 'There is no such thing as the
happiness you speak of. You have tried to find it in one way; others
try to find it by other means, but they all fail. No one who seeks for
happiness ever gains it. It is the same with all. One man seeks fame;
for years he struggles through pain and weariness, till at last, maybe,
it comes, and he finds the desired angel but a poor, thin,
unsatisfactory phantom, pointing with one finger at death; and he laughs
that he could have wasted his youth and health in search of such a
miserable, mocking spectre. The idea that wealth gives happiness is
about the most comical delusion that man suffers from. There is one
plane of enjoyment which is determined by the man himself; one delusion
that this plane can be altered by climbing the treadmill of prosperity.
A man puts his foot on the step, and immediately descends to the same
position; and many continue to climb after happiness in this foolish
manner all their lives. Unknowingly they may perhaps turn the mill of
invention and progress, and this is most likely the object of the
delusion. No, Vancome,' I concluded, for the boat was starting, 'try a
new way, and you shall yet turn cursing to blessing. Good-bye.'
"This is the last time that he ever saw me; but I know that he
remembered these parting words, and did not altogether live the rest of
his life in vain. Two years after this, whilst shooting in Africa, he
was attacked by cholera, and died. During his short illness I never
left him. When I came to his bedside he was insensible through the pain
of the first attack. The case was quite hopeless; but I was able to save
him further suffering, and he never regained consciousness. His body was
embalmed, sent to England, and buried in the family grave at Somerville.
"I had spent the greater part of these two years at Aphar. Vera no
longer needed my help. She was learning from her friend the joy of
living for others. Agnes still yearned after the little orphan children
she had left, and so contagious is true enthusiasm, that unconsciously
she infected Vera with the desire to help her in this work. One day a
sad case came under her notice. One of the Canons of L---- Cathedral
was lunching at Somerville, and the conversation drifted to 'Workhouse
Management,' a pet subject of the Canon, who was on the Board of
Guardians.
"'It is very fortunate,' Agnes said to him, 'that you who take a real
interest in the poor are on the Board; so often these matters are left
in the hands of those who care for little but their own interest.'
"'I hope,' he replied, 'that I have been able to do something, but under
the present system the work is enough to make any man's heart bleed.
For the old people we can do something, but for the little children it
is terrible. Once let them get into the workhouse, and seven out of ten
are ruined for life.'
"'I know,' said Agnes, tears coming into her eyes. 'It is terrible!
Herded as they are together, without love, or personal sympathy, the
evil which is always surrounding them works like leaven. Do you know,
Vera,' she continued, turning to her friend, 'that the little things
when they came to me at the Orphanage often did not know how to kiss.
Oh! it made my heart ache, trying to teach a little girl of seven to
kiss me.'
"'Yet these are not the most painful cases, to my mind,' the Canon said.
'Only last week two children, such dear little things, were brought in
by the relieving officer. Their mother, a widow, had for four years
struggled hard to support them, but work for which she was unfitted, at
last brought on consumption. When she died there was nothing for it but
to bring them to the pauper school. They will now have to be separated
from each other. The boy, who is a plucky little fellow of nine, has
always looked after his younger sister, and when he heard that she must
be taken from him I never saw such abject misery on a child's face.
"She sha'n't go," he said. "I promised mother to look after her--she
sha'n't go!" And the two poor little lonely things clung together and
had to be separated when they fell asleep. I would not let the officer
tear them apart.'
"'It's shameful!' Vera said. 'Why do people let such things be?'
"'God only knows!' the clergyman answered. 'Because they are, I suppose,
too selfish to care. If they could only be made to see for themselves
the misery, it would not be tolerated; but they pay the poor-rate and
think no more about it. Would that some voice could make them hear; the
evil could so easily be remedied.'
"'It sha'n't happen in the case you have mentioned, any way,' Vera said;
'shall it, Agnes? We will have them here and look after them, poor
little things.' And Agnes, whose heart was too full for words, could
only answer by getting up and kissing her friend.
"Thus it came to pass that the work began, but no one with a heart can
begin such a work of love and stop. I have known women fairly well off
start such an undertaking, and nearly starve themselves to death for the
sake of the little ones. There is always one more that must be saved;
the home is full, the money running out, but the sorrowful face pleads
too strongly, and room must be found. And so it was with Vera and
Agnes. Somerville could soon not contain its inmates. A new home was
built in the park; fresh hands had to be employed.
"There was no danger for Vera now; in such work there is no time for
weariness or sin. Little hands drag the selfishness out of those who
tend them; tiny lips satisfy the aching want of love. Happiness that
has so long evaded pursuit, comes unsought and overwhelms the givers.
Faith, never learned through doctrine, is discovered by the evidence of
a love-awakened heart when it first realizes that such as these little
ones are the angels who behold the Father's face; and that inasmuch as
we have done it unto one of the least of these, we have done it to our
Saviour; and through Him found salvation."
*PART V*
*CHAPTER XVI*
When I next went over to spend the evening with Sydney I reminded him
that there was a room in his house which he had promised some day to
show me.
"Be patient," he answered, "you will see it before very long."
My companion was in more than usually good spirits. He was in one of
his bright, amusing, and kindly satirical moods, and for some time he
kept me in a state of nearly continual laughter by recounting his early
experiences with the sixth sense before he properly understood how to
regulate this new power.
"During the next two hundred years," he said, "the earth will be a
lively place for those who are fond of observation. If I am not much
mistaken there will be great progress in the growth of spiritual
science, and as its professors will probably possess a very imperfect
knowledge there may be some little confusion. Fancy how unpleasant it
will be to many people when their thoughts become common property, and
their actions can no longer be done in secret. When a cad, however
polished, will appear as a cad; and children will be sent to school to
undergo heart-training and not to learn deportment; when the future
members of Parliament will have to study the art, not of elocution and
subterfuge, but of caring more for their constituents than for their own
interests; when the wife will no longer ask her husband why he returned
so late, because she will know as well as he does; when the detective
will be banished into the region of history, and the judge require
neither witness nor jury; when curiosity, the cause of so much vice,
shall be exercised only in spiritual things, and men and women walk
naked yet unashamed both in body and spirit.
"Of course all this will come gradually, and future generations will
find no more inconvenience than would young children if the change took
place to-morrow. All our so-called modesty and our deceit are unknown
to them, being merely the outcome of training. The child is open enough
until by mental or physical smacks he learns to cover his body with
garments, and his thoughts with words most suitable to concealing them.
When such clothing is transparent the man will become in this respect as
a little child.
"This will be the time of which Emerson speaks, when he says--'Every man
takes care that his neighbour shall not cheat him, but a day comes when
he begins to care that he do not cheat his neighbour. Then all goes
well; he has changed his market-cart into a chariot of the sun. What a
day dawns when we have taken to heart the doctrine of faith! To prefer
as a better investment being to doing, being to seeming, logic to rhythm
and to display; the year to the day, the life to the year, character to
performance.'
"The desire to perform is the one great hindrance to progress. So many
wish to do, so few to be. If we are great we cannot help doing great
things, and if we are small-minded no effort shall magnify our output.
It is for this reason that I give a limit of two hundred years for even
this partial development of a sense which is already latent in many. In
the present rush of action growth is retarded, discovery thrown into the
melting-pot for gain, whereby its most valuable component parts escape
in the form of invisible gases. But come with me, and I will show you
the secret which is hidden behind that third door."
We passed as usual into the laboratory.
"Sit down, and while we smoke I will tell you a few things which it is
as well you should know before we go further.
"I think," he continued, when we had settled ourselves comfortably, "I
have already explained to you that, contrary to the general belief,
Wordsworth was quite right when he said--
'Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting;
The soul that rises with us, our life's Star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar.'
"There are very many cases where it is necessary for certain reasons
that the spirit should be re-incarnated on this earth many times before
the earth-lesson is learned, and before it is able to unite with the
feminine element and thereby rise to more perfect existence. Life, like
matter, is indestructible, but as atoms unite and reunite to form what
we call elements, and these again unite and reunite to form chemical
compounds, so life or spirit, which is one and the same thing, is ever
being drawn together by attraction.
"Thus, for the sake of argument, we will say that the life of a flower
unites with that of another flower, and rises thus to the animal kingdom
where free existence is possible. I use this expression only for
convenience, as no arbitrary line can be drawn between the two kingdoms.
Then again, the lower animal life unites with its female element to form
the higher; and so on up to man. This explains why the lower we go down
in the scale the greater is the number of lives to be found on each
level, for it requires millions to blend together before the higher
orders are reached. This is why also in animals you see certain sides
of characters which are all noticeable in man. They are, as it were,
the bricks making ready for the future temple. So the spirit of man is
also imperfect and one-sided lacking the feminine qualities to be found
in woman. A time comes, however, when two suitable natures meet, and
after death their spirits blend together even as Swedenborg has written,
and they form what he calls one angel; that is to say, a still more
perfect being. And this joining together does not cease even then, but
angel unites with angel and archangel with archangel up to God. Thus
none can harm his neighbour without injuring part of his future self,
for all at last shall be one.
"This view is repellent to the carnal mind, as it destroys what he is
pleased to term his individuality; but this is only owing to the fact
that his mind at present is unable to comprehend unity with personality.
An interesting example of the confusion arising from this difficulty
will be obvious if you hear a deist and a trinitarian argue together."
"But," I said, "I do not like the idea myself. I wish to retain my own
consciousness, and have no desire to be merged in others."
"Do you not retain your own consciousness now?" he asked.
"Undoubtedly."
"And yet," he continued, "millions of lives have united to form that
consciousness."
"But I don't care about the past," I said, "it is the future. According
to you, in my next existence I shall unite with some other spirit and
lose half my own individuality."
"I do not think you will," he replied laughing, "because you do not love
as yet, and love only is the attraction which draws kindred spirits
together. When they desire to unite, they will. Till then they must
remain incomplete. But those who are thus joined together are conscious
not of loss, but of the most exquisite gain; and this union is
foreshadowed by the joining together in marriage of man and woman here."
"But it cannot always be the spirits of husband and wife who are thus
united."
Sydney laughed.
"Hardly," he said. "Marriage is but a material convenience, and there
are not many who have reached that state when the unity of souls becomes
desirable; but nevertheless there are those living whose marriage is a
foretaste of a union which shall be made perfect through death. But
often the complement of a spirit is not on this earth, though they have
met in some previous existence."
"Do you know," I asked, "to whose spirit yours will be united?"
"I do," he answered; and the accent on the words drew my attention to
his face: there I read such depth of love and hope as I have never seen
light up the features of man or woman. "It was," he said, "while in the
spirit-world that I learnt much of what I have now told you. But I
learnt more than this, for I was able to look into the past, and to see
the why and wherefore of many things that had previously puzzled me
here. It was something that I had thus discovered which induced me to
buy the land and build this present house. Beyond that panel, through
which we are going, lies one of the secrets of my past. But I must
explain one more thing to you before we go.
"The higher the form of spirit life, the longer it usually takes for
souls to unite. In the lower orders these changes may occur every few
minutes; in the higher, centuries may intervene."