touched a spring, and we passed together into a narrow passage. After
descending some winding steps, which must have brought us to about
twenty-five feet below the level of the house, we passed through another
door into a large covered courtyard which, except for its domed roof and
polygonal shape, reminded me of one of the Pompeian houses.
"This," said my companion, "is, as far as I know, the only perfect Roman
house in Britain, and the history of its preservation is very
interesting. The stone roofing of the courtyard is also curious,
resembling as it does more the covering of one of the Roman tombs to be
found in St. Helena and Sta Costanza than the usual domestic style of
architecture. It was in this very court that centuries ago I first met
the girl I love, and have in many forms loved ever since. It was in
that room beyond"--he pointed to one of the smaller apartments which
could be seen through an open archway--"that a scene took place the
effects of which have been felt to the present time."
After taking me over the building, which was in perfect preservation,
and showing me the bath, kitchen and various rooms, he drew my attention
to the mosaic floor and to various frescoes on the walls. The
workmanship was very beautiful, but the scenes depicted were coarse and
sensual.
"Now," he said, "that I have shown you one of the scenes of my life, we
may as well go up to the room above. This place is cold, and if you
wish to hear the story we shall find it more comfortable in our usual
place."
As soon as we had returned to the laboratory my companion began his
story of the past.
"It is unnecessary for me to give you a full picture of this district
during the close of the fourth century. At this time, as you will
remember, the Romans had not been recalled, and many of the nobles had
settled down at various places in the southern counties, having built
for themselves houses more or less after the type then common in Italy.
Some of these Roman villas have been discovered in recent years, though
none so well preserved as the specimen we have just examined. This
house was built by Valerius Marius, a celebrated warrior and huntsman.
He selected this spot when the times became more peaceful on account of
the abundance of game in the neighbouring forest. The soldiers and
slaves under him were for the time organized into an army of beaters,
after the manner of those days. The wild boar and other beasts were
thus driven from the forest into netted enclosures and slaughtered by
hundreds.
"This man had never married, but he had one child, Viola, by a favourite
slave, who, at this time, was a very beautiful girl of about sixteen.
He treated her as his own daughter, bringing her up in luxury, and
letting her follow her heart's desire, which, considering that she was
by nature little better than a lovely savage, was a dangerous
experiment. Among her retinue of slaves was a fair Saxon boy, who, on
account of his good looks, had been bought for a high price when nine
years old to act as a page to the little girl. Like many men engaged in
active pursuits, the father allowed these two children to grow up
together, without realizing the changed condition which came by years,
or that his baby girl was growing into a woman, and her little slave-boy
into a youth. The female slaves who ministered to their mistress, while
probably conscious of the danger, had no wish to interfere and to rob
the girl and themselves of a bright and pleasant companion.
"Thus it came to pass that these two children were left much together,
especially during the hunting expeditions, and like two beautiful
animals they developed early. The girl, partly owing to her sex and
partly to her Southern blood, led the way in this as she did in all
other matters. The boy was her slave, and she never for one moment
forgot to remind him of his servitude, whether they were at play
together, or whether he were attending to the many duties she found for
him. And the boy had loved her from the first with a childish devotion;
the beautiful little dark-eyed girl had been his queen from the first
day when he had been brought, a little naked, fair-haired boy, and given
to the maiden in the atrium or hall. As she ran out of the tablinum
beyond on hearing her father's voice, his big blue eyes opened wide with
astonishment. Was this to be his mistress, this dainty little
white-robed goddess? And unbidden he knelt down before her, fully
persuaded in his childish ignorance that he was in the presence of some
elfish deity. He would then and at any future time have died to save
her, and though she often treated him brutally, even making the women
slaves beat him unmercifully if he happened to cause her displeasure, no
thought of anger ever entered his mind. Was she not his mistress? And
why should she not do with him as she desired?
"According to custom, the owner of a slave gave him whatever name seemed
most suitable, and the maid, by reason of the colour of the child's
hair, called her little servant Aureus. As Viola grew older she was
allowed on certain occasions to ride out with Aureus and meet her father
at the end of one of the netted enclosures, so as to witness the final
slaughter. Here, placed upon a small platform erected on one of the
trees, she could watch the wild boar and other animals as they were
driven further and further into the ambuscade. She saw them rushing
madly at the netting and being slaughtered by the men who surrounded it
with their long boar-spears. But the moment of true excitement came at
the end, when with a wild rush the maddened animals, who had so far
escaped destruction, burst at last through the only opening possible and
rushed into the open plain. Here at least they had some little chance
of escape, for though they were unable to return to the forest, they
might, if they could avoid the archers' arrows, find at last some
distant cover. The footmen had done their work, and at this point the
horsemen galloped forth followed by the hounds, who had till now been
kept in leash. The plain was soon covered with flying huntsmen and
hounds, racing after the maddened fugitives. But exciting as this scene
was, Viola soon got tired of being only a spectator, and would often
urge her father to allow her to follow the chase on horseback; but he,
knowing the danger, had hitherto always refused.
"Now it so happened that among the slave girls was one named Myra, who
had recently been bought by Valerius Marius on account of her beauty.
She was ambitious, and hated her mistress on account of the high
position which she held through her father's love. If, she thought, I
could but get rid of this girl I might rule here myself in her place.
"It was not long before she realized how dangerous the intimacy might
soon become between Aureus and Viola, and though she had no ill-will to
the former, she was quite willing to sacrifice him if only by so doing
she could also bring about the destruction of her mistress. To
accomplish her ends she decided to worm her way into their affections.
As she had seen much of life and no little of vice, she was able to
interest the girl with many stories connected with the past. But she
did not find it easy to get an opportunity to talk in private with the
boy. Viola seldom allowed him to leave her, and was evidently jealous if
he showed the least liking for any of the slave girls, more especially
for the new beauty. Myra, however, was not to be easily defeated. She
saw at once that the boy was as yet a child, and that to accomplish her
end speedily it would be necessary for her to awaken some youthful
passion in his heart, which should ultimately bring about the ruin of
her rival.
"Taking, therefore, an opportunity when for once Viola unaccompanied had
gone with her father to visit some neighbouring Roman nobles, she drew
the boy aside and asked him to show her the surrounding country.
"'I have,' she said, 'not dared to go beyond the enclosure, fearing the
wild beasts, but with you as companion I should not fear.'
"It was against the rules for any of the female slaves to go outside the
boundary of the dwelling-place without permission, but Myra was at this
time in favour, and no one left behind would have dared to interfere
with her actions. She was known to be vindictive, and, having the ear
of her master, would have had little difficulty in revenging an insult.
"So Aureus consented, and they wandered out into the forest, following
the course of a small stream. At length they came to an opening in the
trees where the sun shone pleasantly upon a bank of ferns. Here they
sat and rested. At their feet was a deep pool in which the boy had
often bathed; and Myra, as she reclined on the bank, dabbled her bare
legs in the clear water to wash the dust from them.
"'Do you often come here with your mistress?' she asked. 'You seem
always with her.'
"'When we were children,' the boy said, 'we often stole out here in the
summer-time to bathe in the cool water. But we do not bathe here now.'
"'Why not?' his companion asked.
"The boy looked up into her face with a comical, innocent expression.
'I do not quite know,' he said. 'She is too old to bathe now, except in
the bath; only slave girls bathe out of doors when they are grown up.'
"'So you think it does not matter what we do?' she said.
"'You are different from the others,' he answered. 'You wear a tunic,
and not an ordinary dress.'
"'You call this a tunic, do you?' she said, pointing to the thin garment
which partially concealed the full sensuous beauty of her limbs. 'This
is not much of a robe, this summer thing. I might almost as well be
without it.'
"'Do you feel cold?' he asked.
"'Feel me,' she said.
"The boy placed his hand upon her bare neck as she moved closer to him.
'You are quite hot,' he said, 'your skin almost burns me. But how soft
and smooth it is! Tell me, why are women so much more beautiful than
men?'
"'I don't think they are,' the girl answered. 'You, for instance, are
more beautiful than Viola. Look at your arm;' and as she said this she
laid her dark hand upon his shoulder. 'How fair you are by the side of
any of us! Look at your hair;' and she ran her fingers through the
bright soft waves of gold. 'Do you not think that it is more beautiful
than our long dark tresses?'
"'No, I do not,' he said. 'Viola's hair is beautiful, and so is yours;
far more beautiful than mine.'
"'There you are mistaken,' she said. 'You do not know. Come and look.'
"The two bent forward over the still clear water. It was a pretty
picture which they saw reflected; the young boy's fair sun-tanned face
surrounded with a bright halo of curls through which the sunlight
played. The girl bending over him, her dark tresses, which she had
unbound, falling over his shoulders and covering them both as with a
cloud; her breast, which hitherto looked brown against the white of her
tunic, now by contrast with the deep shade of her hair was reflected
back with the brilliancy of ivory.
"'You are beautiful,' was all the boy said.
"'_We_ are beautiful,' the girl corrected. 'Do you think,' she
continued, 'that I am as lovely as your mistress?'
"'Oh dear, no!' the boy replied, with uncomplimentary frankness. Then,
feeling that he had angered her, he went on, 'You see it is different.
She is so young, so delicate!' And saying this he looked again into the
water, contrasting in his mind the tender budding grace of the maiden
with the reflection of developed womanhood before him.
"Myra laughed; but though it was not her desire to win the boy from his
devotion to Viola, there was beneath the laughter in her eyes an angry,
jealous light.
"'Ah! my pretty infant,' she cried, 'when you are older you will grow
wiser. So you love this little mistress of yours, do you?'
"'I worship her!' he said, slightly correcting the verb, and giving it,
not only a fuller, but more chastened meaning.
"'What is the difference,' she asked, 'between love and worship?'
"'You tell me,' he said; 'I am not good at explaining, I only feel.'
"They had moved back from the water, and were now once more lying on the
soft bank.
"'I don't think you know much about feeling, child,' she answered, 'and
as for love, why you're a perfect baby! We begin by worshipping; we go
on to loving; and we often end by hating!'
"'Then I don't want to get to loving,' he said, 'I like worshipping
best, especially if love leads to hatred; but I don't believe it! I
might, perhaps, hate you, Myra, but I never could hate Viola. However,
tell me what love is, and I will tell you if I have ever loved.'
"'Have you ever kissed your mistress?' she asked.
"The boy looked surprised. 'The Roman nobles,' he answered, 'do not
kiss their slaves.'
"The girl burst out laughing; this idea, from her point of view, was
exceedingly comical, but she did not contradict him. 'I will tell you
some stories about love,' she said.
"Myra, being a Roman slave girl, and having passed through some
considerable experience of what she termed love, it would be unnecessary
and unedifying to follow her further. Manners and customs change, and
the refinement of thought and language, notwithstanding many an ebb and
flow, has enlarged its borders. To describe therefore any such scene as
this truthfully, would be not only undesirable, but misleading.
"When Aureus returned to the villa late that evening, though he may not
have been intellectually much wiser, he had tasted of the fruit of the
tree of knowledge, and knew more of evil than formerly; but it is
doubtful whether he or his teacher had any active consciousness of sin.
They were little better than half-educated savages, and their training
on the moral side had in one case been neglected, and in the other
perverted.
"After Viola's return, she noticed a change in her fair slave. He was
as devoted as ever, but less bright and natural in manner. When they
were alone together he would sit watching her every movement The
sensation of being thus watched made her angry and uncomfortable.
"On one such occasion she turned to him and said crossly, 'I shall sell
you. You're getting too old and dull to be any amusement. What has
come to you of late? Ah! it never struck me before. You're in love!'
"As she said this, the boy turned scarlet. She had guessed part of the
truth, but not that he was in love with her.
"'Yes, I see it now--in love with that hateful slave Myra!' she
continued, stamping her foot. 'I ought to have known! They told me
that you and she had been out together in my absence. I'll teach her to
go interfering with my slaves! I'll let her know who rules here!'
"And the girl, raging with passion, bade Aureus to follow, and hurried
back to the villa. Going into one of the inner rooms, she told some of
the maidens to fetch Myra, who came reluctantly at her summons. The
slight girl, absolute mistress of those around, drew up her haughty
little figure, when she saw the beautiful slave enter, and at once
demanded by whose authority she had left the enclosure during her
absence.
"This was too great a strain on Myra's temper, and relying on the favour
shown by her master, she became insolent, even taunting her mistress
with her illegitimate birth.
"'Who are you!' she cried, 'to rule over me! Daughter of a slave! Soon
shall you be turned from your high position, and be servant of my
children. Who made you better than the others, that you dare to give
orders to me?'
"For a moment Viola stood speechless with anger, her face contracted
with rage; then turning to those round her, she cried--
"'Bind her, the insolent brute! I'll teach her whether I am mistress or
not!'
"The slave-girls were nothing loth to see their haughty companion
humbled, for they were jealous of her beauty, and of the favour which
had hitherto been shown to her. In a moment the wretched girl was
seized, the grand tunic of which she had been so proud was taken from
her, and her hands and feet tightly bound.
"'Now,' said Viola, 'bring the double-lashed whip.'
"When Myra heard this order, her pride vanished, and with tears and
entreaties she began to cry to her mistress to spare her. But Viola
only mocked at her terror.
"'Ah!' she cried, 'so the slave is beginning to recognize her mistress;
and she shall do so with good reason before we let her go!' Then,
turning to Aureus, she said, 'Take the whip, and let me see that you use
it like a man, or by the gods I will have you lashed and sold in the
public slave-market.'
"The boy, though he had often witnessed such scenes before, hesitated;
he had never been called upon to hit a woman, and the thought was
instinctively repugnant to him. On the other hand, he had never
disobeyed his mistress, and her will was his law. He lifted the whip
and let it fall gently upon the prostrate woman, who was bound down upon
one of the raised stone seats. Then Viola came up to him, and grinding
her teeth with anger, she seized his arm.
"'If you do not hit her,' she hissed, 'hit her so that the blood shall
flow forth freely, I will kill you both! Brute!' she cried; 'you love
her--you dare to love her!'
"Then the boy did as his mistress told him, and a great curse entered
into his soul, for the brute nature was awakened, and he knew the
delight of cruelty; for the sister fiend of lust, with her horrible
fascination, took, for the time, possession of him as he watched the
writhing body of his victim. But the young girl Viola stood by more
damned than the slave who did her bidding, for a double curse fell upon
her soul.
"On a lovely day towards the end of summer, Viola at last obtained her
father's consent to ride with the huntsmen, and Aureus, who was a
skilful horseman, was told off to be her attendant, and made responsible
for her safety.
"It was late in the day before the wild beasts broke cover and the
riders galloped over the plain in pursuit. The girl selected for her
quarry a hart which had been slightly wounded by one of the archers, and
soon she and her companion were urging their horses over the ground.
They were both well mounted, but the animals at that date were ill
fitted for speed, and there seemed little chance of their overtaking the
stag unless his wound exhausted him. The girl, however, was far too
excited to consider possibilities, and they soon left the other huntsmen
far behind, the sound of the horns growing fainter and fainter.
"At last the hart came to a small wood, and disappeared among the
undergrowth.
"'Had we not better return?' the boy asked. 'We shall find it no easy
matter to follow him further.'
"But the girl had no mind to give up the chase. A few hounds had
followed them, and she put them upon the track and began forcing her
horse through the dense thicket. They had not far to go before once
more the open country could be seen through the willow-stems, and after
wading a small stream they came in sight of the stag who had just been
driven from his place of concealment. The hounds, now also emerging
from the stream, gave tongue joyfully at view of their prey.
"Once more the chase commenced. Forgetting time and place in the wild
excitement, the two continued their solitary run accompanied by three
slow but keen-scented hounds. Scrambling up the steep hills and wading
the many streams which came in their path, they at last discovered their
quarry, who had taken refuge in a deep pool. The boy and girl
dismounted and rested for a moment to recover their breath.
"In the mean time the hounds plunged into the water; but powerful though
they were on land, resembling as they did in appearance a cross between
the modern bloodhound and boarhound, they were no match in the water
against their horned antagonist. Aureus knew that, dangerous as was the
undertaking to one not fully experienced, it would be necessary for him
to go to their assistance. Placing, therefore, his knife between his
teeth, and throwing off his garment, he plunged into the water and swam
out to the spot where the unequal contest was raging. Waiting for a
suitable moment when the attention of the stag was engaged, he
approached it cautiously from behind, and taking the dagger from between
his teeth, stabbed it to the heart.
"The girl, who was standing on the bank breathless with excitement, now
that she saw the stag was dead, gave a cry of delight, and called to
Aureus to push the body in front of him to the side of the pool so that
she might help him to drag it from the water. She then called the
reluctant hounds to her, and watched impatiently the accomplishment of
the youth's difficult task.
"At length between them they managed to get the body on dry land, and at
once set to work, after the manner of the time with which they were so
familiar, to break up the body; the girl blowing her horn, and the boy
presenting her with the head and antlers. Nor did they forget to reward
the faithful hounds.
"They were reminded by the greed of these their followers that they also
were hungry, and having lighted a fire--for no huntsman ever went forth
without providing materials for this contingency--they were soon busy
cooking some of the choicest morsels on slips of wood over hot charcoal.
Then, like two young savages, they feasted, drinking from a neighbouring
stream.
"It was now growing dusk, and if they hoped to return that night there
was no time to spare. At first by following the marks of their horses'
feet they had little difficulty in retracing their steps, but coming to
a wide stretch of heath they lost the track, and while endeavouring in
vain to find it, darkness settled down. As they were far from any
landmark known to them, and were, moreover, shut in by the surrounding
hills, they at last gave up the attempt in despair, and decided to make
the best of the circumstances and spend the night in some sheltered
spot.
"Having come to a suitable place they tied up their horses and crept
together into a small hollow which was carpeted with bracken and roofed
by sandstone rock. It was a mild night, but Viola, thinly clad as she
was, felt the cold reaction which follows violent exercise, and nestled
up closer and closer to her companion, who was far too accustomed to
exposure to feel the least chilled by the night air. After a few moments
of silence, the girl, raising herself a little, bent over and kissed the
boy's lips.
"'There,' she said, 'that is a reward for your having been brave and
killed the stag!'
"But the boy trembled at her touch; it was the first time she had ever
kissed him; it was the kindling of a new and fatal change in their
relationship: childhood had gone!"
"As may be imagined, Myra's bitterness against her mistress was
strengthened rather than lessened by the cruel punishment. She made
bitter complaint to her master, but without success; as, though he was
vexed at what he considered an excessive punishment, he made it a point
in no way to interfere with his daughter in matters of this kind. He
knew too well that a divided rule would mean continued complaints; and,
moreover, he thought his fair slave had lately been getting somewhat out
of hand, and that a little check was desirable. So he only laughed,
telling her that she must learn to be an obedient girl, and do what her
mistress told her.
"But Myra's day of revenge was nearer than she expected, and she soon
began to suspect the altered relationship between Viola and Aureus. She
was therefore content to wait her time, and during this interval she
feigned the most abject meekness and fawning servility to her young
tyrant, avoiding at the same time all intercourse with the boy.
"Marius had been absent when these two returned home the morning after
the hunt. It was usual in these days to continue the chase of fugitives
as long as any chance of capture remained. Moreover, there was much
work to be done in collecting the slain. Owing to this their absence
caused no comment, the servants at the villa fancying that Viola had
been with her father, while he was under the impression that the girl
had returned with her prize on the evening of the previous day.
"Viola was now often allowed to join the hunting parties, and she and
her boy lover were thrown more than ever together. It was a happy time
for both of them, living as they did only for the pleasure of the
moment, and disregarding all thought of the future. They were too young
and reckless either to know or consider the consequences of their
present folly. But nature moves in her own way, following her own laws,
whether her children regard them or not. She has her own ends to
fulfil, and is utterly callous of conventional restrictions; to her
there is neither king nor slave, neither queen nor serving-maid, but
only male and female, and she treats all alike, without respect of
persons or regard to social convenience. It is her children's fault,
not hers, if things turn out disastrously; if men make restrictions for
themselves which have no part in her plan of action and impose laws
which interfere with her wider and more impartial scheme.
"The winter came and went, and many of the same spring flowers which now
make our lanes so beautiful at this time of the year, carpeted the open
glades of the forest, and bordered the pure untainted streams. The
delicate lacework of drooping ferns was reflected in the still pools,
then stocked with fish as yet unacquainted with guile; the May-fly
required no second inspection, but might be devoured recklessly without
fear of fatal results, while the wriggling worm which strayed too near
the bank, and turned over gently into the water, had not the chances of
escape which he now enjoys. No committee of taste would then lie round
to study his movements for fear that a dangerous hook might be concealed
somewhere in his body.
"It was on a lovely evening shortly after the cuckoo's note had become
once more a familiar sound, that Viola and Aureus, returning from a
ramble in the wood, were met a few yards from the enclosure by Marius.
As the girl glanced up at her father, she was suddenly overwhelmed with
terror. She had seen anger often on his face before, but never when he
had looked at her, and never such deep anger as this. What was the
meaning of it?
"With a haughty word he dismissed the slave, and telling his daughter to
follow, went on toward the forest. For some time the silence was only
broken by the sound of their footsteps, and the sweet singing of the
birds. At last the man stopped, and turning round, looked fixedly at
his daughter for a moment. Then, with a deep-drawn sob, half of anger
and half of pain, he cried--
"'So it is true! This which they have told me, and which I might have
seen with my own eyes. My daughter, whom I have loved and honoured, has
demeaned herself even to the level of a slave--has become one of the
vile! You know your fate--the fate of the wanton. Even though I have
loved you, this past love shall not save you. Were you not my own child
I would even now sell you in the slave-market, that you might follow the
vile calling you have chosen. As it is, you shall die!'
"When Viola heard this she fell upon her knees before her father, and
with tears implored him to spare her life. Then, in her terror, a
thought crossed her mind. She might yet save herself by a lie. To hide
her guilt she knew would be impossible, but she might throw all the
blame upon another, and so save herself.
"Between sobs and lamentations she said--'Even though you kill me, yet
am I innocent of evil. How could I know, who am but a child, of the
wickedness of men? I went out to hunt in the forest, and the stag led
me far from home, and when we slew it the darkness of night was falling,
and there was none near save the slave whom you gave me as a servant.
And behold, when we strove to return home, we could not find our way;
and as we wandered helpless into the thick places of the forest, night
came on.' Then Viola, having thrown all the blame upon Aureus, finished
her story in these words--'Knowing not the harm that would follow, I hid
this thing in my heart; and though he, my destroyer, has since been
hateful to me, yet dared I not show it lest the evil which had happened
might be suspected by any.'
"Then the father, willing if possible to save his child, was moved by
her words and tears, though still unconvinced of her innocence. And he
said--
"'I will prove and see if these things be even as you say.'
"So they returned together to the house, and he led his daughter into an
inner room, and commanded his servants to bring Aureus bound before him.
Then having dismissed the slaves, he repeated to the boy the story which
his daughter had told; and when he had done this, he said--
"'If this be true, then shalt thou be crucified in the sight of all the
people; but if thou canst prove that this was no act of violence, I will
sell thee as a slave, and the girl shall die!'
"The boy looked upon the pleading and terrified face of the one he
loved, and lifting up his head, swore by the gods, saying--
"'It is true even as thy daughter has said. I, and only I, am to
blame.'
"Then the father turned to the girl and said--'And you hate him even as
you said?'
"And she, simulating anger, answered--'I hate him--I hate him!'
"But Marius, still doubting, replied, so that he might try her
further--'Thou shalt this night then have thy revenge, even before the
sun shall set.'
"Then he ordered that a cross of wood should be made ready. When it was
prepared and laid upon the ground, he commanded his daughter to come,
and the boy was brought forth and laid upon the cross. But when one of
the servants was about to take a nail and with the heavy hammer drive it
into the boy's hand, Marius stayed him, saying--
"'She, who has thus been wronged, shall with her own hand take
vengeance.' Then he said to the girl who was standing by his
side--'Go!' And in a low voice he whispered, 'Then shall I know the
truth!'
"And Viola, though faint with terror and anguish, dare not hesitate, for
she knew that her refusal would be treated as a sign of guilt. So with
trembling hands she nailed the lover who died to save her to the cross,
and his blood stained her fingers and the white robe she wore.
"Then, even as the sun was setting, they lifted the cross on high, and
the glow of the evening light fell softly upon the boy's head.
"When Viola went to her room that night, she could not sleep. The
thought of her lover still suffering the tortures of his slow death was
too horrible. She could no longer bear the anguish of remorse and
self-contempt.
"'Better,' she cried, 'had I died ten thousand times than live this
awful life!'
"She began to picture all the happy hours that they had spent together;
she thought of the love which the boy had always shown her. It was
impossible that she should remain any longer in her room. Whatever the
risk she ran, whatever pain it might bring, she must see her lover again
and ask him to forgive her. Was it too late? Was his suffering over?
She took up a short dagger, and moving softly, stole out of the house.
"There was a moon, but fortunately at the moment it was covered by
clouds, and she passed into the open beyond the enclosure safely. In
the gloom she could see the cross standing out against the hills beyond;
and even as she looked the clouds passed by, and the moon shone
brightly, showing clearly the boy's drooping head and strained arms.
Was he dead? She hurried on until she came to the foot of the cross.
The boy slightly moved at the sound of her footstep, and turning his
head looked down at her.
"'Aureus!' she cried, 'Aureus! forgive me--forgive me!'
"The boy tried to speak, but for a moment he could not. Then with a
great effort he whispered, 'Viola, I love you! I shall always love
you!' And as he said the last word his head fell forward; his pain was
over.
"But the girl, when she realized that he was dead, having kissed the
poor wounded feet, knelt down before his lifeless body; then, baring her
breast, she drove the dagger into her heart."
"Soon after this Marius left the country, being summoned with several of
the Romans to Italy. But the story of these two being handed down, the
villa was looked upon as haunted by their dead spirits, and avoided as a
place accursed.
"Some time later, owing to the misfortune which attended a Saxon tribe
that had settled in this part, orders were given that the 'House of the
Great Curse,' as it was then called, should be domed over and covered
with sand, so that the evil spirits might be confined within. In a few
years the grass grew on the little hillock, and long before the Norman
Conquest all history connected with the place had perished."
"And that," I said, "is the ending of the story. It is a very sad one."
"It is rather," he answered; "the first chapter of what may be called
our intellectual history, is usually sad. The fight between the spirit
and beast nature must naturally bring about much evil; the animal is in
one sense far less repulsive than the savage, as the former lacks the
ingenuity with which the latter is able to enforce his brutal desires.
From that day to the present time my spirit and the spirit of this girl
have been more or less interwoven together through many lives and under
various names. Both our natures have developed; though owing in a large
measure to the incident just related, her growth has been retarded; had
it not been for this, our spirits would probably have been united long
before this, and have passed to a higher and nobler life together. But
we shall not now have long to wait," he continued; "and I shall at last
be freed from these marks."
As he said this he held his hands palm upward for me to look at, and in
the centre of each was a small faint red spot.
"Those marks," he said, "I have always borne. They are one of the
strange signs of the power with which the spirit, under certain
circumstances, affects the body, and their having endured for so long a
time shows how deeply this experience affected in some way the formation
of my character."
"Tell me," I said, "where Vera is now. Is she still alive?"
"Next time we meet," he answered, "if all be well, I will show you the
girl as she is now--the girl whom you have heard of as Viola and
Vera--the girl whom I love!"
"She can hardly be a girl now," I said.
"Wait," he replied, "and see."
*CHAPTER XVII*
As Sydney was away from home, some weeks passed before I again had an
opportunity of seeing him. On hearing of his return I immediately
walked to his house and found him sitting in the garden.
"I am glad that you have come," he said, "as this is the last day I
shall spend here, and there is much still to tell before we part."
"Go!" I exclaimed; "you do not intend to leave altogether?"
"Yes," he replied; "and it will be many years before you will see me
again, so we must make the best of the short time that still remains.
You will stay the night?"
I assented. The news of his coming departure was a greater blow than I
could have believed possible. Having lived for long alone, and become so
self-concentrated, it had not occurred to me I could suffer such pain at
parting from any one. When we are young we experience these acute
sensations; but time makes us callous, and after all, our friendship had
lasted so short a time.
"You are sorry," he said. "We have become friends--a rare thing to
happen in later life--and we shall miss each other. But it is better
so. Some day you will understand why we lose our idols. It is not good
for man to be alone; but it is still worse for one nature to rest all
its interest upon another. The ivy clinging to the oak destroys the
life of its supporter, and sooner or later they fall together."
For some time we strolled up and down, talking of friendship. There was
one thing noticeable in Sydney which distinguished him from most men.
Superficial observers would have called him egotistical, because if he
thought a thing true he said so, without consideration for any of the
forms of false modesty which are mistaken for meekness. If he liked a
person he spoke to him just as he felt; and when better acquainted with
a subject than those with whom he was conversing, he said so openly. If
he felt that he was stronger or wiser than his friend, he lacked the
affectation of professing to disbelieve it. Yet, instead of feeling
that this assumption was an impertinence, I liked him the better for it;
it was so naturally done, so free from the very suspicion of conceit.
"You and I," he seemed to say, "understand each other. We both know
enough to be conscious of our own littleness and our own ignorance. We
will not place ourselves in the ridiculous position of students in
precedence. The gap between the wisest man and the fool is too narrow
for partition. It is hardly worth while for earthworms to wrangle over
shades of complexion, or men over shades of intelligence. Let us rather
get to business, and make the best of our opportunity for improvement."
But this manner of his was offensive to many. There are minds so small
that they are incapable of understanding a meekness that takes no
account of distinction in littleness.
After dinner, Sydney abruptly turned a conversation upon the growth of
spiritual life, in which I was much interested, and told me a short
story about one of the little children who had been rescued by Agnes,
and taken to Somerville.
I had no idea at the time how important a link in his history lay hidden
in this pathetic tale.
"I promised," he said, "that when next we met, you should see Vera as
she is, and to-night you shall do so, but first of all I will give you
an account of a scene that happened six years ago. You remember the
home for orphan children that Vera and Agnes started. For a few years it
continued under their joint care, but then, owing to a reason which I
will explain later, the entire charge was thrown upon Agnes, and the
home has been for the last seven years, and is now, under her sole
management. Six years ago I went to see her, and told her of a case
which seemed in every way worthy of relief. A young woman, who had been
left a widow a few months previously, was dying. She had one child, a
little girl about eighteen months old; this child would soon be totally
unprovided for, as, though the mother had been well brought up, and was
of gentle birth, her own and her husband's relations were dead. Anxiety
on her baby's account was adding greatly to the poor woman's suffering.
You may fancy that Agnes required no urging in such a case, and she went
with me at once on this errand of mercy. We found the mother and her
child in a small badly-furnished room in one of the poorest parts of
Manchester. Since her husband's death she had done a little dressmaking,
and so kept her child and herself from starvation. Notwithstanding the
ravages of disease, she was still a beautiful woman; and as she told
Agnes her story, the mystery of sorrow bravely borne, and apparently
meaningless as far as this life was concerned, affected her listener
deeply. Her parents had died when she was about seventeen; they had
been fairly well off, having made a small fortune in Australia; her
father, however, during the closing years of his life had speculated
rashly, and when he died a few months after his wife, the estate had to
be wound up in bankruptcy. His only daughter Ellen managed after some
little difficulty to get a situation as nursery-governess to the
children of a wealthy Australian, who was about to sail with his family
for England. Ellen lived with these people for three years, and, from
what she said, her life must have been far from happy. Those who have
recently risen from an inferior social position are as a rule the most
overbearing to any one whom they consider their subordinate; the value
of wealth is so impressed upon them that they can hardly realize that
the governess in their pay is their social equal, or may be, as in this
case, their superior. The torment that such persons inflict on a young,
and sensitive nature is indescribable. It is often bad enough to be
ruled over by those we respect, but to be slighted, or still worse
patronized, by those whose instincts and habits revolt us is torture.
Such was this girl's life, until she met by accident her future husband;
he was a young journalist, who through hard work and ability had made
his way into a position which brought him in a precarious L300 a year.
On the prospect of this doubtful income they married, and the first two
years of their lives were passed happily. But soon after the birth of
their child, Harry Stanford broke down in health. He had worked too
hard. Then the bitter struggle began: piece by piece the furniture had
to be sold to buy food, and when he died his wife found herself once
more penniless, and debarred now from any chance of earning a living as
she had formerly done, by reason of her new tie. Still, as long as her
strength lasted she had struggled bravely against poverty and
misfortune.
"'It is not,' she said, looking up at Agnes' face, 'that I fear to die.
It would be so sweet to lie down and rest--to know that all trouble and
pain were over, and that I could go to my husband! But he has left me
this little one, the baby he loved so dearly and was so proud of. What
will become of her when I go to him? What will he say--our child--our
child! With no one to love or care for her--it is terrible!'
"And the poor woman broke into a paroxysm of weeping.
"'I cannot die,' she sobbed, 'I cannot! Oh God! I see her growing up
without love--people are cruel to her, and day by day, as she gets
older, she will miss more the care of a mother's watchfulness. If
anything should happen--if she should sink down through despair into the
depth of sin and misery! I cannot leave her!'
"'Do not distress yourself, dear,' Agnes said; 'I will try and take your
place when you are gone--will try to be a mother to your little one.
Give her to me--let me take her in my arms.' She took the little one
from its mother, and the child came not unwillingly. 'There, you see,'
she continued, 'the child trusts me--will you?'
"When the mother heard and understood, the drawn look of anxious pain
passed from her face, and a radiant light of rest and peace took its
place.
"'Do you mean it?' she cried. 'Will you indeed take charge of my love,
my baby, when I am gone? Oh! you don't know, you cannot imagine what joy
you have given me! Trust you! Yes, indeed, no one can look into your
eyes and see you touch the child and not know that you can love; and you
are sure to love her, the darling! But how can I thank you--it is too
good to be true.'
"Though the child was getting near the age when children so often
develop shyness, she nestled up and clung to Agnes as though she
recognized her touch. The little thing looked up into the sweet face
bending over her, and seemed to find there something familiar. It put
its baby hands to her cheeks and stroked them, then crowed and laughed
with pleasure.
"To those who knew the mystery which connected Agnes with this child
there was something strangely pathetic in the unconscious recognition,
the half-forgotten association. The strange part lay chiefly in this,
that the child was more conscious than the woman. The child
remembered--the woman only felt at her heart a throb of reawakened love.
And the mother who watched saw not the mysterious chain which bound
these two together, yet she saw what was enough for her, love in the one
and contentment in the other, and she lay back and rested with a heart
full of such deep peace as she had never hoped again to know. I saw her
fold her hands, and knew that she was half praying, half speaking to her
husband. Even as she prayed his presence was beside her, and I then felt
certain that the end was near.
"'Agnes,' I said, 'give back the child to its mother, that for one
moment the three may be united.'
"She looked at me in surprise, wondering what I could mean, then placed
the little one in its mother's arms; and the child, conscious, as
children often are, of the spirit world around them, felt the dual
presence, and lifting up its tiny hands gave a little cry of joy. But
the cry broke the delicate thread which till now had held the mother
bound to earth, and her spirit was free. Then a strange thing happened,
for as the two spirits were drawn together they became aware of the
mystery which connected me with the child they had loved, and an
indescribable joy entered their souls and passed to my own like some
strain of joyful melody.
"The little child was taken by Agnes, after her mother's funeral, to
Somerville. And now, if you wish to do so, we will go and see Vera."
We went together into the library, and there, sitting by the fire with a
picture-book on her lap, was a little girl about seven. She sprang up
as soon as she saw Sydney, and rushing up to him threw her arms around
his neck. She was the most beautiful child I have ever seen; her skin
had the delicate purity of perfect health; her features were more finely
modelled than those which we generally see in children, but it was the
deep loveliness of her large dark-blue eyes which gave the chief
attraction. Her expression, and the firm outline of the lower part of
her face, showed determination, faithfulness, and a deep capacity for
love and devotion.
"Come, Vera," Sydney said, "I want to introduce you to a friend," and he
led her to me.
She lifted up her face to be kissed, and I bent over her and touched her
soft waving curls with my lips. What did it all mean? Could this be
Vera's child, or some one named after her? There was a likeness to the
face of the beautiful girl I had seen in my visions, but the child was
not only far more lovely, her expression showed greater purity,
refinement, and nobility. During the short time she sat with us I was
particularly struck with her devotion to Sydney; she seemed ever trying
to anticipate some want of his so as to fulfil it.
When at last he said, "You must go now, dear, and get to bed, as we
shall have a long day's travelling to-morrow," she came and climbed on
to his knee, and resting her head on his shoulder, said--
"Is it not lovely to think that we are going now to be together? It is
good of you to take me; I hope I shall not be much trouble."
"I don't think so, dear," he answered; "you might perhaps have been a
trouble once, but now it is different."
"Yes," she said, "I'm nearly grown up, am I not?"
He kissed her, and as she tripped off he said to me, laughing, "Well,
what do you think of my nearly grown-up companion?"
"She is a sweet child," I said. "How did she come to be called Vera?
And when are you going to introduce me to Lady Vancome?"
"So you don't even yet understand," he said, "the mystery? Listen while
I explain. When Vera Vancome had lived with the children whom she had
gathered round her for three years, her whole nature became changed.
The new interest, the new love which grew up in her heart for the
motherless little ones drove out of her nature the desire for
self-gratification which heretofore had been her curse; yet habit is so
strong, moulding as it does the brain and warping the will, that as long
as the body lives, any tendency to an evil that has once been encouraged
will continue, though perhaps with weakened force; and until the spirit
is set free by death from these self-made bonds; love, which should be a
spontaneous pleasure, is still at times marred by effort, and loses
thereby much of its usefulness and beauty. When this is the case it
becomes necessary for the soul's final perfection on earth that it
should be born again into the body of a little child, which takes the
form of the ennobled spirit. Thenceforth it is free from the tendency
to evil which the influence of past years had engraved on its former
body and mind. In other words, when a soul outgrows its body, it is
time to cast off the old shell and take one more in conformity with a
higher development. This may seem a strange thing to you, but it is a
common experience of daily life, and accounts both for the inequality of
human nature and also for the reason why we find but a small proportion
of men or women seemingly fitted for a high state of spiritual life. We
see many in the various transition stages, but few who have reached a
final growth; the sixth form, as it were, of our earthly school, when
the scholars are ready to go forth into a wider universe of action and
experience.
"And thus it came about in Vera's case. Her body, weakened by continual
work and the constant fight against her lower nature, was thereby made
sensitive to the first attack of illness. A child, who had lately come
to the home, developed diphtheria. The disease spread quickly among the
other children; it was therefore necessary to isolate them, and Vera,
much against Agnes' wish, determined to act as their nurse. While doing
so she caught the disease. It was a pathetic sight to see her, even
after she had taken the complaint, struggling to minister to the little
ones around. She absolutely refused to be separated from them,
notwithstanding the earnest entreaties of the nurse and the express
orders of the doctor.
"One night while the nurse was sleeping, a little child who was very
ill, began crying in its delirium and calling Vera by name; until nearly
unconscious herself, she got up, and tottering over to the child, began
stroking its head, and trying to calm its fears. The little one soon
ceased its rambling and fell into a quiet sleep, but Vera still knelt by
its side; she had lost consciousness of all around her.
"The nurse was roused some hours later by the crying of one of the
children, and to her horror she found Lady Vancome still kneeling by the
side of one of the cots. She touched her, but she did not move. The
time had come--her new body awaited her.
"At the same hour a child was born. Into the more perfect body, free
now from the evil tendency of a misspent past, her spirit entered."
"And the child?" I said.
"Is the baby Agnes rescued; is the little girl you have just seen. This
is the divine order of life. Moved into the home which Vera founded,
under the protection of Agnes whom she loved, she learned the first
lesson of her new life. Thus, often do our deeds of mercy return to us
again. We cast our bread upon the waters, and find it after many days.
And thus, alas! do we also curse ourselves by acts of selfishness,
reaping in future years the harvest of pain which we so thoughtlessly
scattered in the past."
"Does Vera remember any of her previous life?" I asked.
"Not as you call remembrance," he answered, "though shadows flit across
her mind at times."
"You have not told her about it, then?"
"No, it would not be wise; she is going with me now to Aphar, where she
will become in time one of the priestesses. As soon as her spirit can
leave the body, she will begin to learn the mystery of the past, and it
will not be very many years, I expect, before we shall both leave this
earth and go into the higher world which lies beyond and around us."
"Shall you never return here?" I asked.
"When the time comes for us to leave we will come to you before we go,
but not till then."
"What will become of your house while you are away?"
"Before to-morrow night you will know."
The next morning I said good-bye to Sydney and Vera. As they drove away
in the bright sunlight the child looked the personification of joy, but
when my friend turned round to wave a last adieu, I knew that he was
sorry: sorry because with the sensitiveness of his nature he knew my
pain, and felt that I should be very lonely when he had gone.
That evening while sitting in my study I noticed a brilliant light as
though some large building was on fire. I hastened out; there could be
no mistake, this light proceeded from the direction of Sydney's house:
before I arrived on the scene, there was a slight explosion, and flames
were suddenly tossed high into the air. When I reached the building it
was a ruin; only a few walls now stood to mark the spot where so many
treasures had been gathered together.
*CONCLUSION*
For ten years I neither saw nor heard anything of Sydney or Vera, but
this did not surprise me. I knew that they were both at Aphar, and that
the girl was learning the mysteries of spiritual power which should in
time enable her to gain at least some of the knowledge which the man,
who had loved and watched over her so long, possessed. I was also
confident that some day I should see them again before their spirits
were united and passed away from earth.
My confidence was justified.
I was sitting alone one evening when Sydney entered the room. He was
much changed. His hair was quite white, his face more calm, more noble
than when we parted; but his expression told of such perfect happiness
and contentment that even to look at him brought a feeling of peace.
"I have come at last, you see," he said, as he shook me warmly by the
hand.
I told him how delighted I was, and that I had looked forward for years
to this meeting. "But where," I continued, "is Vera? Did you not bring
her after all?"
"Oh yes," he replied.
Even as he spoke the door opened, and the girl stood before us. I had
been prepared for a good deal; I remembered the child, and felt quite
certain that as she grew up she would be very beautiful; but I had never
conceived it possible that any human form could be so lovely as the one
that now stood before me.
The girl was clothed in a loose flowing robe of dazzling white, which
was fastened at the breast by a brooch in which shone a luminous
transparent stone similar to the one which Sydney had described as worn
at Aphar by the high priestess; but notwithstanding the test of such a
contrast, her complexion looked more pure, more ethereal than it is
possible to conceive in any setting. It seemed as though alabaster had
been faintly tinted with the pearly shade of the most delicate
rose-leaf. As she came forward each movement told of perfectly
developed bodily strength and graceful power, while the clear brightness
of her deep blue eyes and the warm colour of her lips showed how health
alone can give the true finish without which the most perfect beauty is
marred, or for the time partially lost. Yet with all her charm of
attraction she seemed as unconscious of the effect produced by her as
though she were still a little child. She came up to me with both her
hands held out, and taking one of mine into each of hers, looked up with
a bright smile into my face.
"Perhaps you think," she said, "that I have forgotten you; but if so you
are mistaken. It is ten years ago, and I was only seven then, but Alan
has taken care to keep my memory fresh, and sometimes he has let me see
you."
"But why," I said, "should you want to see me? You cannot possibly care
about such an old selfish being."
"Of course I care," she answered; "are you not his friend? And whom he
cares for, I care for; whom he loves, I love."
As she said this she looked at Sydney, and I saw for the first time the
expression of true, pure, and perfect love.
We had talked for some time on various subjects, when Vera turned to me
and said--
"You already know much of my past, a knowledge which has only recently
been revealed to me. But there is much still that you do not know
because he who told you was the man who loved me. Nor is it necessary
for me to bring before you further scenes of humiliation, when I
wandered blindly in the path of disorder and pain, ever refusing the
guiding light of love held out to me. But," she continued, getting up
and kneeling beside Sydney, "before we go, before we enter into the
glorious life of joy, to the threshold of which my love at length has
guided me, I should like to give you some idea of my feeling toward the
man who has thus through pain and trial, with no return save the basest
ingratitude, ever been faithful to one so unworthy of his devotion."
As she said this she looked up into the face of her lover, and drawing
him down to her, kissed him on the lips.
For a moment she seemed to forget my presence as she turned to Sydney,
and cried, "My beloved, who through the dark valley has been beside me;
who with the unselfishness of divine compassion has forgiven cruelty and
unfaithfulness, thinking not of the worthlessness of the one beloved but
only feeling her weakness; whatsoever I am is thine, without thee there
can be no joy, no perfect completion, no future life, no eternal glory!"
But Sydney stopped her. "Dearest," he said, "it is enough. The past is
gone; through the weakness that once you had, came that strength which
has been our salvation. Through selfishness has come self-renunciation;
through sorrow, more exceeding joy; through doubt and perplexity,
eternal hope and trust. If your growth has been dependent upon me, so
has my growth on you; each soul acting and reacting on the other from
without. And still shall it ever be, save that in future the influence
shall be internal, not external, and the darkness shall have passed
away."
For a few moments there was silence; then Vera turned to me and said,
"Would that you too could know this great joy."
"I have not lived to deserve it," I replied, "yet it gives me the
greatest happiness to see you here."
"Deserved it," she replied, "and how do I deserve it? When first the
truth became known to me in vision after vision of my past, I thought I
should have died of shame and sorrow. Before that I believed that I was
more or less worthy of Alan's love, but then it seemed impossible."
She buried her face in her hands.
"Hush!" Sydney said. "Let us speak of brighter things. No spirit can
look upon the past without wonder and shame. Let us thank God that when
its lessons are over, these things shall be wiped out and all things
become new."
"Should you mind," I said, addressing Vera, "letting me know something
of your life since we last met?"
"There is not much," she replied, "that I may tell, but I will do my
best. After leaving you we travelled together, seeing many places of
interest on the way; for you must remember that it was impossible for me
to quit the body, and Alan would not leave me. At length we came to the
plateau of which you have already heard, and I was admitted through the
secret passage to the enclosure. On arriving there I was taken alone
into the beautiful temple and dedicated to the service of the Almighty
Father. For eight years I lived with the priestess, who educated me in
the knowledge which comes to us through the spiritual sense. But beside
what she taught me I saw Alan often and learned many things from him.
These times were the most delightful, for though always happy, a new
strange joy filled my heart whenever I was brought into his presence. I
felt somehow that I belonged to him, and when he left there was a void
which nothing else could fill.
"Time passed very quickly, there was so much to do. I was trained to
perfect my body as well as my spirit, and to bring every faculty into
obedience to my will. At last I was admitted as priestess to the
temple, and then for the first time my spirit was allowed to go free,
and to commune with the other spirits which surround us. But though
increasing day by day in power, I knew as yet nothing of the past. For
some time I was not allowed to go forth alone, but one day it was
decided that I should have no companion, but go whither I would and
learn whatsoever I desired. And I desired greatly to know of my past,
and what was the mysterious bond which bound me to the man I love. Then
was my history revealed. And it came to pass that after the visions, so
great was my humiliation, so fearful did it seem to go back and face one
who had thus loved me and whom I had so grievously wronged, that my
soul, dreading to return to the body, waited: still longing for the
sight of the beloved, while ashamed to meet him. Then a spirit, more
beautiful than any I had yet seen, came near to me, and its thought
passed to me in this wise:
"'Dost thou not know, frail spirit, who hath been permitted to visit the
unseen world even though thy body is still on earth, that if thou
tarriest here much longer, the earthly form will perish, and it will be
impossible for thee to finish thy work on earth save in some future
state?'
"And I answered, 'It is even so, yet dare I not return and meet one who
has been deeply wronged by me in the past.'
"Then the spirit spoke again. 'Yet he whom thou hast wronged hath borne
with thee all these many years, and hath not grown weary of his love.
Why shouldest thou fear even now when the past is over? Wouldest thou
then desire once more to be born again and bring to him even this
further pain? Hath he not waited long for thee in patience, and wilt
thou at the moment of fulfilment cause him the needless suffering of
hope delayed? Forget thyself, child of earth, and think only of the
sorrow that such an action would cause. What is thy humiliation? Tarry
not, but walk bravely in the path of duty.'
"Then seeing that selfishness was still holding me back, I came in haste
to the temple. It was night, and I knew that days had passed by since
my spirit had left its body entranced. Might it not even now be too
late to return? I looked down. The light of the moon fell softly
through the trellis-work of the arches. A delicate strain of music
passed with me as I moved, but from below only the soft plash of the
fountain disturbed the silence of earth. I saw the body my spirit had
so long forsaken still reclining upon the cushions which had been laid
over the mosaic floor. Was I too late? Had the trance stage passed on
to death?
"Kneeling over my prostrate form I could distinguish the figure of a
man, and knew that my lover still watched and waited. Otherwise the
temple was deserted. Then I heard Alan speak.
"'Vera, come back! Would that it were possible for my spirit to come to
yours, but it may not be. Can you not trust me? Can you doubt my love?
Oh! before it is too late, return! Must we again be parted even when it
seemed that the time had at last arrived for our eternal union?'
"In a moment I had regained my bodily form. I rose, dazed by my long
trance, and fell upon my knees before my lover who now stood over me,
his face radiant with joy.
"'Forgive me,' I cried, 'forgive me!'"
Vera paused, and Sydney turned to me with a smile.
"Rather a difficult request, was it not?"
I looked at the exquisite face of the girl before me and said, "Sydney,
mysterious though it seems, God's wondrous wisdom must have been
manifested to you at such a moment."
"'Yes," he replied, "if man never passed through darkness into light,
through sin into holiness, God could never love us as he does, could
never feel the joy with which such a prayer must fill his soul."
After talking for some little time longer we passed to the other room.
Vera had promised to sing to me before they went. She sung the
following song; the music, the strange unearthly beauty of her voice,
are beyond my words to describe. I listened with closed eyes; earth,
for the moment, seemed to slip away from me, and the gates of heaven to
be thrown open.
When Love's fair flower uncloses,
And Pain has lost her hold,
When Grief for once reposes,
And Joy's bright wings unfold,
Listen! Listen! as you pass along!
Sweetly, yet how softly, Hope breathes forth her song!
No longer drowned by tumult,
Her never silent voice
Shall whisper on for ever,
"Rejoice! and still rejoice!"
She sings to children sleeping;
She lies on Love's light breath,
Faith weaves her words with weeping,
To form the song of death.
Listen! Listen! you will hear her say,
"Joy shall last for ever, Grief must pass away."
The lost still linger near you,
Oh! lift with them your voice,
To swell our joyful chorus,
"Rejoice! and still rejoice!"
And as our souls grow nearer
Souls in the world above,
Ever the song grows clearer,
Till life is lost in love!
Waken! Listen! Still the same glad strain!
Deeper now and fuller! swells the glad refrain!
Till with the host of Heaven,
We also raise our voice,
And hear earth's distant echo,
"Rejoice! and still rejoice!"
For a few moments after the song was finished I sat overpowered with a
feeling of indescribable peace. When I looked up the room was empty, my
friends had gone.