I have just learned by accident that you are somewhere in Wales. I
had gathered from paragraphs in the newspapers about you that you
were in Japan, or in some other part of the East.
Miss Wynne and Sinfi Lovell are at this moment in Wales, and I write
at once to furnish you with some facts in connection with Miss Wynne
which it is important for you to know before you meet her. I can
imagine your amazement at learning that she you have lost so long
has been staying here as my guest. I will tell you all without more
preamble.
One day, some little time after I parted from you in the streets of
London, I chanced to go into Wilderspin's studio, when I found him
in great distress. He told me that the beautiful model who had sat
for his picture 'Faith and Love' had suddenly died. The mother of the
girl had on the previous day been in and told him that her daughter
had died in one of the fits to which at intervals she had been
subject.
Wilderspin, in his eccentric way, had always declared that the
model was not the woman's daughter. He did not think her, as I did,
to have been kidnapped; he believed her to be not a creature of flesh
and blood at all, but a spiritual body sent from heaven by his mother
in order that he might use her as a model. As to the woman Gudgeon,
who laid claim to be her mother, he thought she was suffering from a
delusion--a beneficent delusion--in supposing the model to be her
daughter. And now he thought that this beautiful phantom from the
spirit-world had been recalled because his picture was complete. When
I entered the studio he was just starting for the second time, as he
told me, to the woman's house, in the belief that the body of the
girl which he had seen lying on a mattress was a delusion--a
spiritual body, and must by this time have vanished.
I had reasons for wishing to prevent his going there and being again
brought into contact with the woman before I saw her myself. From my
first seeing the woman and the model, I had found it impossible to
believe that there could be any blood relationship between them, for
the girl's frame from head to foot was as delicate as the woman's
frame from head to foot was coarse and vulgar.
Naturally, therefore, it occurred to me that this was an excellent
opportunity to find out the truth of the matter. I determined to go
and bully the impudent hag into a confession; but of course
Wilderspin was the last man I should choose to accompany me on such
a mission. Your relative, Cyril Aylwin, was, as I believed, on the
Continent, expecting Wilderspin to join him there, or I might have
taken him with me.
I have always had great influence over Wilderspin, and I easily
persuaded him to remain in the studio while I went myself to the
woman's address, which he gave me. I knew that if the model were
really dead she would have to be buried by the parish at a pauper
funeral, that is to say, lowered into a deep pit with other paupers.
It was painful to me to think of this, and I determined to get her
buried myself. So I took a hansom and drove to the squalid court in
the neighbourhood of Holborn, where the woman lived.
On reaching the house, I found the door open. Wilderspin had
described to me the room occupied by Mrs. Gudgeon, so I went at once
upstairs. I found the model upon a mattress, her features horribly
contorted, lying in the same clothes apparently in which she had
fallen when seized.
In an armchair in the middle of the room was Mrs. Gudgeon, in a
drunken sleep so profound that I could not have roused her had I
tried. While I stood looking at the girl, something in the appearance
of her flesh--its freshness of hue--made me suspect that she was
still alive, and that she was only suffering from a seizure of a more
acute kind than any the woman had yet seen. As I stood looking at
these two it occurred to me that should the model recover from the
seizure this would be an excellent and quite unexpected opportunity
for me to get her away. The woman, I thought, would after a while
wake up, and find to her amazement the body gone of her whom she
thought dead. If she had really kidnapped the girl she would be
afraid to set any inquiry afoot. She might even perhaps imagine that
the girl's relations had traced her, found the dead body, and removed
it for burial while she, the kidnapper, was asleep.
After a while the expression of terror on the model's face began to
relax, and she soon awoke into that strange condition which had
caused Wilderspin to declare that she had been sent from another
world. She recognised me in the semi-conscious way in which she
recognised all those who were brought into contact with her, and
looked into my face with that indescribably sweet smile of hers. From
the first she had in her dazed way seemed attached to me, and I had
now no difficulty whatever in persuading her to accompany me
downstairs and out of the house.
Before going, however, the whim seized me to write on the wall in
large letters, with a piece of red drawing-chalk I had in my
waistcoat pocket, '_Kidnapper, beware! Jack Ketch is on your track_.'
I took the girl to my house, and put her under the care of my
housekeeper (much to the worthy lady's surprise), who gave her every
attention. I then went to Wilderspin's studio.
'Well,' said he, 'there is no body lying there, I suppose?'
'None,' I said.
'Did I not tell you that the spirit-world had called her back? What
I saw has vanished, as I expected. How could you suppose that a
material body could ever be so beautiful?'
As I particularly wished that the model should, for a time at least,
be removed from all her present surroundings, I thought it well to
let Wilderspin retain his wild theory as to her disappearance.
I had already arranged to go on the following day to Hurstcote Manor,
where several unfinished pictures were waiting for me, and I decided
to take the model with me.
Before, however, I started for the country with her, I had the
curiosity to call next morning upon the woman in Primrose Court,
in order to discover what had been the effect of my stratagem. I
found her sitting in a state of excitement, and evidently in great
alarm, gazing at the mattress. The words I had written on the wall
had been carefully washed out.
'Well, Mrs. Gudgeon,' I said, 'what has become of your daughter?'
'Dead,' she whimpered, 'dead.'
'Yes, I know she's dead,' I said. 'But where is the body?'
'Where's the body? Why, buried, in course,' said the woman.
'Buried? Who buried her?' I said.
'What a question, sure_lie_!' she said, and kept repeating the words
in order, as I saw, to give herself time to invent some story. Then a
look of cunning overspread her face, and she whimpered, 'Who _does_
bury folks in Primrose Court? The parish, to be sure.'
These words of the woman's showed that matters had taken exactly the
course I should have liked them to take. She would tell other
inquirers as she had told me, that her daughter had been buried by
the parish. No one would take the trouble, I thought, to inquire into
it, and the matter would end at once.
So I said to her, 'Oh, if the parish buried her, that's all right; no
one ever makes inquiries about people who are buried by the parish.'
This seemed to relieve the woman's mind vastly, and she said, 'In
course they don't. What's the use of askin' questions about people as
are buried by the parish?'
Not thinking that the time was quite ripe for cross-examining Mrs.
Gudgeon as to her real relations to the model, I left her, and that
same afternoon I took the model down to Hurstcote Manor, determining
to keep the matter a secret from everybody, as I intended to
discover, if possible, her identity.
I need scarcely remind you that although you told me some little of
the story of yourself and a young lady to whom you were deeply
attached, you were very reticent as to the cause of her dementia; and
your story ended with her disappearance in Wales. I, for my part, had
not the smallest doubt that she had fallen down a precipice and was
dead. Everything--especially the fact that you last saw her on the
brink of a precipice, running into a volume of mist--pointed to but
one conclusion. To have imagined for a moment that she and
Wilderspin's model, who had been discovered in the streets of London,
were the same, would have been, of course, impossible. Besides, you
had given me no description of her personal appearance, nor had you
said a word to me as to her style of beauty, which is undoubtedly
unique.
When I got the model fairly settled at Hurstcote her presence became
a delight to me such as it could hardly have been to any other man.
It is difficult for me to describe that delight, but I will try.
Do you by chance remember our talk about animals and the charm they
had for me, especially young animals? And do you remember my saying
that the most fascinating creature in the world would be a beautiful
young girl as unconscious as a child or a young animal; if such a
combination of charms were possible? Such a young girl as this it was
whom I was now seeing every day and all day. The charm she exercised
over me was no doubt partly owing to my own peculiar temperament--to
my own hatred of self-consciousness and to an innate shyness which
is apt to make me feel at times that people are watching me, when
they most likely are doing nothing of the kind.
And charming as she is now, restored to health and
consciousness--charming above most young ladies with her sweet
intelligence and most lovable nature--the inexpressible witchery I
have tried to describe has vanished, otherwise I don't know how I
should have borne what I now have brought myself to bear, parting
from her.
I seemed to have no time to think about prosecuting inquiries in
regard to her identity. I am afraid there was much selfishness in
this, but I have never pretended to be an unselfish man.
The one drop of bitterness in my cup of pleasure was the recurrence
of the terrible paroxysms to which she was subject.
I was alarmed to find that these became more and more frequent and
more and more severe. I felt at last that her system could not stand
the strain much longer, and that the end of her life was not far
distant.
It was in a very singular way that I came to know her name and also
her relations with you. In my original perplexity about finding a
model for my Zenelophon, I had bethought me of Sinfi Lovell, who,
with a friend of hers named Rhona Boswell, sat to Wilderspin, to your
cousin, and others. I had made inquiries about Sinfi, but had been
told that she was not now to be had, as she had abandoned London
altogether, and was settled in Wales.
One day, however, I was startled by seeing Sinfi walking across the
meadows along the footpath leading from the station.
She told me that she had quitted Wales for good, and had left you
there, and that on reaching London and calling at one of the studios
where she used to sit, she had been made aware of my inquiries after
her. As she had now determined to sit a good deal to painters, she
had gone to my studio in London. Being told there that I was at
Hurstcote Manor, where she had sat to me on several occasions, she
had taken the train and come down.
During our conversation the model passed through the garden gate and
walked towards the Spinney, and stood looking in a rapt way at the
sunset clouds and listening to the birds.
When Sinfi caught sight of her she stood as if petrified, and
exclaimed, 'Winnie Wynne! Then she ain't dead; the dukkeripen was
true; they'll be married arter all. Don't let her see me suddenly, it
might bring on fits.'
Miss Wynne, however, had observed neither Sinfi nor me, and we two
passed into the garden without any difficulty.
In the studio Sinfi sat down, and in a state of the deepest agitation
she told me much of the story, as far as she knew it, of yourself and
Miss Wynne, but I could see that she was not telling me all.
We were both perplexed as to what would be the best course of action
to take in regard to Miss Wynne--whether to let her see Sinfi or not,
for evidently she was getting worse, the paroxysms were getting more
frequent and more severe. They would come without any apparent
disturbing cause whatever. Now that I had to connect her you had lost
in Wales with the model, many things returned to me which I had
previously forgotten, things which you had told me in London. I had
quite lately learnt a good deal from Dr. Mivart, who formerly
practised near the town in which you lived, but who now lives in
London. He had been attending me for insomnia. While speculating as
to what would be best to do, it occurred to me that I would write to
Mivart, asking him to run down to me at Hurstcote Manor and consult
with me, because he had told me that he had given attention to cases
of hysteria. I did this, and persuaded Sinfi to remain and to keep
out of Miss Wynne's sight. Although Sinfi was still as splendid a
woman as ever, I noticed a change in her. Her animal spirits had
fled, and she had to me the appearance of a woman in trouble; but
what her trouble was I could not guess, and I cannot now guess.
Perhaps she had been jilted by some Gypsy swain.
When Dr. Mivart came he was much startled at recognising in Miss
Wynne his former patient of Raxton, whom he had attended on her first
seizure. He said that it would now be of no use for me to write to
you, as it was matter of common knowledge that you had gone to Japan.
If it had not been for this I should have written to you at once. He
took a very grave view of Miss Wynne's case, and said that her
nervous system must shortly succumb to the terrible seizures. Sinfi
Lovell was in the room at the time. I asked Dr. Mivart if there was
any possible means of saving her life.
'None,' he said, 'or rather there is one which is unavailable.'
'And what is that?' I asked.
'They have a way at the Salpêtrière Hospital of curing cases of acute
hysteria By transmitting the seizure to a healthy patient by means of
a powerful magnet. My friend Marini, of that hospital, has had
recently some extraordinary successes of this kind. Indeed, by a
strange coincidence, as I was travelling here this morning I chanced
to buy a _Daily Telegraph_, in which this paragraph struck my eye.'
Mivart then pointed out to me a letter from Paris in the _Daily
Telegraph_, giving an account of certain proceedings at the
Salpêtrière Hospital, and in the same paper there was a long leading
article upon the subject. The report of the experiments was to me so
amazing that at first I could not bring my mind to believe in it. As
you will, I am sure, feel some incredulity, I have cut out the
paragraph, and here it is pasted at the bottom of this page:--
'The chief French surgeons and medical professors have, for some
time, been carefully studying the effect of mesmerism on the female
patients of the Salpêtrière Hospital, and M. Marini, a clinical
surgeon of that establishment, has just effected a series of
experiments, the results of which would seem to open up a new field
for medical science. M. Marini tried to prove that certain hysterical
symptoms could be transferred by the aid of the magnet from one
patient to another. He took two subjects: one a dumb woman afflicted
with hysteria, and the other a female who was in a state of hypnotic
trance. A screen was placed between the two, and the hysterical woman
was then put under the influence of a strong magnet. After a few
moments she was rendered dumb, while speech was suddenly restored to
the other. Luckily for his healthier patients, however, their
borrowed pains and symptoms did not last long.'
And Mivart was able to give me some more extraordinary instances of
the transmission of hysterical seizures from one patient to
another--instances where permanent cures were effected. [Footnote]
Naturally I asked Mivart what befell the new victims of the seizures.
[Footnote: The transmissions here alluded to were mostly effected by
M. Babinski of the Salpêtrière. They excited great attention in
Paris.]
'That depends,' said Mivart, 'upon three circumstances--the acuteness
of the seizure, the strength of the recipient's nervous system, and
the kind of imagination she has. In all Marini's experiments the new
patient has quickly recovered, and the original patient has remained
entirely cured and often entirely unconscious that she has ever
suffered from the paroxysms at all.'
Mivart went on to say that the case of Miss Wynne was so severe a one
that if the new patient's imagination were very strong the risk to
her would be exceptionally great.
At the end of this discussion Mivart directed my attention to Sinfi
Lovell. She sat as though listening to some voice. Her head was bent
forward, her lips were parted, and her eyes were closed. Then I heard
her say in a loud whisper, 'Yis, mammy dear, little Sinfi's
a-listenin'. Yis, this is the way to make her dukkeripen come true,
and then mine can't. Yis, this is the very way. They shall meet again
by Knockers' Llyn, where I seed the Golden Hand, and arter that,
never shall little Sinfi go agin you, dear. And never no more shall
any one on 'em, Gorgio or Gorgie, bring their gries and their
beautiful livin'-waggins among tents o' ourn. Never no more shall
they jine our breed--never no more, never no more. And then my
dukkeripen _can't_ come true.'
Then, springing up, she said, 'I'll stand the risk anyhow. You may
pass the cuss on to me if you can.'
'The seizure has nothing to do with any curse,' said Mivart, 'but if
you think it has, you are the last person to whom it should be
transmitted.'
'Oh, never fear,' said Sinfi; 'Gorgio cuss can't touch Romany. But
if you find you can pass the cuss on to me, I'll stand the cuss all
the same.'
I always admired this noble girl very much, and I pointed out to her
the danger of the experiment to one of her temperament, but assured
her the superstition about the Gorgio curse was entirely an idle one.
'Danger or no danger,' she said, 'I'll chance it; I'll chance it.'
'It might be the death of you,' I said, 'if you believe that the
seizure is a curse.'
'Death!' she murmured, with a smile. 'It ain't death as is likely to
scare a Romany chi, 'specially if she happens to want to die;' and
then she said aloud, 'I tell you I mean to chance it, but I think my
dear old daddy ought to know about it. So if you'll jist write to him
at Gypsy Dell, by Rington, and ask him to come and see me here, I'm
right well sure he'll come and see me at wonst. He can't read the
letter hisself, of course, but the Scollard can, and so can Rhona
Boswell. One on 'em will read it to him, and I know he'll come at
wonst. I shouldn't like to run such a risk without my dear blessed
old daddy knowin' on it.'
It ended in Mivart's writing to Sinfi's father, and Panuel Lovell
turned up the next evening in a great state of alarm as to what he
was wanted for. Panuel's opposition to the scheme was so strong that
I refused to urge the point.
It was a very touching scene between him and Sinfi.
'You know what your mammy told you about you and the Gorgios,' said
he, with tears trickling down his cheeks. 'You know the dukkeripen
said as you wur to beware o' Gorgios, because a Gorgio would come to
the Kaulo Camloes as would break your heart.'
She looked at her father for a second, and then she broke into a
passion of tears, and threw herself upon the old man's neck, and I
_thought_ I heard her murmur, 'It's broke a'ready, daddy.' But I
really am not quite sure that she did not say the opposite of this.
I had no idea before how strong the family ties are between the
Gypsies. It seems to me that they are stronger than with us, and I
was really astonished that Sinfi could, in order to be of service to
two people of another race, resist the old Gypsy's appeal. She did,
however, and it was decided that at the next seizure the experiment
should be made, and Dr. Mivart telegraphed to London for his
assistant to bring one of Marini's magnets.
We had not long to wait, for the very next day, just as Mivart was
preparing to leave for London, Miss Wynne was seized by another
paroxysm. It was more severe than any previous one--so severe,
indeed, that it seemed to me that it must be the last.
It was with great reluctance that Mivart consented to use Sinfi as
the recipient of the seizure, because of her belief that it was the
result of a curse. However, he at last consented, and ordered two
couches to be placed side by side with a large magnet between them.
Then Miss Wynne was laid on one couch, and Sinfi Lovell on the other;
a screen was placed between the couches, and then the wonderful
effect of the magnetism began to show itself.
The transmission was entirely successful, and Miss Wynne awoke as
from a trance, and I saw as it were the beautiful eyes change as the
soul returned to them. She was no longer the fascinating child who
had become part of my life. She was another person, a stranger whose
acquaintance I had now to make, and whose friendship I had yet to
win. Indeed the change in the expression was so great that it was
really difficult to believe that the features were the same. This
was owing to the wonderful change in the eyes.
To Sinfi Lovell the seizure was transmitted in a way that was
positively uncanny--she passed into a paroxysm so severe that Mivart
was seriously alarmed for her. Her face assumed the same expression
of terror which I had seen on Miss Wynne's face, and she uttered the
cry, 'Father!' and then fell back into a state of rigidity.
'The transmission was just in time,' said Mivart; 'the other patient
would never have survived this.'
Strong as Sinfi Lovell was, the effect of the transmission upon her
nervous system was to me appalling. Indeed it was much greater,
Mivart said, than he was prepared for. Poor Panuel Lovell kept gazing
at us, and then said, 'It's cruel to let one woman kill herself for
another; but when her as kills herself is a Romany, and t'other a
Gorgie, it's what I calls a blazin' shame. She would do it, my poor
chavi would do it. "No harm can't come on it," says she, "because a
Gorgio cuss can't touch a Romany." An' now see what's come on it.'
Mivart would not hear of Sinfi's returning at present to the Gypsies,
as she required special treatment. Hence there was no course left
open to us but that of keeping her here attended by a nurse whom
Mivart sent. While the recurrent paroxysms were severe, Sinfi was to
be carefully kept apart from Miss Wynne until it should become quite
clear how much and how little Miss Wynne remembered of her past life.
Mivart, however, leaned to the opinion that nothing could recall to
her mind the catastrophe that caused the seizure. By an unforeseen
accident they met, and I was at first fearful of the consequences,
but soon found that Mivart's theory was right. No ill effects
whatever followed the meeting. Sinfi's transmitted paroxysms have
gradually become less acute and less frequent, and Miss Wynne has
been constantly with her and ministering to her; the affection
between them seems to have been of long standing, and very great.
I found that Miss Wynne remembered all her past life down to her
first seizure on Raxton sands, while everything that had since passed
was a blank. Since her recovery her presence here has seemed to shed
a richer sunlight over the old place, but of course she is no longer
the fairy child who before her cure fascinated me more than any other
living creature could have done.
Apart from her sweet companionship, she has been of great service to
me in my art. When I learnt who she was, I should not have dreamed of
asking her to sit to me as a model without having first taken your
views, and you were, as I understood, abroad; but she herself
generously volunteered to sit to me for a picture I had in my mind,
'The Spirit of Snowdon.' It was a failure, however, and I abandoned
it. Afterwards, knowing that I was at my wits' end for a model in the
painting I have been for a long time at work upon, 'Zenelophon,' she
again offered to sit to me. The result has been that the picture, now
near completion, is by far the best thing I have ever done.
I had noticed for some time that Sinfi's mind seemed to be running
upon some project. Neither Miss Wynne nor I could guess what it was.
But a few days ago she proposed that Miss Wynne and she should take a
trip to North Wales in order to revisit the places endeared to them
both by reminiscences of their childhood. Nothing seemed more natural
than this. And Sinfi's noble self-sacrifice for Miss Wynne had
entitled her to every consideration, and indeed every indulgence.
And yesterday they started for Wales. It was not till after they were
gone that I learnt from another newspaper paragraph that you did not
go to Japan, and are in Wales. And now I begin to suspect that
Sinfi's determination to go to Wales with Miss Wynne arose from her
having suddenly learnt that you are still there.
And now, my dear Alywin, having acted as a somewhat prosaic reporter
of these wonderful events, I should like to conclude my letter with a
word or two about what took place when I parted from you in the
streets of London. I saw then that your sufferings had been very
great, and since that time they must have been tenfold greater. And
now I rejoice to think that, of all the men in this world who have
ever loved, you, through this very suffering, have been the most
fortunate. As Job's faith was tried by Heaven, so has your love been
tried by the power which you call 'circumstance' and which Wilderspin
calls 'the spiritual world.' All that death has to teach the mind and
the heart of man you have learnt to the very full, and yet she you
love is restored to you, and will soon be in your arms. I, alas! have
long known that the tragedy of tragedies is the death of a beloved
mistress, or a beloved wife. I have long known that it is as the King
of Terrors that Death must needs come to any man who knows what the
word 'love' really means. I have never been a reader of philosophy,
but I understand that the philosophers of all countries have been
preaching for ages upon ages about resignation to Death--about the
final beneficence of Death--that 'reasonable moderator and equipoise
of justice,' as Sir Thomas Browne calls him. Equipoise of justice
indeed! He who can read with tolerance such words as these most have
known nothing of the true passion of love for a woman as you and I
understand it. The Elizabethans are full of this nonsense; but where
does Shakespeare, with all his immense philosophical power, ever show
this temper of acquiescence? All his impeachments of Death have the
deep ring of personal feeling--dramatist though he was. But, what I
am going to ask you is, How shall the modern materialist, who you
think is to dominate the Twentieth Century and all the centuries to
follow--how shall he confront Death when a beloved mistress is struck
down? When Moschus lamented that the mallow, the anise, and the
parsley had a fresh birth every year, whilst we men sleep in the
hollow earth a long, unbounded, never-waking sleep, he told us what
your modern materialist tells us, and he re-echoed the lamentation
which, long before Greece had a literature at all, had been heard
beneath Chaldean stars and along the mud-banks of the Nile. Your
bitter experience made you ask materialism, What comfort is there in
being told that death is the very nursery of new life, and that our
heirs are our very selves, if when you take leave of her who was and
is your world it is 'Vale, vale, in æternum vale'? The dogged
resolution with which at first you fought and strove for materialism
struck me greatly. It made you almost rude to me at our last meeting.
When I parted from you I should have been blind indeed had I failed
to notice how scornfully you repudiated my suggestion that you should
replace the amulet in the tomb from which it had been stolen. I did
not then know that the tomb was your father's. Had I known it my
suggestion would have been much more emphatic. I saw that you had
the greatest difficulty in refraining from laughing in my face when I
said to you that you would eventually replace it. Yes, you had great
difficulty in refraining from laughing. I did not take offence. I
felt sure that the cross was in some way connected with the young
lady you had lost in Wales, but I could not guess how. Had you told
me that the cross had been taken from your father's tomb I should no
doubt have connected it with the cry of 'Father' which had, I knew,
several times been uttered in Wilderspin's studio by the model in her
paroxysms, and I should have earlier done what I was destined to
do--I should earlier have brought you together. From sympathy that
sprang from a deep experience I knew you better than you knew
yourself. When I learnt from Sinfi Lovell that you had fulfilled
my prophecy I did not laugh. Tears rather than laughter would have
been more in my mood, for I realised the martyrdom you must have
suffered before you were impelled to do it. I knew how you must
have been driven by sorrow--driven against all the mental methods
and traditions of your life--into the arms of supernaturalism.
But you were simply doing what Hamlet would have done in such
circumstances--what Macbeth would have done, and what he would have
done who spoke to the human heart through their voices. All men, I
believe, have Macbeth's instinct for making 'assurance doubly sure,'
and I cannot imagine the man who, entangled as you were in a net of
conflicting evidence--the evidence of the spiritual and the
evidence of the natural world--would not, if the question were that
of averting a curse from acting on a beloved mistress, have done as
you did. That paralysis of Hamlet's will which followed when the
evidence of two worlds hung in equipoise before him, no one can
possibly understand better than I. For it was exactly similar to my
own condition on that never-to-be-forgotten night when she whom I
lost...
While the marvellous sight fell, or appeared to fall, upon my eyes,
my blood, like Hamlet's, became so masterful that my reason seemed
nothing but a blind and timorous guide. No sooner had the sweet
vision fled than my reason, like Hamlet's, rose and rejected it. It
was not until I became acquainted with the _rationale_ of sympathetic
manifestations--it was not till I learnt, by means of that
extraordinary book of your father's, which seems to have done its
part in turning friend Wilderspin's head, what is the supposed
method by which the spiritual world acts upon the material
world--acts by the aid of those same natural bonds which keep the
stars in their paths--that my blood and my reason became reconciled,
and a new light came to me. And I knew that this would be your case.
Yes, my dear Aylwin, I knew that when the issues of Life are greatly
beyond the common, and when our hearts are torn as yours has been
torn, and when our souls are on fire with a flame such as that which
I saw was consuming you, the awful possibilities of this universe--of
which we, civilised men or savage, know nothing--will come before us,
and tease our hearts with strange wild hopes, 'though all the
"proofs" of all the logicians should hold them up to scorn.'