O eyes of pale forget-me-not blue,
Wash’d more pale by a dreamy dew!
O red red lips, O dainty tresses,
O heart the breath of the world distresses!
O little lady, do they divine
That they have fathomed thee and thine?
Fools! let them fathom lire, and beat
Light in a mortar; ay, and heat
Soul in a crucible! Let them try
To conquer the light, and the wind, and the sky!
Darkly the secret faces lurk,
We know them least where most they work;
And here they meet to mix in thee,
For a strange and mystic entity,
Making of thy pale soul, in truth,
A life half trickery and half truth!
Ballads of St. Abe.
Moxmouth Crescent, Bays water, is one of those forlorn yet thickly
populated streets which lie under the immediate dominion of the great
Whiteley, of Westbourne Grove. The houses are adapted to limited means
and large families; and in front of them is an arid piece of railed-in
ground, where crude vegetable substances crawl up in the likeness of
trees and grass. The crescent is chiefly inhabited by lodging-house
and boarding-house keepers, City clerks, and widows who advertise for
persons ‘to share the comforts of a cheerful home,’ with late dinners
and carpet balls in the evening. It is shabby-genteel, impecunious, and
generally depressing.
To one of the dingiest houses in this dingy crescent, Professor
Mapleleafe, after his interview with our hero, cheerfully made his way.
He took the ’bus which runs along Marylebone Road to the Royal Oak,
and thence made his way on foot to the house door. In answer to his
knock the door was opened by a tall red-haired matron wearing a kitchen
apron over her black stuff dress. Her complexion was sandy and very
pale, her eyes were bold and almost fierce, her whole manner was
selfassertive and almost aggressive; but she greeted the Professor with
a familiar smile, as with a friendly nod he passed her by, hastening
upstairs to the first floor.
He opened a door and entered a large room furnished in faded crimson
velvet, with a dining-room sideboard at one end, cheap lithographs on
the walls, and mantelpiece ornamented with huge shells and figures in
common china.
The room was quite dark, save for the light of a small paraffin lamp
with pink shade; and on a sofa near the window the figure of a young
woman was reclining, drest in white muslin, and with one arm, naked
almost to the shoulder, dabbling in a small glass water tank, placed
upon a low seat, and containing several small water-lilies in full
bloom.
Anyone who had seen the photograph which the Professor had left behind
him in the clergyman’s house, would have recognised the original at a
glance. There was the same _petite_ almost child-like figure, the same
loose flowing golden hair, the same elfin-like but pretty face, the
same large, wild, lustrous eyes. But the face of the original was
older, sharper, and more care-worn than might have been guessed from the
picture. It was the face of a woman of about four-or five-and-twenty,
and though the lips were red and full-coloured, and the eyes full
of life and lightness, the complexion had the dulness of chronic
ill-health.
The hand which hung in the water, playing with the lily-leaves, was thin
and transparent, but the arm was white as snow and beautifully rounded.
The effect would have been perfectly poetic and ethereal, but it was
spoiled to some extent by the remains of a meal which stood on the table
close by--a tray covered with a soiled cloth, some greasy earthenware
plates, the remains of a mutton chop, potatoes and bread.
As the Professor entered, his sister looked up and greeted him by name.
‘You are late, Salem,’ she said with an unmistakeable American accent.
‘I was wondering what kept you.’
‘I’ll tell you,’ returned the Professor.
‘I’ve been having a talk with Mr. Ambrose Bradley, at his own house. I
gave him our lines of introduction. I’m real sorry to find that he’s as
ignorant as a redskin of the great science of solar biology, and the
way he received me was not reassuring--indeed, he almost showed me the
door.’
‘You’re used to that, Salem,’ said Eustasia with a curious smile.
‘Guess I am,’ returned the Professor dryly; ‘only I did calculate on
something different from a man of Bradley’s acquirements, I did indeed.
However, he’s just one of those men who believe in nothing by halves
or quarters, and if we can once win him over to an approval of our
fundamental propositions, he’ll be the most valuable of all recruits to
new causes--a hot convert.’
The woman sighed--a sigh so long, so weary, that it seemed to come from
the very depths of her being, and her expression grew more and more sad
and _ennuyée_, as she drew her slender fingers softly through the waters
of the tank.
‘Ain’t you well to-night, Eustasia?’ inquired the Professor, looking at
her with some concern.
‘As well as usual,’ was the reply. ‘Suppose European air don’t suit me;
I’ve never been quite myself since I came across to this country.’
Her voice was soft and musical enough, and just then, when a peculiar
wistful light filled the faces of both, it was quite possible to believe
them to be brother and sister. But in all other outward respects, they
were utterly unlike.
‘Tell me more about this young clergyman,’ she continued after a pause.
‘I am interested in him. The moment I saw him I said to myself he is the
very image of--of----
She paused without finishing the sentence, and looked meaningly at her
brother.
‘Of Ulysses E. Stedman, you mean?’ cried the Professor, holding up his
forefinger. ‘Eustasia, take care! You promised me never to think of him
any more, and I expect you to keep your word.’
‘But don’t you see the resemblance?’
‘Well, I dare say I do, for Ulysses was well-looking enough when he
wasn’t in liquor. Don’t talk about him, and don’t think about him! He’s
buried somewhere down Florida way, and I ain’t sorry on your account
neither.’
‘Killed! murdered! and so young!’ cried the girl with a cry so
startling, and so full of pain, that her brother looked aghast. As he
spoke, she drew her dripping right hand from the tank and placed it
wildly upon her forehead. The water-drops streamed down her face like
tears, while her whole countenance looked livid with pain.
‘Eustasia!’
‘I loved him, Salem! I loved him with all my soul!’
‘Well, I know you did,’ said the little man soothingly. ‘I warned you
against him, but you wouldn’t listen. Now that’s all over; and as for
Ulysses being murdered, he was killed in a free fight, he was, and he
only got what he’d given to many another. Don’t you take on, Eustasia!
If ever you marry, it will be a better man than he was.’
‘Marry?’ cried the girl with a bitter laugh. ‘Who’d marry _me?_ Who’d
ever look at such a thing as I am? Even he despised me, Salem, and
thought me a cheat and an impostor. Wherever we go, it’s the old story.
I hate the life; I hate myself. I’d rather be a beggar in the street
than what I am.’
‘Don’t underreckon yourself, Eustasia! Don’t underreckon your wonderful
gifts!’
‘What are my gifts worth?’ said Eustasia.
‘Can they bring _him_ back to me? Can they bring back those happy, happy
days we spent together? Haven’t I tried, and tried, and tried, to get a
glimpse of his face, to feel again the touch of his hand; and he never
comes--he will never come--never, never! I wish I was with him in the
grave, I do.’
Her grief was truly pitiable, yet there was something querulous and
ignoble in it too, which prevented it from catching the tone of true
sorrow. For the rest, the man whose memory awakened so much emotion
had been pretty much what the Professor described him to be--a handsome
scoundrel, with the manners of a gentleman and the tastes of a rowdy.
A professional gambler, he had been known as one of the most dangerous
adventurers in the Southern States, having betrayed more women, and
killed more men, than any person in his district. A random shot had at
last laid him low, to the great relief of the respectable portion of the
community.
The Professor eyed his sister thoughtfully, waiting till her emotion
had subsided. He had not long to wait. Either the emotion was shallow
itself, or Eustasia had extraordinary power of self-control. Her face
became comparatively untroubled, though it retained its peculiar pallor;
and reaching out her hand, she again touched the water and the lilies
swimming therein.
‘Salem!’ she said presently.
‘Yes, Eustasia.’
‘Tell me more about this Mr. Bradley. Is he married?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘Engaged to be married?’
‘I believe so. They say he is to marry
Miss Craik, the heiress, whom we saw in church to-day.’
Eustasia put no more questions; but curiously enough, began crooning to
herself, in a low voice, some wild air. Her eyes flashed and her face
became illuminated; and as she sang, she drew her limp hand to and fro
in the water, among the flowers, keeping time to the measure. All her
sorrow seemed to leave her, giving place to a dreamy pleasure. There was
something feline and almost forbidding in her manner. She looked like a
pythoness intoning oracles:
Dark eyes aswim with sibylline desire,
And vagrant locks of amber!
Her voice was clear though subdued, resembling, to some extent, the
purring of a cat.
‘What are you singing, Eustasia?’
‘“In lilac time when blue birds sing,” Salem.’
‘What a queer girl you are!’ cried the Professor, not without a certain
wondering admiration. ‘I declare I sometimes feel afraid of you. Anyone
could see with half an eye that we were brother and sister only on one
side of the family. Your mother was a remarkable woman, like yourself.
Father used to say sometimes he’d married a ghost-seer; and it might
have been, for she hailed from the Highlands of Scotland. At any rate,
you inherit her gift.’
Eustasia ceased her singing, and laughed again--this time with a low,
self satisfied gladness.
‘It’s all I do inherit, brother Salem,’ she said; adding, in a low
voice, as if to herself, ‘But it’s something, after all.’
‘Something!’ cried the Professor. ‘It’s a Divine privilege, that’s what
it is! To think that when you like you can close your eyes, see the
mystical coming and going of cosmic forces, and, as the sublime Bard
expresses it,
Penetrate where no human foot hath trod
Into the ever-quickening glories of God,
See star with star conjoin’d as soul with soul,
Swim onward to the dim mysterious goal,
Hear rapturous breathings of the Force which flows
From founts where the eternal godhead glows!
I envy you, Eustasia; I do, indeed.’
Eustasia laughed again, less pleasantly.
‘Guess you don’t believe all that. Sometimes I think myself that it’s
all nervous delusion.’
‘Nervous force you mean. Well, and what is nervous force but solar
being? What you see and hear is as real as--as real as--spiritual
photography. Talking of that, I gave Mr. Bradley one of your pictures,
taken under test conditions.’
‘You gave it him?’
‘Dropt it in his room, where he’s certain to find it.’
‘Why did you do that?’ demanded the girl almost sharply.
‘Why? Because, as I told you, I want to win him over. Such a man as
he is will be invaluable to us, here in England. He has the gift of
tongues, to begin with; and then he knows any number of influential and
wealthy people. What we want now, Eustasia, is money.’
‘We always have wanted it, as long as I can remember.’
‘I don’t mean what you mean,’ cried the Professor indignantly. ‘I mean
money to push the great cause, to propagate the new religion, to open up
more and more the arcanum of mystic biology. We want money, and we want
converts. If we can win Bradley over to our side, it won’t be a bad
beginning.’
‘Who is to win him over? I?’
‘Why, of course. You must see him, and when you do, I think it is as
good as done. Only mind this, Eustasia! Keep your head cool, and don’t
go spooning. You’re too susceptible, you are! If I hadn’t been by to
look after you, you’d have thrown yourself away a dozen times.’
Eustasia smiled and shook her head. Then, with a weary sigh, she arose.
‘I’ll go to bed now, Salem.’
‘Do--and get your beauty-sleep. You’ll want all your strength to-morrow.
We have a seance at seven, at the house of Mrs. Upton. Tyndall is
invited, and I calculate you’ll want to have all your wits about you.’
‘Good night!’
‘Good night,’ said the Professor, kissing her on the forehead; then,
with a quiet change from his glib, matter-of-fact manner to one of real
tenderness, he added, looking wistfully into her eyes, ‘Keep up your
spirits, Eustasia! We shan’t stay here long, and then we’ll go back to
America and take a long spell of rest.’ Eustasia sighed again, and then
glided from the room. She was so light and fragile that her feet seemed
to make no sound, and in her white floating drapery she seemed almost
like a ghost.
Left alone, the Professor sat down to the table, drew out a pencil and
number of letters, and began making notes in a large pocket-book.
Presently he paused thoughtfully, and looked at the door by which
Eustasia had retreated.
‘Poor girl!’ he muttered. ‘Her soul’s too big for her body, and that’s a
fact. I’m afraid she’ll decline like her mother, and die young.’