scarcely tell you, it will not be a light one--or would you prefer a
delay before you accompany me: a period of expiation, in some form I may
decide on, with a hope of a reduction in your punishment at the end?"
"A delay--a period of expiation, for God's sake!"
"You are certain you prefer it?"
"I implore it! I entreat it! For God's sake, grant me a respite!"
"Be it so."
II.
The soul that had been Sir Edward's sickened with disgust.
It was located in the body of a miserable cab-horse; one of the sorriest
hacks in the East End of London, and practically fit only for the
knacker, one would have said.
It was a life the human soul found inexpressibly hateful. If this were
expiation, it was in a purgatory indeed. But in a purgatory of filth and
of disgusting sensations, instead of in a torturing purgatory of fire.
To be lashed with the whip, and galled excruciatingly with the harness;
to have the bit between the teeth, or tugging at the jaws unmercifully;
and to have the blinkers ever blotting out the vision of the world: to
strain every sinew, and have the service accepted thanklessly; to be
tortured with discomfort, and to work absolutely without reward--it was
a life devoid of even the meanest compensations: loathsome, and in every
way abhorrent to thought.
The horses, and other animals he met in the streets, he might have
communicated with in some way or other, but his driver--a drunken,
quarrelsome fellow--was always tugging at the bit or brandishing the
whip; and if the poor animal even tried to turn his head, he was
belaboured as brutally as if he had swerved or fallen asleep.
There was no chance even of rubbing noses at the drinking-troughs, or of
laying his head on the neck of a companion at the stand. And whatever
might be taking place in the streets through which he was passing, he
was debarred from bestowing on it even the most casual attention.
His mental activity was ignored, or trampled on, with an indifference
that was never once relaxed or relieved.
His life was a horror unexampled in its profundity. The cruel debasement
and defilement of it penetrated so deeply that he repented bitterly of
the choice into which he had been betrayed. He would infinitely have
preferred suffering among his equals in hell.
A year of this life was as much as he could endure. One day he stumbled
across a tram-line, and, falling, broke his leg--hopelessly snapping
the tendon, and otherwise injuring himself--and he was carted off to the
knackers to receive his _coup de grace_.
A moment or two before he was killed, the eyes of the animal lighted up
with a strangely human expression--which was succeeded by a look of the
most unappeasable despair.
Evidently he had again seen the grey old man.
But the Visitor's communication to him remained unrevealed, and it was
probably torturing him still when he . . . died?
THE FIELDS OF AMARANTH.
"I SHALL seek the fields of amaranth," said the young man defiantly.
"And I shall find them," added he, turning tenderly to his mother. "And
when I have found them I will comeback for _you_, dear mother, and I
will take you with me that we may dwell there in peace."
"What do you know of peace, and why should you desire it?" asked the
father, with a certain cold contempt in his tone. "You have not yet
lived; and you have certainly not laboured. Rest is for those who have
laboured and grown weary. In that rest that you desire you would have
an empty mind for showman, and of its meagre entertainment you would
tire as speedily as a child. Live first, and watch the puppets of memory
play afterwards. The fields of amaranth will wait for you however long
you live."
But the young man insisted: "I want to find them _now_. And when I have
found them I will come for _you_, mother, dear; and we will return to
them together and be happy and at peace."
But the mother's eyes were troubled with an inexplicable expression. "It
were better that you should wait till I come to _you_," she answered
gently. "As come to you I surely shall--one day. But come not to fetch
me . . . if once you find the fields."
"I surely _shall_ come for you," cried the youth.
"No, no!" implored the mother.
But he smiled on her, and was gone.
It was a long journey, and a toilsome one, and the end of it the youth
could neither learn of nor anticipate.
The fields of amaranth? Yes: all had heard of them. But no one knew any
one who had ever found them. And, for themselves, they were content to
know these waited for them somewhere. They had ties--they had
businesses--they were content to live and wait.
"When I return from them, shall I give you tidings of them?" asked the
young man, earnestly.
"No, no!" They were vehement in their dissuasions that he should not:
finally even fleeing from him in terror at the thought.
And the young man mused perplexedly as he walked on. "Are there
_really_ fields of amaranth for those who can find them?" he asked of a
wrinkled, white-haired wayfarer. "Or is it merely a bait, a delusion,
and a lie?"
"Yes, surely, my son, these fields await us all: else life, at best,
were a sorry game for most of us. It is there we shall rest and reap our
reward."
"But no one seems eager to set out for them and discover them."
"No one?" quoth the old man, looking at him strangely: "there are many
ways of getting there: you have chosen only one. There are other roads,
and crowded ones: though you know nothing of them yet."
The young man brushed past him hot with disdain. He was merely an old
dotard: empty-minded like the rest.
The lures of the highway were many and formidable; but the young man
turned aside from them impatiently. "I am bound for the fields of
amaranth," cried he haughtily: "when I return I will taste these good
things you offer."
"Will he ever return?" whispered a girl to her mother.
She had looked with eyes of love on the daring young wayfarer; and a
vague regret shivered through her as he passed on.
"God only knows. But I doubt it," said the mother.
The girl hid her face in her apron and wept.
But the young man had not overheard the whisper, and with head held high
he pushed on along the road.
And here were the fields of amaranth at last! He could see them smiling
faintly on the other side of the valley. But they had a strangely vague
and unsubstantial look. One might almost have fancied he were looking at
a mirage.
And between the young wayfarer and the fields of amaranth the rugged
hillside sloped abruptly: its foot being shrouded in a dense white mist.
He could hear a river murmuring sullenly somewhere in the depths, but
the mist hid the waters and he could only hear their moan.
How far he had left the busy highway behind him! He would like to take
just one farewell glance at it. The fields beyond him seemed to waver
deceptively in his eyes. One glance at the highway, with its booths and
its faces, and his vigour, strangely waning, would surely be renewed.
But as he turned and saw the dear familiar highway, along which he had
trudged so many weary miles, his heart went out in a yearning towards
it, and he stretched out his arms to it, hungering for its life.
So mighty was the fascination it now exercised over him, that he began
to rush headlong down the hill towards it, eager to be once more
mingling in its throng, and to once more feel its hum in his ears.
At the foot of the hill he met the fair young girl whose eyes had
erstwhile followed him so wistfully, and he flung himself into her arms
sobbing violently.
"The life here--you--I cannot part with them!" he cried passionately.
And he shuddered: "If the wish had come too late!"
THE COMEDY OF A SOUL.
"YOU are quite sure you will never change? will never desert me, or be
untrue to me?"
"I am absolutely sure of it, my darling!" he answered resolutely. "Any
pledge my sweet one desires I will give her freely," added he, as he
again kissed her passionately on the mouth.
"Would you leave me your soul in pawn?" asked the maiden, smiling at him
bewitchingly with her deliciously red lips; her cheeks dimpling and her
brown eyes sparkling, and her heaving breasts but thinly hidden from his
gaze.
"Willingly! And be glad to leave it in my darling's custody!" And his
lips hovered caressingly around her just-disclosed shoulder.
"Very well, I will accept the pledge," said she.
He was beginning again to kiss her fondlingly.
"You are a man of honour, are you not?" asked she; showing her even
white teeth, and dimpling her rose-leaf cheeks temptingly.
"Certainly. I hope so."
"Then let me have your soul."
"But that would mean death for me! Do you desire me to die, my love?"
And a look of questioning wonder crept into his eyes.
"By no means! I have not been reared by a philosopher for nothing. This
crystal ball"--and she held out to him a tiny globe of crystal--"put
your lips to it and pawn your soul to its keeping. I will warrant you,
it will hold it as safely as I could."
He glanced at the tiny globe distrustfully.
"Are you afraid? Do you wish to withdraw from your word?"
"By no means."
"Then breathe against it, my love." And she held the crystal ball
temptingly towards him. "You can imagine it is my lips you are
touching," added she, with a light, coquettish laugh, leaning
provocatively close to him.
He took the crystal reluctantly, and breathed against it as she wished.
"Oh!" cried he suddenly, drawing back his lips.
She took the crystal globe from him and peered into it anxiously. Then
cried, in a tone of triumph, "Look! there it is."
He was aware of something cloudy--vague and light as smoke--floating, as
it were, in the core of the crystal. And suddenly he felt a sense of
want within himself.
She put the crystal in her bosom, and let it lie between her breasts.
"It is warm and pleasant there: you will never let it grow cold, will
you?"
"Never!" And she laughed; dimpling rosily in her mirth. "Now you can set
off on your journey," said the maiden.
"I have no wish now to leave your side," he whispered meekly.
"This rose, that I have been wearing, you were wishing for just now.
See! I toss it yonder! Fetch and keep it!" cried the maiden.
He ran after it; groping for it where it had fallen in the grass.
"Cuckoo! cuckoo!" sounded all around him. It was as if the wood had
suddenly grown vocal with cuckoos.
He turned his head quickly. The maiden had disappeared.
"Why did I trust my soul to her keeping?" he wailed drearily. "If she
should lose it; or mislay it; or should even let it grow cold! My love!
my love! my love!" he began calling.
"Cuckoo! cuckoo!" kept sounding across the grass.
He ran hither and hither: he followed the woodland paths feverishly.
At times he fancied he caught a glimpse of her vanishing garments; of
the sunlight glinting on her long gold tresses. Now he imagined he could
hear her laughter echoing among the tree-trunks: and anon he even
fancied he could hear her singing. But he pursued her down the long
green vistas in vain.
He sat down beneath a tree and clasped his hands drearily. "What a fool
I was to trust my soul to her!" he wailed.
And at that moment he was aware of a ragged pedlar coming along the
forest glades, and whistling as he came.
"Ho! young man! you look melancholy," quoth the pedlar. "What d'ye lack?
A philtre to make your sweetheart love you? Ribbons for a lady? A collar
for your hound?"
"I want a soul," said the young man, glancing at him hungrily.
"A common want!" quoth the pedlar, grinning broadly. "But here in my
pack I have souls in plenty. Dip in your hand and take one boldly!"
"I should like to choose. . . ."
"It is take it, or leave it. I allow no choice. I am offering you a
gift."
The pedlar laid his half-open pack on the grass.
"Dip in your hand and take one, if you will."
The young man dipped in his hand at a venture, and drew out one--the
soul of an ape.
"Not that! I will not have that!" cried he.
"Then you will have none," said the pedlar, dropping the soul in his
pack again. "If the great Soul Maker, who manufactures them by the
million, allows neither picking nor choosing, beyond the casual dip of
chance, do you think that a mere pedlar in souls, like myself, can do
business on a basis which _he_ has found unprofitable? Pooh, man, get
back your soul _if you can_, or else you may do without one, as far as I
am concerned." And off strolled the pedlar, whistling as he went.
The young man leaned his head dejectedly on his hand.
"How can I get back my soul?" he moaned.
"Why not live without one?" croaked a voice above his shoulder.
He looked up, and saw a sooty old raven peering down at him.
"Live without a soul! You'll never miss it," croaked the raven.
"Can I?" cried the young man: amazed, yet hopeful.
"_Can I?_" croaked the raven, mockingly echoing him. "_Can I?_ Of course
you can, young fool!"
"Then I will!" exclaimed the young man, starting to his feet.
"That's right," croaked the raven. "You're the right sort--_you_ are!"
"A capital idea that!" quoth the young man, cheerfully.
He looked up, but the raven had hopped away among the branches.
"Well, at any rate, his hint was well meant, and I'll follow it!" quoth
the young man, striding out boldly towards the houses which he could
just see glimmering beyond the edge of the wood.
* * * * *
"Ugh! How ugly and dirty it has become!" quoth the maiden, gazing in the
crystal at the soul which she had coveted and stolen. "I will throw it
away, it no longer amuses me!"
And she threw it from her into the mire of the city: and the wheels and
the feet rapidly buried it in the mud.
* * * * *
The grey-haired Bishop looked "so beautiful" in his coffin, that the
deaconesses and the dear good sisters longed to kiss him.
"None of 'em ever found out that you wanted a soul," croaked the raven,
who sat perched on the window-sill, blinking in the sunshine.
But there was no response to this: for how can a dead man talk?
THE END.
_Henderson & Spalding, Ltd., Marylebone Lane, London, W._
* * * * *
Transcriber's Notes:
Obvious punctuation errors repaired.
Page 46, "her" changed to "Her" to fit context (secured for Her)
Both hillside and hill-side were used in this book and were retained.
In the original text, each story began with the title on a page alone,
then a blank page, then the title was repeated at the start of the story
itself. These repeated titles were removed to avoid redundancy.
Text uses both Beloved and Beloved once.