Chapter II: Part 2

"'I promised not to speak to you for a week.' 'But good gracious!' she cried out, 'I also said I would not write, and now I have done both. Well, as it is done, it can't be helped. But mind you don't tell, or father would be angry, and you know it was all your fault.'

"'I did not know, dear, that you had promised,' I replied, 'and though I also said I would not see you during the same time, it seemed absurd to pass without speaking.'

"'Of course it's absurd, and father's no right to make us promise such foolish things. But I don't mind, for we need not say anything about it. Besides, as we have broken our promises it does not now matter what we do.'

"'But,' I said, 'will it be right to go on breaking them further?'

"'Oh! what is done can't be mended.' And as she said this she looked into my face with such a pathetic appeal that all ideas of right, wrong, honour and dishonour got hopelessly mixed. 'You don't really love me,' she continued, 'or you would not talk like that. You don't care how wretched I feel!'

"What could I do? Tears were coming into her eyes. Not a mile away, waiting in her path, stood one I hated. Could I let her go on distrusting my love, to meet possible treachery?

"I gave up the contest without a struggle.

"We turned from the footpath, and crossing a strip of heather, descended into a woody glen. Through this glen ran a merry bubbling stream, and the soft moisture which it left along its edges had encouraged the growth of deep soft moss to cover the otherwise barren stones. Choosing a pleasant nook thus carpeted on which the sun shone brightly, we sat and rested.

"A few birds were singing their farewell songs to Scotland before retreating to a warmer country. My companion's face was slightly flushed by the wind, and the colour seemed to give an additional depth to the blue eyes which looked shyly forth from between her dark lashes. Her fair hair, which was unusually soft and fine, had been blown by the wind into a waving network of shining confusion round her ears, and over her forehead. As she sat just above me, and I looked into her face, it seemed impossible for God to make, or man to picture, aught more fair or pure in earthly texture. Yet, so does my nature act and react, ever tumbling from the sublime to the ridiculous, that I had hardly realized the perfect human beauty before me when my mind began to drop down into one of its most annoying analytical moods, tearing, as it were, all soft and delicate covering from the face, and pointing mockingly to the hollow skull beneath, the framework alike of beauty and ugliness. Not that there is really anything ridiculous, or for the matter of that, frightful about a skull; the comic part of the situation lay in the fact that it was impossible for me vividly to realize this framework of the beauty I had a moment before worshipped, without a shudder. I refer to it now, because such sensations throw a valuable sidelight on love itself.

"It is to be presumed that when we love a person, we fancy that we love, not the body, not in fact the clothing of the individual, but the personality; that there is something therein which attracts and draws forth these sensations wholly apart from anything to do with simply animal passion. There are, of course, some who deny this, but to reason with such is, as said before, absolutely useless: to the purely animal nature all must necessarily appear animal. Such men and women are exceptions, yet though many are conscious of the strength of higher love, how few seem to try to solve the mystery surrounding it, or to draw a line between true and false sensations.

"For instance, here was I sitting at the feet of one who, as far as it was possible to judge, possessed nothing really attractive except most unusual physical beauty; one I judged to be lacking in will-power, to be untruthful and vain, to be possessed of little information and still less discernment. Yet, knowing all this, I loved her. You may think that I deceived myself, and that what I really experienced was simply animal fascination; but before my story is finished you will see that you have judged wrongly. The truth of the matter is this; pure love is no more drawn out by nobleness of character than it is by beauty of form, but by a far more subtle attraction for which as yet we have no name, and which reaches us through the medium of our imperfectly developed sixth sense. Whatever comes to us through the ordinary channels is merely passion or comradeship, though owing to our complex nature, the former usually accompanies true spiritual love and is hopelessly confused with it. This confusion has led to much misery and to many senseless social and so-called moral laws which are quite unsuited to the present condition of man's development, as they are nearly all founded on the theory of animal instincts alone.

"I am sorry to be obliged so frequently to break the thread of my narrative, but as I am about to deal with subjects which are outside the range of ordinary experience, it is absolutely necessary that from the commencement you should follow not only the course of events, but also the working of my mind. If I simply confine myself to the story, it might possibly interest you as the wild imagination of either a liar or a madman; on the other hand, should you have patience to hear me to the end, I hope to convince you that many things which seem incredible are only so as long as we stand outside the door of discovery. There is nothing more remarkable than the ease with which the public will swallow yesterday's miracle, if only scientists will give it a name.

"For instance, look at a recent case--the Telephone. What do the public understand about it? The electricians themselves have only discovered a method by which they can produce certain effects, and know nearly as little as the public of the servants they employ. Yet this miraculous transmission of sound, once baptized, is admitted forthwith without further questioning, into the circle of commonplace.

"You must not suppose that, though I have thus wandered from my subject, any of these ideas occurred to me after my encounter with the imaginary skull, for at that moment one of my companion's thoughts fortunately deranged my own, and gave me fresh subject for reflection.

"'_I like him in some ways better, but he is certainly not nearly so amusing._'

"'I am sorry you find me so dull,' I said, 'but looking at you has made me speechless through admiration. However, I want you to tell me what your father said about our engagement.'

"'Oh! only that I was too young to know my own mind, and that he wanted me to promise that I would not speak or write to you for a week. What nonsense! Too young to know my own mind, and I shall be eighteen next June!'

"After which remarks these thoughts followed; and as I was busy listening to them I remained silent.

"'_I wonder why father wished me not to say anything. Can it be to do with...? But I like Alan much better, and ... is not likely to make love to me, and of course I should not let him if he tried. Yet perhaps he may. I have a good mind to see if I can make him just for the fun of it, and when he does of course I will tell him I am engaged. It's rather nice to have people make love to one. That's the worst of being married, you can't have proposals afterwards, so it is only fair to get as many as you can before. Besides, then I could say that I might have been Lady ... if I had chosen._'

"Thought is quicker than speech, and probably the pause was hardly more than thirty seconds before she continued aloud--

"'Why are you not shooting to-day?'

"'I wanted to think about you,' I answered, 'and so went for a walk instead, and was lucky. But I met some one else on the moor, an acquaintance of mine, who, I find, is staying with you.'

"'Oh! Lord Vancome! So you know him. Where did you meet him?' Then silently, '_I wonder if he came out so as to walk back with me?_'

"'I met him wandering about, taking a prospective view of your father's shooting,' I answered vaguely. 'But tell me what you think of him?'

"'Oh! he seems very nice and interesting, but I feel somehow frightened of him.' Then, dropping her voice slightly--'Is he rather wicked?'

"'What makes you think so?' I asked, relieved to find that her woman's instinct was not at fault.

"'I do not know; I suppose it's the way he looks at one, or something.' Then her thought continued--'_Men are so foolish; they seem to fancy girls are perfect fools and don't know anything!_'

"I felt it was not fair to follow these reflections further. One gets hardened in time to seeing people's minds, as it were, naked, but at first some revelations tend to lower our views of human nature. It is not until we realize that our own unclothed sentiments would have a similar disenchanting effect upon others that we grow more charitable. If you wish fully to understand my meaning, try next time you are in mixed society to fancy that not only your words, but also your thoughts are audible to those around, and see if under such circumstances you would care to meet any of those people again.

"I, therefore, not wishing to be disenchanted, here disturbed her reflections with a kiss, and this action of mine started the usual train of sentimental talk which is about as varied and interesting as the soft, gentle, and monotonous sounds which the wood-pigeons make in spring-time. Happy birds, to whom comes no questioning voice to break their peace; who are conscious of no notes of absurdity mingling with their monotonous strains, and who wake from each short spring-time of love without remorse or disenchantment! Surely some men and women seem more naturally fitted for such brief experiences than for the prolonged and deeper sentiments of life-long devotion.

"'Life is too short,' cry such in the moment of awakened joy, for at that moment eternity touches them. Yet how few natures have risen sufficiently far above their transitory and animal instincts to remain long in this spirit of self-negation. The first breath of egoism disturbs it; passion degrades it; and before a year of the wished-for eternity is expired, how many may be found secretly regarding the one sane emotion of their lives as an experience of temporary, and yet conventional madness.

"Yet we have no right to blame them so long as they live up to the best instinct they possess, for growth is slow, and if we carry as yet more beast in our body than angel in our spirit, the beast will have its way. Growth or deterioration (for which alone we are responsible) depends upon the rule we welcome, and to which side our will, consciously or unconsciously, inclines us.

"During one of the pauses, as Vera and I sat together, I became conscious of a new and remarkable clearness of mental vision such as I had never before experienced (though I have spoken to a man temporarily insane who graphically described similar sensations of increased mental sight). It was as though from the normal condition of observing all subjects through the medium of frosted glass, some power had for the time removed the obstruction, enabling me to see every object in the clear light of day. In this condition I fully realized the weakness of Vera's character, and the misery that must necessarily follow. I also felt that whether we married or did not marry, I, having once loved, could only break this bond by selfishness. Then came this question, Was I prepared to suffer all things for her sake?--for if not, it was far better to cut my bonds at once. I looked at her, and a feeling of intense pity filled my heart.

"'Poor little child!' I thought. 'God alone can see all the nightmare of misery your nature must pass through before it comes forth in the light of His pure love!' Then a voice seemed to whisper in my ear, 'Think of your own life. If you take up this burden you will be dragged into the darkness; your nature will be lowered, your power for good destroyed.' Then again I looked at the girl, and as I did so my spirit cried and said, 'Even though I should be damned to walk for ever in darkness, though God's light be hidden from me, yet will I never cut this bond till we stand together before the face of our Father.' And it seemed to me that there were many voices chanting softly, 'Amen.'

"Whilst listening to the sound an overpowering gloom settled upon me. I remembered nothing more distinctly, though through the darkness many indistinct pictures flashed before me and vanished ere they were printed on my mind. At last I heard voices speaking, and opening my eyes, saw Vera and Vancome bending over me. As far as I know, this was the first time that I had fallen into a trance, or as doctors would call it, a state of catalepsy.

"It appears that Vera, finding me insensible, had rushed out of the glen, and seeing Vancome in the distance, had called to him for assistance. They both appeared to think that I had fainted, and I did not wish to undeceive them.

"But it is getting late, and as I have now reached the point in my story which makes it necessary to explain an important discovery to which I was led by this trance condition, it will be better to stop for this evening."

"But," I interrupted, "before I go you will show me the other rooms you spoke of."

"Not to-night," he replied, "for there are many things in them which still require explanations for which at present you are hardly prepared. But the next time we meet I hope to take you into one of them. When I began this evening, I had no intention of going so fully into the details of my story, but noticing that the method unconsciously adopted did not weary you, it seemed better to give my experiences in the order in which they occurred. This plan has led, and will probably still lead, me to describe many so-called trivial reminiscences; but as a matter of fact, nothing is trivial, and by striving to confine ourselves to more important subjects, we often miss the tiny thread which might, if followed, have led to some great discovery. When, however, I continue my story, I hope to make it more interesting by illustrations."

As he said this he took both my hands. In a moment I was plunged in darkness; the room, my companion, everything had vanished; but as I still strained my eyes a faint revolving spark of light became visible. This light increased until I found that I was in the presence of a young girl, whom I had little difficulty in recognizing as the Vera of my friend's story. She was standing in a listening attitude, as though some one had called her, and was evidently unconscious of my presence. As I lay watching she turned her face toward me. I shall never forget the revelation of beauty and weakness depicted there; but more quickly than the vision came it vanished, and I heard my host say--

"Good-night. Come again at the same time as soon as ever you feel inclined."

Then I heard the door close, and found myself standing in the cool evening air outside Alan Sydney's house.

When I got back to my room I was too excited to sleep. Was there, after all, some incomprehensible meaning in life, a possibility of solving the mystery of existence? I sat for some time thinking; then taking my pen, began to write, and as I wrote it seemed that already my mind was under the influence of a new power, for each sentence Sydney had used came back to me without effort of memory, as if I were writing from some inaudible dictation.

*CHAPTER III*

I felt annoyed the next morning to remember that I had accepted an invitation to dine out that evening, and it would be therefore necessary to postpone seeing Sydney until the following day. I was so interested in what I had heard and seen that it hardly occurred to me to delay my next visit longer than necessary, for he who evidently could read my thoughts would not expect me to restrain my impatience with any feeling of consideration for conventionalities.

My entertainment this evening was likely to be a stimulating contrast to that of the previous night. Transon Hall, where I was to dine, may be considered the centre of our circle of social exclusiveness. Into this ring those who moved in inferior orbits at times penetrated, and at times were excluded.

Sir James Folker, Baronet, M.P., J.P., M.F.H., etc., comes of one of the oldest families in this semi-suburban part of Surrey; in fact, his father lived here before him. Of course, in saying this I refer only to the wealthy part of the community. We have plenty of small squires and farmers whose ancestors have lived here for centuries, but as their present representatives are nearly all too poor to entertain, such impecunious hereditary grandeur is appreciated chiefly by their respective families. Sir James is, however, a thoroughly good fellow, well informed, of kindly disposition, and a true sportsman. If he is a trifle overbearing, it is owing chiefly to education. His father was a self-made man, and necessarily had a very exalted appreciation of the dignity attaching to wealth and title. Even a snob, if snobbishness is linked with every association of childhood, may be at heart a gentleman. Life is not long enough to polish off the ugly advertisements which were engraved upon him in youth.

I arrived at the house rather late, and you may fancy my surprise on looking round the room to see Alan Sydney busily engaged in talking to one of the guests.

"Well," I said, as soon as an opportunity occurred of speaking to him, "suppose I had turned up at your house to-night?"

"If I had not known you were coming here," he replied, "I should have warned you; but I quite expect to see you to-morrow. As you know, I am not often away from home, but there is a reason for my being here to-night."

At this moment we were disturbed by the general shuffle which takes place at the announcement of dinner, and I found myself escorting a stranger into the dining-room, who had just been introduced to me as Miss Augusta Smith. My companion was neither young nor pretty, but I noticed with relief that she had a bright and interesting face. We sat exactly opposite Sydney, who had on his right Miss Folker, a good-looking girl of about twenty-one, devoted to sport, and on his left Lady Todman, a most energetic widow, whose object in life was to reform the world by means of teetotalism.

Everything tended to my friend having a somewhat dull time of it, though I noticed a look in his eyes which showed me he was in one of his more lively moods. Lady Todman is not a woman of tact. If all around you are drinking wine, it seems to me hardly good taste to begin a sermon on the eleventh commandment, "Thou shalt not drink." But there are some women whose consciences constrain them, and she was one of these.

"Don't you think," she said in a rather loud, penetrating voice, turning to Sydney, as the butler was pouring some sherry into his glass, "that drinking is the cause of much evil?"

Her companion tasted the sherry thoughtfully before he answered. "Certainly, if the wine is not good. But let me assure you this wine is very dry; you need have no fear of any ill effects from drinking it."

"Oh! I don't mean that," she replied; "I mean that nearly every crime that is committed can be directly or indirectly traced to the use of alcohol."

"You surprise me," he said. "Are you fond of travelling?"

"I don't now travel," she answered, evidently offended at what seemed an obvious attempt to turn the conversation. "I find sufficient work near at hand which my conscience will not allow me to neglect, and therefore leave these pleasures for others."

"Let me urge you to go to Constantinople," said Sydney; "it is the best place in which thoroughly to study the temperance question. Degradation and misery have there reached such a perfection without the aid of drink that after a month of such experience I can almost fancy any one weeping tears of joy at the sight of an honest drunkard."

Seeing Lady Todman turning away in evident disgust, and wishing to know what my friend really thought on the matter, I asked whether the Turks might not possibly be even worse if they added to their other sins the vice of intemperance.

"Drink," he replied, "does not alter a man's character; it simply exposes it. That crime is generally associated with drunkenness is true, but that it causes it is unusual, and it is frequently a deterrent. The weakness in a man is sure to find vent through some channel, and I would rather not picture some of the crimes that our drunkards would probably have committed had not the absorption of this attraction turned their thoughts in another direction. Among weak natures and deformed characters we should expect to find both drunkards and criminals of all kinds."

"I quite agree with you," said Miss Folker. "I don't believe that it is any use trying to make people sober; our best whips always drink, don't they, father? And nothing you could do would ever stop them."

Our host seemed to think this was an unfortunate remark, for I noticed him glance at the butler as he replied, "If they do they soon have to go, I know that."

"You misunderstand me," Sydney said, turning to Miss Folker. "I believe there is great use in trying to make people sober, for weakness of any kind encouraged leads to disease; but one does little service to the cause of truth by telling lies."

"What would you do, then?" broke in Miss Smith, who had been listening intently.

"With the habitual drunkard," replied Sydney, "there is only at present one course open. He should be placed under restraint as a temporary lunatic, which he is. But drunkenness is a mere stage in the growth of mankind, and can only work itself out through the lessons of experience. To try to prohibit drink is to hinder progress; to say that there is more drunkenness now than formerly, is simply to say that the greater part of our race is considered strong enough to face the temptation. Give a savage as much spirit as he cares for, and he will kill himself in a few months. Our forefathers, in much the same way, though with more caution, used to lie nightly under the dinner-table; but now, among those classes which can afford to drink as much as they like, only persons with hereditary tendencies, or those who are unusually weak go to this extreme either in private or public. They have partially learned their lesson. Among the more ignorant there would be ten times the drunkenness if their wages allowed it. If you consider a man, though he starves his wife and children, cannot afford to get hopelessly drunk more than about twice a week; and this is one of the reasons why the poor have taken longer to learn by experience this lesson. But they, too, are slowly improving under increased temptations."

"Well, Sydney," said our host, "you are the most extraordinary man. You always seem to take a view of things from a reversed position."

"It is an excellent plan," Sydney replied, laughing, "now and then to stand on your head; in that position you see the world from quite a new aspect, for instead of your eyes being turned naturally to the earth with only an occasional glimpse of the heavens above, your view for the time is altered. It does not, however, do to keep in that attitude too long, or the blood will flow to your brain."

"But," asked Miss Smith, "do you not think that such doctrines might be very dangerous?"

"All truth is dangerous to those who wish for an excuse for weakness," he replied. "But there are many at the present time who want a little light thrown on the subject; for the man who does any action, however right in itself, feeling that thereby he may be throwing his influence on the side of selfishness, must therein be damned. Alcohol is probably one of our greatest gifts if rightly used, and being so, must of necessity be a frightful curse if abused."

"Gift indeed!" sniffed Lady Todman, "when every doctor will tell you it has no feeding property."

"That is quite true," Sydney continued. "It is not a food, and therein lies its great charm for an age when people eat far too much for the sedentary lives they live; but it prevents the waste of tissue, and enables man to keep in health without half his time and two-thirds of his energy being exhausted in the process of digestion. It is, however, a so-called poison, and must be treated as such; but the poisons of to-day will probably become the nutriment of the future. On the other hand, sugar, a splendid food for savages and labourers, is little better than a slow poison to those who neglect exercise. Some day we shall have a new commandment--'Thou shalt not take sweet things.' Considering the misery brought about in families through dyspepsia, I have a good mind to try and start a new order of lemontotallers at once.

"If, however, you want a temperance sermon, you must go to the drunkard, and as an antidote to what I have said, if you care to hear it, I will tell you a story of a friend of mine who is now dead. He was a young man of great ability, who had passed through the University, carrying off some of its most coveted prizes. For some years having heard nothing of him, I decided to look him up. I knew that he had been ordained, and, retaining his fellowship, had accepted a quiet living in the country, intending to spend his spare time in literary work. It had surprised me that since then I had heard nothing from him, nor had any book of his been published. I found him a hopeless wreck, and this, in a few words, is what he told me.

"He had come down to the country for the purpose of having leisure to study and write. For some time all went well. He had been brought up not to take wine, and was one of the few teetotallers of his College. His father had died from drink when Hamlin was a boy, and his mother had done all in her power to keep her child from following in the same course. 'I never,' he said, 'touched drink till I was ordained. My curacy was in the West End of London, and as the time drew near for me to preach my first sermon, I became hopelessly nervous, feeling that I should break down, or losing all self-control, behave like a lunatic. The thought horrified me. As I went over my sermon in private, my hand shook so that I could not read the words. In despair I tried a remedy many University men resort to when they have to read the lessons in chapel. I took a small dose of brandy and tried the effect. It was only about a tablespoonful, yet the result was miraculous. In a few minutes I felt capable of preaching in St. Paul's. On the following Sunday, having provided myself with a flask, I took a double dose in the vestry before the sermon, and the result was equally successful. From that day to this I have never preached without the aid of a stimulant.'

"For some time he confined his abuse of alcohol to this purpose, but before he came into the country the habit had grown, and he took spirits every evening, though not in large quantities. On being appointed rector to a small parish, the loneliness of his life added to his temptation.

"'I knew I was damned,' he said, 'but was helpless. Week by week, as I got less effect from the usual amount, I increased it. At last I began to feel the result. My interest in my work died down; the services in the church became a hollow and hateful mockery. I felt languid, and disinclined to take exercise, whilst my thoughts now always ran in one direction, to the moment when again I could drink--drink and be happy--feel the blood course freely through my veins, and my brain wake from its now normal condition of torpor; for you must understand that I never drank to what is called excess, that is to say, was never obviously the worse for drink. One night, after having been sleeping soundly for some hours, I woke oppressed with a feeling of nameless horror. The perspiration poured down me, and yet I shivered; then it seemed as if the very fiends of hell were tearing at my soul, mocking me, shouting my ordination vows into my ears, bidding me look at the damned souls in torture whom I had promised to watch over here, and had neglected. Thus I lay for an hour in anguish unspeakable, and at last got up, dressed, and went out into the cool night air. As I began to feel better I vowed to God never again to touch a drop of alcohol.

"'On the following morning it seemed that, after all, the whole state of my mind had been exaggerated, and was only probably due to indigestion. I, however, kept my vow for a few days and became a wreck. Sunday was drawing near. What should I do? I began my sermon after taking an unusually large dose, and preached contentedly from a passage chosen to strengthen my resolution during the night of misery--"Thy vows, O God, are upon me." Only once since,' he concluded in a whisper, 'have I made a vow, and that was after the first week spent with the real visible fiends in hell, when the doctor came and found that the minister whom all respected was suffering from _delirium tremens_!'"

There was a pause, and Lady Todman, who had been listening intently to the story, which she evidently intended to retail with a little extra colour at her next temperance meeting, asked what was the poor fellow's end.

"I am glad to say," Sydney replied, "that the day after I left he gathered up what little power was left him, and seeing that his life was hopeless, faced death bravely."

"I hope he was truly penitent before the end," said Lady Todman.

"I think he showed that conclusively," replied Sydney, "when he shot himself."

There was a moment's silence; and then, before anyone could continue the subject, which had become depressing, he turned the drift of talk quite naturally into a new channel, and was very soon keeping most of the party laughing over some comical experiences in the hunting-field. Though he made himself the hero for his own satire, we all knew him well enough to be sure that he was speaking from observation, and not personal experience.

"Well," I said, when the ladies had left us, and I had taken the opportunity to move over next to him, "was it the temperance question which brought you here to-night?"

"No," he replied, "it was not that; but a little private matter, which I hope to be able to accomplish later on."

The conversation then became general, as is usually the case under the friendly influence of tobacco.

We found only two ladies waiting for our arrival in the larger drawing-room, the others had gone into a dimly-lighted and smaller apartment adjoining. Lady Todman informed us, with a look of disgust, that the others were tempting the devil to rap on a circular table, from which we gathered that our hostess was indulging in her favourite occupation of playing at spiritualism.

"You don't seem to approve of spiritualism, Lady Todman," I remarked, rather hoping to draw Sydney into discussion with her on the subject.

"I certainly don't," she replied. "I consider it not only a great waste of time, but also wicked."

"I am glad to find," said Sydney, "that in this case we can agree if I may use the word dangerous instead of wicked, which is much the same thing."

"But why dangerous?" asked Miss Smith, who was the other lady present. "It is nothing but rubbish, and I don't see that people can do much harm by unconsciously pushing a table about, and we cannot fancy that any one would rap on purpose."

"Have you ever been present at one of these gatherings?" he replied. And being answered in the negative, continued, "Is it wise to judge without experience? There may be more than you fancy even in so apparently childish a performance as table-turning."

Whilst he spoke we were roused by low, yet excited voices in the next room, and he went toward the drawn curtains and quietly passed through, followed by Miss Smith and myself.

The light was dim, and at first I had some difficulty in seeing anything; but as my eyes became more accustomed to the gloom, I noticed six ladies sitting round a table with their hands joined. One of these, a girl of about twenty, was lying back in her chair apparently unconscious, although her eyes were open. The others were watching her with expressions either of alarm or interest.

"What shall we do?" said Lady Folker in a whisper; "she has gone off, and I know that in my book it says if any one goes into a trance one ought to be most careful unless an experienced spiritualist is with you."

"If," said Sydney, "you would care to follow my instructions, we might see something interesting without doing the young lady any further harm. I once had a good deal of experience in these matters."

"Oh! how delightful!" said Miss Folker. "Tell us what we ought to do, and let us see a real live ghost; that would be lovely!"

The instructions were quickly carried out; the insensible girl being laid on a couch. All the rest were asked to go into the drawing-room, and the curtains were then again drawn between the two rooms. After some protest from the remainder of our party, including Lady Todman and the men who had so far taken no part in the performance, the lights were put out, and Alan Sydney brought a small shaded pink lamp from the inner room, where the girl still lay unconscious, and placed it in our midst. Hardly had he done this before the curtains were drawn quickly apart by some invisible means, and we could see into the inner room.

Miss Halcome still lay on the couch, apparently sleeping, but with her face turned from us. A soft light was falling upon her from above; as we watched, the light appeared to take, as it were, form, till we recognized that a woman clothed in white stood leaning over the girl. Then the woman, taking one of the girl's white hands, raised her up and led her into the centre of the inner room.

Miss Halcome moved at first as though walking in her sleep, with eyes open, yet apparently unseeing. When they thus reached the centre, the figure of the woman again began to fade till the girl stood alone before us, still with that strange light falling upon her. She made a beautiful picture, being one of those who possess a physical and purely sensuous loveliness, which appeals especially to men of lower type. Her hair and eyes were brown; her complexion clear, though rather dark; her lips were full, prettily shaped, and of deep colour; as a rule her cheeks carried, for my liking, too deep a rose tint, but they were now more pale than usual.

As she stood there she lifted her arms towards us, and began to sing. Her voice I had always considered to be her chief attraction, for not only was it rich and tuneful, but unusually well trained. I had not heard either song or tune before.

"Come to me, dearest, with a love
Eternal, strong as death;
Love that but lasts a transient life,
And fades with fading breath,

Can bring to this sad heart no joy,
No ecstasy divine;
Eternity is far too brief
To fill this heart of mine.

Though I should change, as all must change.
My soul shall ever be,
In youth or age, the soul you love
Through all eternity.

The beauty now that charms your eye,
This youthful form so fair,
Shall alter with each passing year.
Is it for these you care?

Go! face the truth! If all the grace
That earth alone can give,
Were turned from one you think you love,
What of that love would live?

A little space--say fifty years,
Or only five, may be,
And all that now you prize so much
Shall change to what you see.'"

The last few lines of the song almost died away, for at the commencement of the last stanza a most extraordinary change began to take place in the singer. The only way in which I can describe it is to compare her to a waxen image that was being melted rapidly by the strong light falling from above. Everything seemed to slip away downward and disappear, except the skeleton, which stood with hollow eye-sockets and moving jaw chattering out the last few words. There was a frightful shriek, and at the same moment the curtains fell together.

We were all, Sydney excepted, far too horrified to move. He, however, got up immediately and drew back the curtains. The room was just as we had left it; Miss Halcome still lay on the sofa in exactly the attitude he had placed her. Lady Todman was the first to speak.

"Just as I said, tempting the devil! And a nice fright he has given us all. Not that I was frightened. I just shut my eyes and said my prayers."

The poor old woman was simply shivering as she spoke, and we must therefore excuse her, for it is possible she did not know what she was saying.

"If any one wishes to talk about what we have seen," remarked Sydney, "he should do so at once, before we bring Miss Halcome out of her trance, as I am sure every one will agree with me that nothing of what has occurred should be mentioned in her presence."

"Oh! for goodness' sake!" cried Lady Todman, whose chattering teeth reminded me of the skeleton, "let's wake her up at once, or we shall be having I don't know what next! It is quite sinful, it really is!"

As no one seemed inclined to do more than utter a few disjointed words such as "Awful!" "Most remarkable!" etc., Sydney struck a match, and lighting a powerful lamp held it in front of the girl's eyes.

At this she sneezed twice, and then sitting up said--

"What's the matter? Why did you all leave the table?"

Her companion, holding the lamp still near her eyes, then told her that as she had gone into a trance the others had left the room, but he mentioned nothing of any further experiences; and she, seeming none the worse in any way, followed him into the outer room.

While looking round on the faces present I noticed that of a young man who was a stranger to me. As the girl came forward a look of terror passed over his features such as I had never seen before, and hope never to see again. There was still more mystery, apparently, behind even the late mysterious performance, and I began to wonder whether my friend's motive for coming might not have something to do with the terrified face before me.

Shortly after this, to every one's relief, the carriages began to be announced. I asked Sydney if he were driving, and finding that he was not, offered to take him with me.

"No," he replied, "let us both walk. I get too little exercise as it is, and cannot afford to miss an opportunity."

I agreed, and sending the coachman home, we started together.

There is no time like night for walking, and as the south-west wind blew softly against us, I felt as though it would have been pleasant to spend hours in the open air. There was much that I wanted to say, but for a few moments the delight of quiet night kept us both from speaking. At last I broke the silence.

"Well, that was the most extraordinary experience," I remarked; "can you throw any light upon it? Talk about the days of miracles being over!"

"The days of so-called miracles will never be over," replied my friend, "till all have equal knowledge. A miracle is but a natural law, of which most persons have hitherto been ignorant, brought into play at length by one who is better informed than the majority."

"But you had nothing to do with the manifestation of to-night, had you?" I asked.

"It was all my doing, with the exception of the first act, and even that was ruled by my influence; but I will explain it to you, as by doing so I shall save trouble later on. I told you that I had come to-night for a reason, and that my object was an important one you may judge by my using a power in public which I have seldom cared to exercise. No one, however, suspects that I had anything to do with what happened beyond being able to give them a little information; all the credit or discredit will be with the performers at the table. Let me first explain what I did, and then give you an idea of my motive.

"Before the ladies left us I exercised my will on Lady Folker and two others to try table-turning that evening. It is a slightly dangerous amusement that has recently revived; and is nothing else but a convenient form of semi-mesmerism caused by the joining of hands. If, which is unusual, no one tries to cheat or to fool the others present, the persons will soon feel a tingling sensation in their arms and hands, and lastly through their whole bodies; when the balance of will is fairly even, nothing may happen for some time, but at last one will-force must predominate the others, and quite unconsciously that power influences all the rest, so that every hand moves by the order of a semi-dormant will. Hence the moving and tilting of the table, the message received, etc. Sometimes the motive-will, being partially entranced, becomes a medium for the transmission of thoughts passing through the mind of some absent friend, for under certain conditions thought can be transferred, even as the sound of the voice through a telephone; but this is too lengthy a matter to go into now.

"As a rule, however, one of the party being more susceptible than the others, will before long become unconscious, or completely mesmerized. This is, as you know, what happened to-night, and in this condition the predominant will, whether the owner thereof be absent or present, gains complete control, speaking through his or her voice, and in fact acting the part of hypnotizer on a patient. Sometimes one of the party present, and then another, will so act on the medium, and each one be unconscious of doing so."

"I begin to see now," I said, "what happened. Your will acted on the girl, and you made her do just what you wished. But how about the skeleton?"

"You are mistaken," my friend answered, "and you forget about the curtains going back of their own accord. I adopted a simpler method, and one less harmful to the girl. Those at the table mesmerized her, but I mesmerized all the others present; from the time the curtains had been drawn till I myself threw them back not a single thing took place, and the room was in silence with the exception of the shriek of horror when I relaxed my power, and you saw, as you thought, the curtains fall together."

"Do you mean to say that the girl had nothing to do with it, and that she never moved?"

"She never stirred so much as a finger, but her condition assisted me in a way that you will understand better when I explain the laws which govern the transmission of will-force, for in her state what power she possessed was added to my own."

"And you mean to say that during all this time we were staring like a pack of fools at a blank curtain?" I demanded.

"I should hardly put it in that way myself," he replied. "It is true that that is what your bodily eyes were doing to all appearances, but your minds had a most impressive scene in front of them, which though it reached them from a different channel than the eye, was none the less vivid."

"But how did you convey the impression?" I asked.

"That," he replied, "requires what I fortunately possess, a vivid imagination, and it was only necessary for me to call up the visions for them to pass also before you; but it is exhausting work, as you will find some day if you try it, for the mind must never wander for a moment, and few people have learnt the art of perfect self-concentration. It is also necessary that for the time being the operator should be in a half-entranced state, or the pictures would be meagre and unreal. This condition, which for the sake of convenience may be called day-dreaming, requires much practice, but it is nevertheless fairly easy to learn. I will before long show you the method of acquiring the habit, so that you can judge for yourself of its use."

"And now," I asked, "what was your motive for giving us such a terrible experience? You succeeded in giving one young man, whose name I don't know, such a scare that he will be some weeks before he gets over the effects."

"I pray that he may never get over them," said Sydney. "If he should, my work has failed. His name is William Jackson, and he is the only son of the late Sir John Jackson. You may have heard of the father, as he was fifteen years ago one of the most notorious and wealthy rakes in London; in other words, having made a god of self, he had become a fiend to others. Thus, as we carry our circumference with us, he raged at the hell he created, whilst increasing its torments. It is only when we fully realize the damnation of such lives that our hatred turns to pity. Some whom I have known had good cause to hate his memory, as you will hear in the story of my life. Too often have I in his case forgotten that vengeance is not man's business, and that the law of retribution never faileth. It is easy to forgive one who wrongs you, but how hard when the injury is to one we love; when we see some weak loved spirit driven further into the darkness, deeper into the thicket of pain, for though we know that in the end, as Tennyson so finely expresses it, 'There shall be greater good because of evil, larger mercy through the fall,' yet is the suffering present and it is hard to see those we love in pain. William, however, takes far more after his mother than his father. She is a good and noble woman, purified by suffering of which she had in the latter days of her husband's life considerable experience. It would be cruel not to try and save her from like misery through her son, to whom she is devoted. He is a youth of good ability, possessing even half-fledged genius; his nature is at present very susceptible to kindness, and in many ways lovable, but he is cursed with his father's passions, and should this get the upper hand, the finer qualities of his disposition will drag him the more quickly down. If he once came under the influence of a heartless animal nature, there would practically be little hope of saving him."

"And one with that nature was there to-night?"

"Yes," he replied, "Miss Halcome is of all girls the least suited to be his wife, yet he loved or fancied he loved her, and she has set her mind on marrying him, though I believe she cares only for his wealth. But I do not know that I should have interfered were it not that I possess knowledge which makes the whole case most terrible. It is not fit that any child should be born into the world cursed by a double descent from such a man as Sir John Jackson."

"And are you certain that Miss Halcome is really his child?" I asked.

"Unfortunately I have too good reason to know," he replied; "but this is where we part, and I have told you enough to throw some light upon this evening; the rest of the explanation can be left till I reach that part of my story where it would naturally come in."

*CHAPTER IV*

On the following evening, as soon as we had finished dinner, Sydney led me, as on the previous occasion, through his study and into the library; but we did not wait here, for going up to a curtain at one corner, he pushed it aside, and opening a door led me into a room beyond. This room did not seem to be lighted in any way from the outside, but an electric light, the first I ever saw in a private house, cast a strong glare over the apartment.

As soon as we entered, my companion touched a handle and a shade passed over the light; the effect was pleasant and restful. Except in one recess which was curtained off from the rest of the room, there were few signs of comfort. I could not help fancying that I had suddenly entered a scientific laboratory; the walls of the room were covered with mechanical apparatus of various kinds, and with shelves that contained rows of bottles, tubes, and other chemical appliances.

"This," said Sydney, "is my workshop, where for years I have been busy trying experiments on nature by the assistance of knowledge gained through the development of our sixth sense. There is no doubt whatever that when men once begin to understand the uses of this latent power, existence will be revolutionized entirely. The world as it is now will cease to exist, and there will be a new heaven and a new earth. But," he continued after a pause, "I fear the time is not yet come; for so awfully will man's power be increased, that unless our natures are at the same time purified and perfected, existence here under such a reversal of conditions would be in truth hell itself.

"Fortunately, however, the power of using this sense is greatly dependent on the lives of the persons employing it. If a man has not learned to curb his passions and keep his body under control, he will make little progress, for the subjugation of the body is essential to success. The weakness of my own nature has, alas! too often caused me to break down at the very moment of seeming victory. If only a man were perfectly unselfish, pure, and free from pride, he could without the aid of science and without seeming effort control the forces of nature. Such a One has been on earth, and we know the result. Such power may be given when man has learnt to follow His example. But as man becomes conscious of his new powers we may expect a terrible time of transition, for with the possession of free will each added gift means added force to evil as well as to good, even as I was saying last night with regard to the gift of alcohol.