Chapter VIII: Part 8

"But," I said, "your body must by this time be under such complete control that it would seem unnecessary."

"There you are mistaken," he replied. "As long as the spirit is bound to earth it must be held more or less under the influence of animal instincts and animal requirements, which, if not rightly regulated, would react on the higher nature. It is quite true that, if I wished, it would now be only too easy to quit this material prison; but I have work to do here, and if my spirit once became free from earthly bonds it would never be able to take them up again, or influence the world through material agencies. Moreover, every new power gives added interest to each action of life; and I can assure you, that even in hunting there is ample opportunity for study, and even in some cases for gaining valuable experience."

"In what way do you mean?" I asked.

"Firstly," he answered, "there is the pleasure of watching man's influence over the lower orders of life. Now it may seem strange to you, but it is far more difficult to influence a beast than it is a man. The power of will passes more reluctantly from me to my horse than it does from me to you; and long after I could make any man act in the way I wished, I was still unable perfectly to influence the will of a single lower animal. Yet for all that, there are men who have little or no power over human beings, able to exercise quite unconsciously a remarkable influence over beasts. This opens out a subject of great interest, which is more easily studied while hunting than at any other time. I have for some years perfected my control over horses, but it does not in the least detract from my interest in watching the unconscious action of other minds on the animals which they fancy they guide only by bodily force. You will see that I ride, as others, with bit and bridle, because I do not wish to cause attention, but they are unnecessary. This horse is absolutely untrained. I have never been upon its back before, and have good reason to know that it has never been hunted. I selected it simply because it has great bodily strength and endurance, together with the capacity, though not the training, for hunting."

We were in a lonely part of the country, and I asked Sydney to give me some example of his power over this untrained horse. He laid the reins upon its neck, and then told me to mention anything which I wished to see the animal do.

"You can choose any likely or unlikely movement possible for a horse," he said; "only I should prefer that it did not roll."

There was a big six-barred gate at the right of us, and I said, "Let him jump that."

I had scarcely spoken before the horse turned, faced the gate, and cleared the top bar by about two inches.

"Come back over the hedge," I said. The horse did so.

"I should not care to jump into a hard road in that way with a loose rein," I remarked.

"No," Sydney replied, "it would not be wise; for though if a horse jumps perfectly there is no danger, yet often on landing a tight rein is useful. If, however, you watch the riders out to-day, you will see that two-thirds of their horses would jump better if they were left to their own devices. So many riders give the horse a check, not as he lands, but while he is in the air; and this causes more accidents than most people imagine."

I then tried the horse in other ways, making it rear and kick, getting it to open the gate by lifting it with its teeth, and to do many other curious movements, which showed that its entire body was absolutely under the control of its rider's thought.

"With such a horse," I said, "you could do anything in the hunting-field, but I have seldom noticed you much to the fore when out with us, though of course every one knows that you ride well."

"I have two reasons," he answered, "for not leading; as there would in that case be no opportunity of studying others, and also, that it seems to me hardly fair. There is no danger to me in facing any possible obstacle, however tricky or difficult, and I might lead others to follow who, through no fault of their own, would very probably come to grief."

We had by this time overtaken two other riders, and our private conversation was at an end.

I shall never forget that day. We had a most brilliant run, and I kept close to Sydney on purpose to watch his horse. Now that I had a key to the mystery, it was easy to notice the human instinct that guided its every movement. The country was difficult, or I should have found the occupation even more absorbing; as it was, much of my time was taken up in looking after my own animal, which unfortunately by no means always took its jumps in the way I desired.

We had been galloping at a great pace for twenty-five minutes, and many of the riders were now far behind, when I noticed that we were approaching some fairly stiff rails, on the further side of which there was a broad, deep ditch full of water. If there is one obstacle to which I object more than another, it is a combination of this description.

Three or four of the horses cleared it in safety, but a girl, riding just in front of Sydney, was unable to get her horse in hand. Consequently, instead of clearing the top rail the animal came with its full weight into the obstruction, broke the top bar, and getting its legs entangled in the lower timber, turned completely over into the water. So entirely were the horse's fore-legs fixed in the lower bars, that the girl seemed in great danger of being drowned.

It is not easy to imagine a more awful position. To be pressed down with one's head beneath the water by a horse's weight, at the same time knowing that it is impossible to do anything to assist the animal in freeing itself!

Sydney had taken in the position, and I saw his horse dash forward at full speed. When it came close to the broken rail, it swung quickly round, and striking the lower bars with a violent kick, sent the pieces flying in different directions. It thus freed the struggling horse, and then without a moment's pause plunged into the water. Sydney was now able to seize the lady's bridle, and for a moment everything seemed in confusion; then the rescuer's horse made a gallant plunge, reared up in the water and fell backward between the broken rails. The daring attempt was successful; the weight of the falling horse had given just the impetus Sydney required to lift the other animal and to free its rider, and amid the cheers of those who had now gathered round, the lady was borne in safety to the bank, terribly frightened, though uninjured.

I hastened up to see if Sydney was hurt, but though his horse fell backwards, it had not even bruised him, owing to the skilful way in which at the last moment he had slipped aside. He now stood on the bank with a piece of the girl's broken bridle in his hand, and the bits of timber strewn round him.

As we rode home later in the day, he surprised me by saying--

"It was a foolish action, and I feel ashamed of having given way to the momentary instinct which prompted it."

"What! saving the girl's life?" I said.

"No," he replied, "but the way I did it. You can easily fancy that I possessed other and simpler means of saving her without attracting attention to myself. But it is very difficult at times to check the inclination which we all have for exciting bodily action."

"Well," I answered, "I do not think, considering the power you possess, any one could accuse you of making a display of it. Why, the breaking of the bars by your horse's feet was, I fancy, unnoticed by any one except myself. Others probably thought they had given way under the strain; while even your horse's rearing up and falling backwards would be considered only a fortunate accident."

"That is quite true," he replied, "I was not thinking of display, to which weakness my nature at present tends very slightly; but rather that for the time being I allowed my body to do what my will could have effected better without its assistance. However, this is its day out, and perhaps it was only fair."

I have mentioned this incident to show that Sydney, even while he possessed faculties so remarkable that one might have expected his body to influence his mind no longer, at times still allowed the former to hold temporary sway. He always impressed this point most strongly upon me, saying that those who profess most emphatically that they have the power to ignore material things, are, often, without knowing it, under the most serious bodily servitude, the servitude of disease; and that though it is quite true that the body should be brought into subjection to the spirit, this can only be done by keeping it always, as far as possible, in perfect action and health.

*CHAPTER XIV*

I was sitting alone in my study one morning about two days after our run, busily engaged in writing an account of it, when I found that Sydney was standing beside me. I started up, his presence taking me by surprise.

"I never heard you come in," I said.

"No," he answered, "I have been at Aphar since we last met, and seeing that you were alone I returned here instead of going to my house. As we are neither of us busy to-day, I thought you might like to hear the continuation of my story."

We talked for some time about various subjects which led back eventually to the experiences which Vera had related to me.

"Tell me," I said, "was the girl really present? Or was this simply a delusion which you threw over me?"

"It is rather difficult to explain," he replied. "Vera was neither with you in body nor in spirit, yet it was her past nature that spoke, called up by the force of my will, even as it was her past form that you saw. I cannot fully explain this even to you, for in common with others you hold a false estimation of what people call time. Past, present, and future are convenient terms for men to use; but as a fact there are no such limitations, though it may be as difficult to comprehend this as it is to try and think of a universe that had no beginning and shall have no end. Many people accept the truth of this latter mystery, but would laugh at the possibility of the former; yet they are inseparably knit together. It is this which makes what we call sinning so terrible; it is the inability to understand this mystery that has led to some of the revolting views which are held in connection with the eternity of punishment and the indestructibility of Satan. But to continue my story.

"Though I made the strongest appeal possible, in the hope of saving Vera from the trouble which must follow if she still continued to allow her lower nature to rule her, I at the same time felt convinced that her moral power was not sufficiently developed to withstand the temptation. Impressed as she was at the time, this feeling was too likely to be transient. Future events proved that this view was correct. Whatever struggle Vera may have made at first, the effect was not noticeable after a few week's' time, and I knew that all my watchfulness would be required to prevent some great misfortune. It would have been easy to remove Captain Frint out of the way of temptation, either by what you might call hypnotism or in many other ways; but I was guided now by an influence which showed me that such actions can only delay the growth of nature. Under certain circumstances they may be justifiable, but should be employed only as a special opiate. For as in certain cases chloroform may be used on the body to prevent pain, but when the cause of the evil is not removed, proves only a dangerous means of delaying its effects, so the temporary destruction of another's will-power can only be right if employed in a special emergency.

"Though my chief interest was centred in Vera, I felt far more compassion in this case for her lover. It was a sad sight to see the terrible battle that at this time raged in his heart. One night while my body lay entranced, I visited him in spirit. How few of us suspect the double nature which lies concealed behind the superficial manner of any man or woman we meet. That proud bearing, that laughing face, that self-confident ease of manner, what may lie beneath each of these, those only who read the heart can say.

"The man was on his bed; his face was deathly white and damp with the dew of agony. He was speaking in that low, terrible accent of despair which some persons in moments of mental pain utter when alone, if they think that none can hear them. There is something very strange and weird in such soliloquy: as a rule we talk for effect, but in moments like these the words follow the mind, disregarding all rules of coherency or consistency. Part of the cause of this confusion is that the mind, acting more quickly than speech, leaves a sentence often unfinished.

"'Oh! that I might die!' he cried. 'Now--even now--I have no power--Vera, I shall harm you--you whom I love more than life--I have harmed you--I see it day by day--little actions show it--and, oh God! I dare not think of it--where is the end?--what can all this lead to?--misery! Oh! my mother--you who taught me to love that which is noble--to hate and scorn a weak and unmanly action--can you see me now? Do you watch me hour by hour, learning to despise and hate me?--Oh! that I could die and go to you--or if death is but the end--if there is no awakening, how peaceful to close one's eyes and know no more! It will kill me--kill me--when every spark of good that once was in my heart is gone--But why not now? I am going mad!--Things all seem confused--right and wrong--honour and dishonour--love and hate have no meaning--Vera, when I see you, I forget--I am happy--wildly, madly happy--yet I know not why. You belong to another, and I hate him. Oh! we are friends--only friends--and love is no earthly passion, but a communion of souls--What a farce--what folly! Would a soul feel as I do? it is a mockery--there is no soul anywhere--I doubt if there is a God. We are apes, dancing for the amusement of an audience of fiends! Oh! Vera, what have I said? That there is no spirit in you--it is impossible--I am the fiend who would drive the pure angel of your spirit into hell!'

"Thus did the wretched man ramble on until, exhausted by the excitement of remorse, he lay down and fell into a troubled sleep. While watching him I was conscious of a spiritual presence beside me, and knew that there had been another witness of his agony. The spirit of a woman was present, and I saw her, as it were, bending over him, and knew that it was his mother. What unending, untiring love was here! That pure affection which Saint Paul tried to explain when writing to the Corinthians by the word [Greek: agape], which taketh not account of evil, but covering all things, believing all things, hoping all things, and enduring all things, never faileth!

"I felt deeply concerned about the fate of this man, after what I had just seen and heard. His mental weakness, his morbid and excited rambling showed plainly that his mind was unhinged, and was beginning to give way under the strain put upon it. Moreover, to one who knew even as little as I did of the spirit world, the presence of his mother indicated some coming change in his existence, probably his death; for though there are exceptions, it is not often that the spirits of the dead are allowed to watch over the living: and this is a loving order of Providence, for as they cannot influence material things, their knowledge could only cause them useless suffering and be of little value to those they love. Sometimes, however, for the purifying of the souls of the dead, they are permitted to witness the misery of the loved when it is the outcome of their own selfishness on earth. And this is verily the Gehenna, or place of purification spoken of, in which the worm dieth not and the fire is not quenched."

I stopped Sydney at this point to ask him a question. "You," I said, "often mention passages from the Bible. Tell me what you think about this book."

"I think," he replied, "that much of it is the word of God echoed on the mind of man, and that it is terribly neglected and sadly misunderstood. It is so written that all who will, may understand it as far as their mind is at one with the author. The purer, the wiser, the holier a man becomes, the more will it continue to reveal, till it shall stand out at last the miracle of miracles--the Book which contains all the mysteries of earth, yet is capable at the same time of concealing them from those who are not yet ready to receive the knowledge; for it follows its own teaching, and casts not its pearls before swine. To the beast nature it gives the bit, bridle, and lash, till they shall be guided by these to higher ground and purer air; but to the unselfish and pure, it is the true revelation of the Word of God. Of course it has had to go through the treatment, which an uncivilized humanity bestows on all spiritual gifts--the curse of worship. Once men had an elephant god, then a sun or moon god, and many have now a paper-and-ink god. For the animal nature clings to matter, and to good solid matter that it understands. Hence the extraordinary dislike which so-called believers in the Bible show for anything which is called spiritualistic or scientific; whereas the book they worship is, without exception, in the right interpretation of the word, the great book on spiritualism, and the most advanced treatise ever written on the higher branches of a science, to which the world at present is only feeling its way. It is the funniest sight in creation to see pigmy man getting angry, and struggling fiercely to protect the Word of God from His works; but after all, though it does not help the book, it may help its would-be protector, for he means kindly by his patronage, and cannot be expected to foresee with what reverence the greater wisdom of the future will hold the book of knowledge.

"But I had better continue my story now, and leave this subject, which opens out so many fields of thought, that there is no saying where we may wander.

"I knew that Captain Frint had been invited, together with some other of Mr. Soudin's friends, to stop at Somerville as soon as the shooting commenced, and I looked forward to this time with considerable anxiety. Vera would then be thrown much into her lover's society, and if she wished it, doubtless would be able often to attract him away from the sport, in which case they would be alone together. In the meantime I was watching Amy Howell's actions, yet without feeling that I had the right to interfere.

"Much had passed between this girl and Major Jackson, toward the end of her stay at Somerville, of which Vera knew nothing. The Major was, as you have already heard, wealthy, but this money had only been left quite recently, by an uncle who, up to this time, had given him a liberal allowance. The story is not very interesting. Sir Ralph Cane, after the death of his widowed sister, adopted her only child, William Jackson. The boy was brought up with his bachelor uncle, and became the presumptive heir to his property. The uncle, however, had a perfect mania against marriage, and told his nephew that if ever he took a wife, he must give up all hope of inheriting a fortune. This restriction did not trouble young Jackson at the time, nor in fact for many years; but while he was quartered with his regiment, in an out-of-the-way part of Ireland, he met a young girl with whom he imagined he was desperately in love, and married her privately. When Mr. Hancock, the girl's father, who was an unprincipled scoundrel, found that his daughter was married, and heard of the reason for secrecy, he commended the young Captain's prudence, and agreed to help him in every way to keep the marriage a secret till Sir Ralph Cane's death. As the old man was then seventy-six, he might have been expected to leave them free at any moment; but he nevertheless kept them practically separated for ten years. They had only one child, a boy, who was born seven years after the marriage, and was therefore at the time of which I am speaking, three years old. It is probable that if Major Jackson had not met Amy, he would have sent for his wife, though he no longer cared for her; and there is still less doubt that had his father-in-law been alive, he would have been compelled to do this, whether he wished or not. As it was, he made no mention of his uncle's death in the letters he wrote to Ireland, and his wife being in so out-of-the-way a part, had little chance of learning the news. Yet though the Major was infatuated, he had no intention of being prosecuted for bigamy, and after consideration decided to put his version of the case before Amy, and chance the result. He had been working up to this point when Vera discovered him at the Castle (an account of which incident you have heard), and it was some little time before he had another opportunity. When Amy heard the news she was not only much upset, but very angry. In a way she cared for this man, though his wealth was probably the chief attraction. The thought of having to give up all her bright dreams of ease, and comfort, and return to her poverty-stricken home, was very bitter. Major Jackson had fully expected an outburst of indignation, and was, or appeared to be, duly repentant for the way in which he had acted. He pretended that he had no hope of getting her to consent to his plans, which were that he should retire from the army, gather his wealth together, and with it and the girl he loved leave the country. He persuaded her that his wife would be sure to get a divorce, especially if he consented to make her a liberal allowance on this condition; that he would then be able to marry Amy, and she would be an honest woman, able to live in society without reproach. In fact, he talked much the usual nonsense, going only as far into the regions of improbability as he thought safe. For though the girl was unprincipled, she was no fool.

"To make this unpleasant account as short as possible, he eventually succeeded. Amy decided to return home for the purpose of getting certain things together which she might require, and he was ostensibly turning all his property into cash. As a matter of fact he did no such thing, the idea being strongly impressed on his mind, that a few thousand pounds would probably last as long as the girl's attraction. Vera had asked Amy to return as soon as possible, and as the Major had been invited for the shooting, they decided to meet at Somerville, and take their departure together a few days afterwards.

"Nothing happened to upset these plans, and the party met, as had been arranged, on the thirty-first of August. It was not long before Jackson was confirmed in his previous suspicion, that Frint and Vera were engaged in a dangerous flirtation, and the idea occurred to him, that it might not be impossible to persuade these two to join him. He had hired a yacht, which was now lying ready at Southampton, and he would by no means have objected, under the circumstances, to the company of a friend, who, being in a similar position, could not possibly reproach him. He decided, however, to consult Amy before doing anything; and in this he was wise, for while approving his plan, she gave him no little valuable advice as to the method most likely to succeed. In fact, she finally concluded that as the matter required delicate handling, it would be advisable for her to take the chief part of the task into her own hands. Her decision led to the following conversation between this clever schemer and Captain Frint--

"'Do you not think,' she said in the course of a conversation, 'that marriage is often a great mistake? That people would be much happier if only they had courage to put an end to this relic of barbarism?'

"'It often seems so,' her companion answered, wondering not a little what this unmarried girl had in her mind; for it is more often that we hear these sentiments from those who have experienced the bond. 'But,' he continued, 'we should require considerable alteration in the law and in public opinion before it would be wise to break through the custom.'

"'I don't know,' she said; 'public opinion will not change till the few, who are brave enough to oppose it, act. And the law is always a laggard, leaning on the crutch of stupidity until someone kicks it. Now look at Vera. She is tied down to a man for whom she cares nothing--a regular blackguard--bound to him by a mere legal act, and nothing more. Yet on account of this meaningless bond she is destined to go through life deprived of love, unprotected, and missing all the true joy of home. Now if I were a man and loved her, I should refuse to consider that a farce like this had any right to keep us apart, and if the world chose to think differently, well, so much the worse for the world!'

"'But you do not,' he said, 'consider the girl, and the position in which she would be placed. It is all very well for the man--he would lose little by such an action; but the woman's social life would be ruined.'

"'I ought to consider the girl's side,' she said, 'and I do. But men never understand us. Which do you think is better--to lose social life, as you call it, or real life? To be able to go everywhere and care for nothing, or to remain at home and be happy? But even the social question is only a matter of time if there is wealth. There would probably be a little scandal and then the world would forget all about it.'

"'I do not fancy,' he said, 'that you understand Lady Vancome. I feel certain that she would never consent to such a proposal even from a man she loved. And what is more, she would never allow herself to fall in love.'

"'Oh, indeed!' Amy replied laughing. 'So you think, Captain Frint, that girls are the same as men, and fall in love or out of it as prudence and conscience dictate. Vera could no more help falling in love if the right person turned up than--well, than I could! And what is more, she would disregard conventionality and follow her inclination if, mind, I say if, she did so at her lover's bidding; and so should I.'

"'You say that,' he replied, 'because you have not been tried; but I feel quite certain that you would never do anything of the kind.'

"'Can you keep a secret?'

"'I fancy so.'

"'Will you promise me, on your word of honour, however much you disapprove of what I am going to say, that you will not, directly or indirectly, act in opposition to me, or tell any one my secret?'

"'I promise.'

"She then told him what she intended to do; at the same time, by way of justifying her act, she libelled innocent Mrs. Jackson in a most outrageous manner. These libels were entirely the result of imagination, as she knew nothing about her, and had not felt inclined to inquire. Then, little by little, she drew the subject round, and without giving her companion a chance of remonstrating with her, spoke once more of Vera.

"'I feel so sorry to leave her,' she said, 'and wish that she and you were both coming, but of course you are far too proper a person to dare to think of such a step.'

"'I think,' he answered, 'that it is hardly necessary to go into my feelings in the matter, as whatever I wished, you must know full well that Vera--Lady Vancome, I mean--would never consent to do such a thing, even if she loved me, which is most improbable.'

"'It is nice to see such modesty,' Amy answered; 'but I know Vera pretty well, better a good deal than you do, and have no hesitation in saying that if she loves you, and I feel certain she does, you have only to ask her to come, and she will be delighted to follow you even to the other end of the world. However, I have said enough. If by any chance you two should care to join us, we should be most pleased. We leave here in three days from now, so you have not much time to think over your plans, but should act at once. I shall not refer again to the subject, but if you decide on anything you can let me know.'

"Having said this, and thinking it better not to give her companion time to reply, she got up and left the room.

"That afternoon Vera and Captain Frint were alone together. The girl was leaning back on a comfortable wicker lounge in the cool fernery which opened out of the house. The half-veiled sunlight which passed through the amber-tinted glass roof fell on her head, and lit up her soft wavy hair till it shone like the natural silk in which the chrysalis lies hidden. Behind her on a rockery of porous stone, delicate maidenhair and other semi-tropical ferns grew in luxuriant profusion, their roots entwined in the rockwork or twisted among the various mosses which covered it. A toy rivulet wound in and out among the ferns, now and again escaping from its confined bed and trickling over the rocks. This little watercourse was caught up at last by a miniature lake, and soaking through the bed of porous stone which formed the roof of a grotto, dropped down into a larger pool beneath, where gold and silver fish lay dreaming. The pleasant sound of water and the delicate scent from the flowers of an overhanging creeper made this favourite spot suitable for quiet talk or half-dreamy rest.

"Vera, who was peculiarly sensitive to her surroundings, could hardly have chosen a more unsuitable place had she known of the proposition that was about to be made to her, and supposing she wished to refuse it. Though she did not know, she suspected that her companion had something important to say, for Amy had not neglected an opportunity in which to throw out a few hints on the subject.

"'Vera,' Frint said almost as soon as the girl had made herself comfortable, 'how lovely you look to-day!' And as he said this he bent over and kissed her hair.

"She took no notice, and he kissed her forehead. She half raised one hand and he kissed her cheek. She put one finger on her lips, and he touched it with his own.

"'You are very naughty to-day, Albert,' she said. 'You must sit down over there where you will be out of the way of temptation.'

"As he sat down he said, 'Vera, I have been thinking a good deal lately.'

"'I wish you would give up the bad habit,' she replied. 'It is a foolish thing to do, and usually ends in making you grumpy and uninteresting. Let us be children, and live in the present as long as we can. Let us play, and be contented with our toys. If a child once begins to analyze his wooden horse, the interest vanishes, and he wants a real live one. If you persist in analyzing your game of love-making, you will end in wanting me to run away with you.'

"'But,' he said, 'in this case it is so difficult to know where to draw a line.'

"'Then don't try. That is what I told you just now not to do,' she said. 'Why cannot you be contented?'

"'Because I love you, and want to have you always with me,' he answered. 'Because I hate to see another man near you. Oh, Vera! it is all very well to talk about playing at love. When I am with you it is all right, I am happy. But when I leave you it is like going down to hell. It cannot go on, it is killing me. I must have you all in all or I must go. Tell me,' he said, 'do you not know some such feeling? Is it to you only a game of play? Am I nothing more than a toy which at any moment you could cast aside? Oh, Vera! do you not in your heart love me even a little?'

"'You are quite interesting to-day, Albert,' she said. 'You play your part to perfection. I will try to live up to you and play mine. We will pretend we are in earnest. Yes, dearest, I love you.'

"He fell into her mood. It would be easier in this way to say what he had decided to tell her.

"'Then let us picture a position,' he said. 'Amy and Jackson have decided, we will suppose, to run away together because, for some reason, they are unable to be married. And we will suppose that they are anxious for us to join them. A yacht is waiting to carry them away from this chilly land, and in some bright and sunny country they will live together, beyond the reproach of man, contented in their mutual love. Now the question is shall we go with them, dearest? It is impossible that we shall much longer be able to live as we are doing now. People will begin to talk, and then we shall be unable to see much of each other. Do you love me enough to do this? I know that I have no right to ask you.'

"When Frint looked up to see what effect his words had upon Vera, he was surprised, and even frightened by the expression on her face.

"'Tell me,' she said, 'is this true? Do you really mean what you say?'

"'It is true, dearest,' he answered.

"And then he told her the story, winding up by a passionate appeal that she would come. Though Vera had guessed something from Amy's words, and had promised not to repeat anything which Frint might tell her, she had little expected the whole truth, and was perfectly overwhelmed by the sudden proposal. Had she been allowed to think it out quietly, I feel convinced that she would have refused to go; but her lover, having thrown all scruples to the wind, and seeing his fate in the balance, got up and knelt beside her, and placing his arm round her, overwhelmed all reason in a torrent of passionate language and endearments till the smouldering embers which she had striven to smother burst out into a fire which she had no longer strength or inclination to control. Casting all thoughts of prudence, all fear of danger from her, she told him of her love, and burying her head upon his breast swore that without him she could not live, and would do whatsoever he desired.

"'I trust you, dearest,' she murmured, 'and would have no will but yours. Where you bid me go I will go; with you is life and joy, without you all is darkness, and I only seem to live. What do I care about the world, if you think that I am doing right?'

"I stood near them all the while, invisible to their eyes, and uncertain if I should reveal my presence. But some force restrained me; the time had not yet come.

"As I stood again beside the man's bed that night, I knew why I had not been permitted to interfere. A higher power than mine ruled and ordered his life. I have witnessed many terrible scenes. No person able to see into the inner lives of others can fail to do this, but neither before nor since have I been so moved to pity as on this occasion. The man slept, and his dream-thought wandered at first to one subject and then another. But in every case his fevered brain pictured some terrible scene. At last, as it were, the changing waves of painful thought concentrated in a series of pictures.

"In the first of these he was sitting in a dimly-lighted room. He was a boy once more, and his mother read to him pages from the Bible, but the texts were disconnected. 'Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.' 'Whosoever shall offend one of these little ones, it were better that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were cast into the depths of the sea.' 'And the smoke of their torment ascended up for ever and ever, and they have no rest day nor night.' 'Blessed are the dead.'

"The scene changed. Vera was beside him even as he had seen her that day in all her beauty. They were sitting together on the deck of a vessel; the sun shone brightly, the sea was calm, and the gulls floated over them, moving splashes of glistening white against the deep blue of the sky. Yet even as they thus sat dreaming of love, and surrounded by calm and sunlight, he felt that they were sinking, and that no power could save them. Slowly the blue line of water rose till it was on a level with the deck, but still the motion of the vessel held the water in check. It rose to the bulwarks, and glistened in a dark steely line above it. Fear held them from moving, save that Vera threw her arm around him, pleading for a protection which none could give. The line broke in foaming torrents over the deck. There was a moment of struggle, and then darkness. From the midst of the darkness he heard a voice saying, 'Look up, for the hour of judgment is at hand.' Then he looked up, and behold hell lay open before him, the hell of human tradition in all the ghastly horror which man, in the deformity of his imagination, has conjured up out of his instinctive cruelty to make part of the creation of love. There lay Vera, condemned to eternal torment. The terrible anguish of her expression as I saw it through the medium of his distorted brain haunts me even now. Her white child-like arms thrown out in hopeless supplication, as she cried aloud to him in pitiful tones to save her, or at least to come near in this awful solitude of suffering; but he was unable to move or speak. The terrible realistic flames enveloped her; flames which none can quench, which violate every law of nature save one, which neither purify nor set free nor stay corruption, but only cause the pain which is their note of warning. Nor was this all. As if one torment that must necessarily absorb all powers of feeling which we know on earth--nay, which merciful nature would stay at once by her opiate of insensibility--were not enough, other horrors of man's imagination were added which are too revolting for words, yet which had all at one time been taught to this wretched man as essential parts of the Gospel of God, the good news of love. Had he not been mad such a picture must have been a revelation; if he, selfish as he was, could be thus overwhelmed with remorse and horror, what of the Father, the Creator who for ever must watch his child; who, being almighty was not bound; who being the Creator of all things was the Creator of this! As it was, the strain of anguish roused him from his dreams. He sat up in bed and cried aloud, 'My God! My God! It is not too late! I will save her! Though I die--though I be damned for ever! Vera, oh, my love, I will save you from this!'

"And even as he spoke, I was conscious that we were surrounded by a great company, and that the sweet sound of spiritual praise that no earthly ear can hear passed on, for ever vibrating through the universe of God. But the first chord was struck by a woman's love, for the mother now knew that her son was saved."

*CHAPTER XV*

"After breakfast on the following morning, Captain Frint found an opportunity of asking Vera not to say anything to either the Major or Amy of their plans, but to leave all to him. He was standing in the girl's sitting-room dressed for shooting, and had his companion been more observant she might have noticed the strange fire which burned in his eyes, and the suppressed excitement of his manner.

"'You are going out then, to-day,' she said. 'Well, perhaps it is better. It might seem strange if you did not; and after all we shall soon have as much time as we like together; so much that I expect you will soon get tired of me.'

"He was unable to answer; but before leaving he bent over and kissed her on the forehead. Had she seen his face she must have known the truth--for love, self-sacrifice, pain, and madness were written there.

"About two o'clock in the afternoon a mournful procession returned to Somerville. Captain Frint was dead. No fault or suspicion could rest on any of the party, for the accident had happened in the sight of Mr. Soudin and four of the beaters. The Captain, before getting over a stile, had placed his gun on the opposite side to avoid danger, and while leaning over to do this, some obstacle had caught the trigger, and the contents of one of the barrels had entered his heart.

"Fortunately a messenger had been sent on to break the news, and when the body arrived Vera was lying insensible on her bed; nor did any one see her again for many days. But at night, when all had gone to rest, she got up, and taking a light, crept softly to the room where they had placed the body of the man she loved.

"It lay upon the bed, the hands folded, the head raised as though in sleep upon the pillow. The eyes were closed. Never in life had that face looked so noble as it now appeared in death. The lines of thought, of passion, of pain were gone: the expression of the mouth was that of a contented child. There was no smile on the lips; nor have I ever seen, nor should I like to see, that smile which we so often read of on the face of the dead. When the spirit goes away and leaves the body, the features no longer under control fall back into the natural position of perfect rest, which is only partially noticeable during the sleep of grown-up people, but sometimes perfectly represented during the same condition in childhood. I have seen a dead child, that, save for the whiteness of the skin and lips, showed no change of expression other than that which I had often noticed during slumber.

"As Vera looked upon her dead lover, the spirit of life, which is the spirit of true love, was for the first time born in her heart. The Angel of Death was to her, as to so many, the winged messenger of God bearing the germ of eternity. As some fair blossom, differing not in appearance from others, that have already been made fruitful, will for some reason remain long barren, so many natures linger here, fair it may be in form, but missing the pollen of fruition. To some it is borne by the fairy butterfly of love; to others only by the death's-head moth of suffering. Some, as the barren flowers, fall and die, having, perhaps, made the earth more beautiful by their presence, yet leaving no fruit. Their harvest-time is yet to come, but under other circumstances and beneath other skies.

"It did not occur to Vera, as she bent over the dead man, that he had died to save her. She thought that an accident had separated them; that God, in His anger, had punished their sin.

"'Oh! that I might have died instead of you!' she murmured. 'Oh, God! it was my sin--not his--my fault. Why did you spare me and slay him?'

"Could she have looked upon the picture of herself there would have been no reason for answer; fear, anguish, and desolation were written on her face--what a contrast to the peaceful expression of the dead! Her eyes were strained with weeping, her swollen throat ached so that she could scarcely speak, and though she stood barefooted, and with only her thin night garment to cover her, yet every limb burned as though with fever. Her beautiful hair hung in tangled tresses down her back, and waved in wild disorder round her forehead and neck. As she knelt upon the bed and kissed the dear dead face, she seemed almost to cover the body with a pall of golden silk.

"'I want you, Albert,' she whispered. 'Oh! come back--come back, my love, my love!' And when she had said this she fainted.

"I carried her back to her own room, for I did not wish that any one should know her secret. And having done this, I returned once more to where the dead lay, and bent over and kissed the face of the man who had died to save from harm her whom we both loved.

"Captain Frint's death necessitated the breaking up of the shooting party, and Amy and Major Jackson took the opportunity thus afforded of carrying out their plans. They left England in the yacht, and travelled for some time together; but as is nearly always the case under such circumstances, instead of finding happiness, they tasted the fruit of selfishness, which is pain and disgust. It says a good deal for the girl's cleverness that she was not left entirely destitute in some foreign country; for with a forethought which showed that she had not altogether overlooked the possibility of desertion, she, before leaving, made her lover settle a considerable sum upon her. When he eventually left her in America, less than a year after the elopement, she was consequently fairly well provided for. She had one child, a girl, and not caring to return to England, she settled in New York, and soon afterwards married a clever scoundrel, named Halcome, who, though at the time badly off, succeeded eventually in making a moderate fortune. At his death, Amy returned with her only child to England, where she was soon received into good society."

"The man she married was called Halcome," I said. "Was not that the name of the girl we met at Sir James Folker's dinner on the night of the spiritualistic performance?"

"Yes," he replied; "she has always passed as Miss Halcome, for her mother, who is now dead, kept the secret of her birth even from the girl herself."

"Was the man whose face I noticed the Major's legitimate son?"

"Yes. After a life of horrible dissipation and vice, Major Jackson, by this time Sir Henry Jackson, died, and his son came into the property. Jackson acknowledged his wife soon after leaving Amy, and the awful life which he led this unfortunate woman has often made my heart bleed. I interfered on the evening to which you refer, partly in the hope of saving her further trouble, and partly because I knew the terrible secret of the young people's relationship."

"Is Miss Halcome like her mother in appearance?" I asked.

"Yes; she bears a most remarkable resemblance both in manner and face to what Amy was at her age, though if you had seen Mrs. Halcome a few years back you would hardly have believed it possible; she had grown coarse, and stout, and lost all her good looks, for this style of girlish beauty wears badly. She, however, retained her bright and pleasant manner to the end, though her temper in private was bad. Before Sir Henry's death she was more than his match, and by threats of exposure she managed to extort a considerable sum of money from her former lover. But she did it so discreetly that no breath of scandal was ever whispered against her. She, moreover, never revealed to any one her maiden name, and her family have no idea that she returned to England."

"I am surprised that Jackson cared for any scandal after the life he had lived," I said.

"It would have been the last straw. He was at the time seeking a valuable Government appointment, and though his life was notoriously vile, this did not prevent him obtaining it; but a public scandal in Court is quite a different thing. The conscience of the people of Britain, who know only what the papers tell them, is more sensitive than that of their rulers. I am, however, glad to be able to close this unpleasant account; those chiefly interested are dead. They sowed to the flesh, and of the flesh they reaped corruption and pain. But we must not forget that they are still children of the great Father, loved by Him, though still wandering in the dark and fighting against the law of order and love which can alone bring happiness. Let us hope that now, when they have been freed from the bodies they degraded; their spirits, reclothed, may be purified through the pain which is bound to follow them; for _whatsoever_ a man soweth, that shall he reap, and neither repentance, prayers, nor tears can alter the inevitable harvest."

"Do you not, then," I asked, "believe in repentance and the forgiveness of sins?"