The fulfilment

By Edith Allonby

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Title: The fulfilment

Author: Edith Allonby

Release date: February 7, 2025 [eBook #75316]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Greening & Co., Ltd, 1905

Credits: Mary Glenn Krause, Les Galloway, Larry Kreel, Julie Turner, New York University Special Collections and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FULFILMENT ***

Transcriber’s Notes

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Variations
in hyphenation have been standardised but all other spelling and
punctuation remains unchanged.

THE FULFILMENT

_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_

JEWEL SOWERS. 6s.

=The Week’s Survey.=—“An original and intensely interesting
novel. We should welcome anything further from the pen of this
anonymous writer, who has produced a book that anyone might be proud to
sign.”

=The Onlooker.=—“The author hides her—is it her?—identity
under anonymity, but has no reason to fear criticism. Though called
‘a novel’, it is a clever parable, and deals with the evil of selfishness
and the blessings resulting from work for work’s sake.”

=Manchester Guardian.=—“‘The Jewel Sowers’ is wholly fantastic
in its incidents, but its characters are those of our society, and
with all the machinery of a fairy tale the book still belongs to the
realms of daily fiction. Appropriately enough the scene is laid in
another world, one in which everything is said to be the opposite of
the life of this planet. But this is a mere warning that the tale is
fantastic; men and women in Lucifram, as the new world is called, are
even too much like those on this, and if their powers are strangely
superior, their motives are entirely familiar. The book, in fact, is
an experiment in fantasy, and none the less pleasant on that account.
It is neither an allegory, as are other tales similarly constructed,
nor yet a satire, though there are elements of both interwoven with the
adventures and the incidents. The anonymous authoress has demanded a
wider sphere for the evolution of her characters, and no one who feels
the charms of her pleasantly-depicted heroine will grudge the novel
atmosphere in which she is forced to suffer and to act. The book is
lightly written, bright and entertaining, and almost every character
introduced is neatly characterised. Perhaps the best of them is the
fairy frog, whose cheerful temper is the result of martyrdom, and who
should earn a place among the favourite heroes of the fairy world.”

MARIGOLD. 6s.

=The Court Journal.=—“The author has so tender and graceful a
touch, so keen an insight into human nature and human impulses, and so
marked a power of vivid description, that he must almost certainly one
day write a book of great beauty and power.”

=Manchester Courier.=—“The author of ‘Jewel Sowers’ has written
another allegorical romance entitled ‘Marigold,’ depicting the loves,
hatreds and jealousies of spirit beings in a fantastic world. The book
is curious and unconventional, and is altogether as much removed from
the average ‘potboiler,’ both in aim and treatment, as anything could
well be. The author gives evidence of considerable talent, and further
contributions from his or her pen are to be awaited with interest.”

=Scotsman.=—“Light, agreeable, and animated always by a lively
play of graceful feeling, the story should not fail to entertain anyone
who takes it up.”

[Illustration: Sketch of head of woman]

THE
FULFILMENT

BY
EDITH ALLONBY

AUTHOR OF
“JEWEL SOWERS” AND “MARIGOLD”

LONDON
GREENING & CO. LTD.
1905

[_All Rights Reserved_]

_First Published, Dec. 1st, 1905_

CONTENTS

PART I
PAGE

EARTH 1

PART II
HELL 135

PART III
HEAVEN 267

INTRODUCTION

The book for which its author gave her life is now given to the world
with profound pity and regret. Pity for a bright young life so suddenly
hurried into Eternity, and regret that the circumstances of her tragic
death have made it necessary that her work should be published in an
incomplete and unrevised state. Had Miss Edith Allonby lived there
is no doubt that the story would have been considerably altered and
improved before being put into print. Much that is now vague in meaning
would have been explained, much that is now retained would have been
deleted. The explicit terms of her last letters make the task of
bringing out _The Fulfilment_ a hard and anxious one for her
executors, her relatives and her publishers. She wished the book to be
published word for word as she wrote it, as can be seen from her last
letter to her publisher, quoted below. Her last letter to her relatives
was much to the same effect. It will show the responsibility which had
to be faced.

“I have received your letter and the enclosed criticism. Thank you
for both. I have read the criticism through but it has not altered
me in my decision. He has said what I know will be the general
opinion of the world. Most of the views I had expressed in the
beginning part of _Marigold_, and you will remember how those
were received—as ‘uncouth attempts at satire,’ ‘silly remarks,’ ‘a
farrago of nonsense,’ ‘a silly and pretentious book.’

“I have told you I do not mind criticism, neither do I. But it hurts
me to the very soul that people should so misunderstand that which
is true. God knows with what purity of intention I wrote the first
chapters of _Marigold_—never meaning to give offence, but how in
this world can it be avoided?

“I have read the criticism, and I could answer it word for word, or
any criticism that might follow it from any source, but that is not
allowed, and not to be. When I first wrote _The Fulfilment_ I
longed to see it published, that I might fight the battle for it
with my pen. It would have been like coming down into the arena to
fight and breathe and conquer. But as the time went by, after it was
returned to me, I began to realise slowly what a terrible book I had
written, as well as beautiful and true, and it seemed as if it called
for all I had to give as an expiation before it could go free. I put
it away—the book and the thought. But I began to write ever on the
same theme—the revelation Heaven had given me. You know how it has
prospered. And then on Whitsunday the voice awoke me that I must bring
my greatest treasure forward once again, for though I have let it
lie patiently these four years, hoping to make an opening for it, it
has ever been in my heart and brain. And again I felt the pleasing
prospects of the battle. I knew what strength I had, and always have
had, did I care to use it, to answer those who disagreed with what I
wrote. And in the cause of such a book I felt that everything would be
allowable. But there has come the Season out of Silence to be silent.
We cannot bandy words about religious things. I cannot anyway. I feel
it all so much I cannot talk about it. For all I write about I love
and fear. God knows I have not been familiar, I have only loved simply
both God and man.

“But there is only one way of showing it, and that by dying simply.
When I am once out of the way the big stumbling-block has been
removed. People can no longer think I have written with a fanciful
irreverence when I have had before me, all the time, nothing but
Death; for I believe, looking back, it was there with the very first
page.

“And so (for when this reaches you I shall be dead—only to this
world) I leave it as my dying request that you publish, exactly as I
have sent it to you, _The Fulfilment_. You must ask the gentleman
to return it, and tell him my decision. And at the same time I do not
wish you or him or anyone to think that his criticism has had anything
to do with my death. For I do not wish you or anyone to view me as a
common suicide—overcome by this or that, or bowed down by the thought
of failure or disappointment. I have simply died to make room for a
great truth. And I have died trusting humbly in God.

“And so you cannot deny me that which I decide. To you it must become
an impersonal affair. You must publish it because it is a dying
command, and publish it word for word as I have left it. And now no
one can take offence—neither the company whose impress the book
bears, nor anyone connected with it.

“And of the religionists I only ask that they will have the same
toleration for me that I have ever had for them. I mean those who are
sincere and simple among them, of any denomination. For I am sincere
and simple too.

“And now I must say ‘Good-bye.’ I feel very sad about it, for I have
written so many letters to you, and told you so many things that it is
parting with a friend. And you will say a good word for me if you get
the chance. And if they say I’m mad, tell them from me it’s a madness
that will spread—not the _suicide_ but the _belief_. But
indeed it is no madness.

“And for your friend, tell him this from me—I wasn’t writing of
‘Paradise _Lost_’ but of ‘Heaven _Gained_,’ and that if I
remember my Milton correctly, they didn’t _aspire_ to tea-tables
in the Garden, but simply ate it picnic fashion, so that Heaven with
its tables goes one better still. And tell him that if he will only
read the book through once again, I think he’ll find there is a
simple, homely charm even in Jesus Christ, for it’s like everything
else. You’ve got to get used to it. And when I go to Heaven I’d rather
meet simple people who had power than great big kings who talked of
it and sometimes found it wasn’t there. And give him my love and
tell him there was no one more disgusted with those sties than I was
at the time. And that the young man was so terribly _real_ he
nearly broke my heart, and the College—well, perhaps that _was_
a nightmare, but they’re realer than anything else. And tell him it
was all _me_. And ask him not to be too particular over grammar,
or meanings or muddles. They were invented to make men human—that
is, unsuperior. I never heard of such a thing as Goethe explaining
his meaning all before. That’s _quite_ an old fashion. You give
people nothing to think about, and cast quite a slur upon their
reputation for brains.

“And you see in my capacity as teacher I would _force_ people to
think if I could, whether they would or no.

“I am afraid I am very loath to stop, it will be such a long
silence—but silence speaks, you know, and I shall speak, or rather
my Heavenly Father. And now I say, not from politeness, but from
the bottom of my heart, I hope some day we shall meet again—not in
stuffy London, or anywhere upon this earth, but, why not? at one of
the tea-tables of Heaven. And I wish it very much indeed—and it all
depends on you—whether you will follow in the simple way that God
directs.

“With kind regards, and the love that all Heaven’s children may bear
with one another.”

Both Miss Allonby’s previous books, _Jewel Sowers_ and _Marigold_, were
subjected to revision before they appeared, and her publisher fully
expected that she would consent to the same necessary revisions in the
case of _The Fulfilment_. There was no question as to the book being
published. It was mutually understood that _The Fulfilment_ should be
issued on her birthday, December 1st. She desired that the passages to
be deleted should be indicated. Her wish was complied with, and her
publishers were daily awaiting a letter giving consent to the revision,
which was to be made and submitted for approval, when the news of her
death came as a terrible shock. It is here unnecessary to refer to the
sympathetic attention the tragedy attracted from the press and the
public.

The question then arose as to the possibility of publishing the book
for which Miss Allonby died so unnecessarily. Her relatives and her
publishers were in constant and personal communication. Could her last
wish be fulfilled? Curiously enough she expressed the desire in her
will that none of her relatives should see or read the book until it
was printed and published. Her publishers’ responsibility was therefore
a serious one. The feelings and the wishes of the living and Miss
Allonby’s reputation had to be considered. Certain pages of her book
contained references to holy things and persons turned in such a way
that they seemed flippant, irreverent, even ridiculous, and they were
undoubtedly not literature in any sense. No possible good could come
of giving such pages to the world. They appear to convey no message,
though no doubt the author could have supplied a key. They seem to be
meaningless flippancy. Now no one had more sincere respect for Miss
Allonby than her publishers. They were on the most friendly terms.
Therefore, while they would have liked to carry out her last wish to
the letter, they felt that in justice to her memory the book could not
appear in the exact condition in which she left it. In this predicament
a request was put to a well-known and prominent London minister, of
broad views and large sympathies—on whose judgment the publishers felt
the utmost reliance could be placed—that he should see the troublesome
passages and give his opinion as to the advisability of publishing
them. He courteously consented and very kindly gave considerable time
and thought to the matter. His earnest opinion was that the book should
not be published at all, or, if published, that all the emendations
suggested by the publishers should be carried out. For good reasons
the minister who thus criticised the book desires that his name shall
not be made known, but the public can rest assured that he is a
gentleman in whom all denominations would have confidence, and whose
judgment all would respect. This opinion was conveyed to Miss Allonby’s
relatives and executors, who, after careful consideration, decided to
publish _The Fulfilment_ with the emendations the publishers considered
necessary. To quote from a letter from the executors: “We think we
should do our utmost to carry out Edith’s wishes, but they should be
the _real_ wishes. Her _real_ wish was that the message contained in
her book should reach as many as possible. To publish it in its present
form, though it would comply with the _letter_ of her request, would be
to defeat its object.... The guiding principle should be to publish it
in such a form as would be most likely to realise her wish of giving
the message to the largest number possible.” Under these conditions
the publishers carefully and sympathetically prepared _The Fulfilment_
for press, and it is now published with some of the emendations
originally suggested. Only such pages or passages as the publishers
considered Miss Allonby herself would, at a more normal time, have
deleted have been taken out. The book has not been subjected to any
revision, except of the most obviously necessary kind—literals, etc.
There are no alterations. All the Editor has done has been to carefully
eliminate those passages most likely to give pain and offence both to
the relatives and the religious public. Wherever an omission occurs
it is indicated by a hiatus, and also a statement to that effect. All
those who knew, loved and respected Miss Edith Allonby will understand
the publishers’ attitude regarding the emendations. They have been firm
in not yielding to the morbid wish of numerous correspondents who have
pleaded for the book being issued as the author left it. They have
preferred to respect the feelings of the living and honour the memory
of the dead.

It will be of interest to quote a few extracts from Miss Allonby’s
correspondence relating to _The Fulfilment_, as showing her
own attitude towards her work. She first approached her publishers
respecting _The Fulfilment_ on June 17th 1905, when in the course
of a long letter she said:—

“_June 17th._

“Will you please give me all your attention, without thinking
of anything else whilst you read. I have been _thinking_,
five minutes in church last Sunday morning, and since then I have
deliberated. You see I have been brought up to teach—in an age when
great things are expected of teachers—patience, lucidity, sympathy,
and I don’t know what. One’s classes are never blamed for stupidity,
carelessness or inattention—only the teacher. That has its dangers
for the pupils, certainly, but it does not excuse the teacher from
doing the utmost best.... Now I have a book which is as easy to read
as A B C (for those who will attend). It has no allegories in it, no
myths—nothing but Truth. And I am very proud of it, for it was given
me by God right away down at the bottom of the Valley of Despair and
Humiliation. I have been wandering about down there, it is true, ever
since, but that proves all the more that it is direct from God, for
otherwise it isn’t the air in which an ordinary person could live at
all. I am not to blame either for keeping it all this time (I wrote
it in the spring and summer of 1901), for I _did_ send it to
some publisher or other one Friday night and it was back by Tuesday
morning—and it was too good for that. Too good to be tossed about
from one place to the other like any tramp or fawning beggar asking to
be taken in.... I am very serious, I am sending to you something that
I was going to say is more precious to me than life—I only pray God
grant that it may be.”

The manuscript was duly read and reported on, and, subject to some
necessary alterations and omissions being made, it was accepted
for publication and a promise given that it should be published on
the first of December. The suggested revision was the subject of
considerable correspondence. The following few lines are taken from a
letter dated August 13th 1905:—

“_August 13th._

“The first part of the book is true—man can witness that—and for the
remainder God is witness. I have not written it for money, I have not
written it to please, but only to instruct and lighten those few who
care to understand, and they may be few now, but some day they will be
many.... Of course I am a bit frightened of the world, but, believe
me, I am a great deal more frightened of God. _Real_ fear. That
is what makes me write common sense about Heaven instead of twaddle,
and as for people being so sensitive about Jesus Christ—they don’t
feel all that much, or the world would be a vastly different place....
When I wrote _Marigold_ you wanted to send a copy to all the
religious papers, but I should like _that_ for _this_
instead, for it is the essence of real, true religion.”

Miss Allonby’s own opinions as to the seeming irreverence of certain
portions of her work were both firm and strong. She knew her own
interpretation of such passages. She alone, in her own mind, held the
key which would make plain all hidden meanings. She, firm in her own
purity and reverence for her Maker, seemed quite unable to realise that
others, nine hundred and ninety-nine out of a thousand, would without
hesitation condemn much that she had written as rank blasphemy, even as
silly, flippant irreverence. Writing on August 20th, she said:—

“_August 20th._

“Speaking for myself, I do not care one iota about the opinion of the
press, _religious or otherwise_. All I care about is telling
what I have to tell as plainly and as simply as is possible. I am
perfectly well able to stand the risk of being thought irreverent, for
only those who have never understood the meaning of true reverence can
accuse me of it. You see I _believe_ what I have written. I more
than believe it. I have felt, and so I know. And that makes all the
difference.... Well, it all came to me one long night in the middle
of blinding darkness which seemed to send the world topsy-turvy and
then set it right again.... If I offend, I offend, but I will offend
men rather than God, for it is all quite true in to-day’s Lesson—‘The
foolishness of God is wiser than men, and the weakness of God is
stronger than men.’... Never mind readers, or traditions, or any of
those kind of things, for it is time we stepped right out of them. It
is silly going the roundabout dangerous way to heaven when God shows
a nearer and comparatively easy way.... I don’t think I have anything
else to say. I am glad you liked _Deborah_ from quite personal
reasons—and I hope you don’t want to cross out the bit about the
sties, because I daresay there are many other little women treading
over the Dark Path who have some such minor disfigurements, or even
greater ones. And as for what became of her. My dear sir! can’t you
_see_—according to the book she went to heaven—isn’t that the
ending? and a very nice ending too. Indeed, what could be nicer, for an
earthly altar isn’t in it. It has so much heathen self-sacrifice about
it.”

It will be seen from the above extract that the deleting of certain
passages was an understood thing, for she hopes that the publisher will
not need “to cross out the bit about the sties.”

It would seem impossible to imagine a more bright, gentle and lovable
nature than Miss Allonby’s, nor one less likely to give way to a
suicidal impulse. She was always of a happy disposition. All who knew
her loved her for her pleasant manner, her refinement, her good temper
and kindly sympathy. However, it may be recorded that she never enjoyed
very good health, being always frail and delicate.

Miss Allonby was born at Bankside Farm, Cark-in-Cartmel, North
Lancashire, on December 1st 1875. Her mother died when she was only
four years of age, and when she was thirteen she lost her father. She
felt his death very keenly, and it made a lasting impression upon her.
When she was seven the family moved to Liverpool, and she was educated
at St Saviour’s, Everton, at Grove Street College for Girls, and
finally at Whitelands College, Chelsea. On leaving college she became
mistress of the school at Bishopsbourne, Kent, where she remained for
three years. Then she took charge of the school at Bishop’s Fonthill,
Salisbury, and afterwards went to Lancaster as head of St Anne’s
School, and was there till her untimely and tragic death, a period of
four years and a half. When she took charge of the Lancaster School
it had a none too enviable reputation either as regards behaviour nor
education. By sheer strength of will, by the power of loving-kindness,
she made a wonderful change in two years. The children worshipped her,
became well-behaved, obedient and attentive to their lessons. The
school again earned its grants and gained good reports. One of the
Inspectors in a report said that her influence had brought the school
“from Darkness into Light.”

PREFATORY

The following words were prefixed to the MS. by the authoress:—

DEDICATED
TO
GOD

With all the reverence and fear
of which the human heart is capable.

* * * * *

As to the interpretation of the allegorical persons and incidents
which figure mainly in the second and third parts of the book,
we may remember Mr Augustine Birrell’s excellent phrases on
Browning:—“Lucidity is not simplicity. A lucid poem is not necessarily
an easy one. A great poet may tax our brain, but he ought not to puzzle
our wits. We may often have to ask in humility, What _does_ he
mean? but not in despair, What _can_ he mean?” This holds good of
writers in prose as well as in verse: and Miss Allonby’s full meaning
is scarce likely to be revealed on a first perusal.

PART I.

EARTH

THE FULFILMENT

CHAPTER I

Cold, cold, unutterably cold and silent. The woods were still, the
frosty air so still that not a leaf stirred. The moon shone white and
glorious; scarcely one shimmering cloud marred its strength; and the
stars tingled and gleamed and danced. White hung a silver robe of
sparsest snow over all the land, like a net of interwoven diamonds.
Away up north ran the Cumbrian Mountains, standing like giants against
the blue-black sky. There rose Helvellyn with its mighty hump, like a
headless criminal burdened high with woe: there the “Old Man”—he who
looks o’er Coniston—his beard and head quite white and blazoned by the
moon. Then stretching away from these, down to the coast and southward,
the barren Peat Moss—nothing but marsh and bush and scanty tree—and
bordering this on the land-side a range of hills, alternate wood or
grass, terminating in Ellerside and How-barrow.

There is a glorious view from these two hilly peaks: the one a barren
rock-strewn height, bare and uncompromising, the other, in its very
name, breathing its loveliness. “Ellerside Breast”—sweetest and purest
name—most beautiful of visions.

The rugged mountains, the lonely Mosses, grand in their desolation,
the wide expanse of woodland, the gentle fields, the green park with
its herd of deer and well-planned trees, the glorious sea and bay,
untarnished yet by aught but lonely cottages and farms along its
shores, the large Hall with its towers and stately cupolas, all make
the country round a dream of loveliness. But on this December night,
in its calm and purity, it has grown to grandeur. The heavy woods with
their black shadows look weird, their stillness frightens. No twitter
of bird or hum of insect, till suddenly the shrill tu-hoot of an owl
breaks forth and is repeated.

And suddenly, as if by the magic of it, you and I are transported to
that wooded Breast. We see a narrow path leading through the trees up
to a simple wooden seat, a narrower, more rugged one leading down from
it, a short, rocky space in front, and then a sheer declivity down
through the steep wood to the borders of the park. The quiet little
hamlet, never noisy, is now still with the silence of sleep. Nothing
but the owl cries out the reign of night.

And now having come with me thus far—stay—and cavil not, if
for a little time instead of flesh and blood I give you Spirits;
Spirits who in their intensity, their grandeur, and even in their
_littleness_, do far outvie our flesh-imprisoned selves.

There are two, and at first glance there is a similarity about them so
striking that you are compelled to look again.

One was a little above medium height. Every limb was sinewy, with a
lithe suppleness and gracefulness which glossed over the real strength
beneath. He stood out dark in bold relief against the moonshine—like
serpentine coiling smoke of clearest blackness. A face magnificent in
profile—though framed on delicate lines—and eyes deep, hard, dark,
far-seeing, far-reaching, unfathomable and cold. The other, at first
sight, bore a marked resemblance. But there were strong differences,
which showed themselves more strongly at every after-glance. He was
of about the same height, with the same perfect cast of features, and
there the likeness ended. White and pure and cold, he too was vividly
distinct, with a simple strength and purpose, and the grace, if grace
it can be called, born of these. In his eyes there shone simplicity
and pureness, and something stern too. He was standing on the extreme
rocky point of the peaked woodland, scanning the horizon, land, and
sea, and sky, and ever and anon his eyes travelled to one of the
millions of bright stars shining overhead. To this star the eyes of his
companion also wandered in contemplation. He sat upon the rustic seat,
bending his arm gracefully over the back and leaning there, his head
upon his hand. His left hand hung motionless by his side, and on its
middle finger shone a ring. A glorious belt of blood-red stones with
a brilliant one of remarkable beauty in the centre. It was the only
relief from darkness round about him, and though but a small thing, it
gleamed with magical effect.

Another “tu-hoot.” A slight wind rustled and parted the leaves, and
there between the two in the open space another figure stood, a spirit
of animation, beauty, strength and vigour. Slightly taller than the
other two, he moved with easy step and sat down by the opposite arm
of the seat. Then he looked up and revealed a face on which sat some
discontent and perhaps annoyance.

“Thank God to get away for a time,” said he.

“Contact with mortals makes you unmindful of manners.” The dark spirit
had spoken, gazing at him, laughingly.

“Yes, Plucritus. One cannot stay in an old farm-house for several hours
in the society of an over-fed midwife and not get slightly tarnished.”

“But what are you doing there?” said he who answered to the name of
Plucritus. “Over-fed midwives? What shocking bad taste.”

“Well, so it may be. But there I’ve been and there I’ll have to stay.”

“But why?”

“Destiny, I suppose—or perhaps ill-luck.”

“A girl or a boy?”

“A girl—worse luck still.” And he said it with such contempt that the
other’s laugh was perhaps excusable.

“You’re in for it and no mistake. If I am any judge you won’t get on
very well.” And the spirit Virginius alone saw the steady, penetrating,
sidelong glance that accompanied Plucritus’s idle words.

“No,” rejoined Genius.

“It’s ridiculous. You have made a mistake.”

“I never make mistakes,” replied the other, drily.

The blood-red ring gleamed scarlet.

“Never? Did you say never?”

“Yes. What a beastly night. That moon looks as sickly as the baby.”

“It is a glorious night.” Virginius spoke for the first time.

“You there, Virginius? I had not seen you.”

“Yes, Genius, I am here,” he answered slowly, but his face was turned
toward the mountains.

“Virginius is always there,” continued the dark spirit. “But tell us
how you come to be here. I saw the star, but scarcely reckoned it was
yours.”

“Well, the story is long and uninteresting. But to be brief and enclose
much in a nutshell, I have come to remove a curse.”

“Pooh! An impossibility. Bah! An idle dream.”

“That is exactly my own opinion. I am no good at removing curses.
Besides, the family is particularly unlucky.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes. It has a descent, I am told, from the coming of the first
Pretender, and is part Scotch, part Irish, and part English.”

“And in what does its ill-luck consist?” Plucritus had changed his
position. He was leaning forward, apparently examining and playing with
his ring.

“A few uninteresting sins, I believe. Debts contracted by ancestors
descended upon children. You know it, the Catechism explains it.”

“Heigh! Virginius! what is it?” And Plucritus threw back his head,
laughing indolently. But as he received no answer he quoted it
himself:—

“‘For I the Lord thy God am a jealous God, and visit the sins of the
fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation of them
that hate Me, and shew mercy unto thousands in them that love Me and
keep My commandments.’”

“What profanity!” said Genius, idly. “Do you know, Plucritus, I have
been often struck by your astounding knowledge of Scripture?”

And Plucritus, looking up, met the eyes of Virginius. It was but the
glance of an instant, but even the moonshine paled beneath the gleam of
steel against steel, flash for flash, quivering in the frosty light.

“I have to keep myself in touch with mankind,” he answered lightly.
“And that latter half of the second Commandment has always appealed to
me. But continue your story. I am interested. Tell me of this ill-luck.”

“There is really nothing to tell. The usual debts, you know, contracted
by those who willingly lend themselves to the devil. Gambling,
drinking, adultery, self-indulgence, self-centring. All these things,
when practised by successive generations, bring their accompaniments of
mental or physical weakness, sometimes both.”

“And in all cases moral decay,” remarked Plucritus, thoughtfully.

“In all cases,” said Genius.

“And so what you call ill-luck is simply just punishment,” Plucritus
continued.

“Maybe,” said Genius, carelessly, “maybe not. I do not concern myself
much about it. I am neither philosopher nor philanthropist, and I can
assure you I take this task upon me grudgingly. I have no wish to
become guardian angel to little girls.”

“You need not fear that. Virginius belongs to the jealous God, and will
look after his position jealously. Besides, after a time, you will
learn to like her.” And again he gave the sidelong, piercing glance.

“Not I. Before I arrived some malign fairy godmother had stepped in and
bestowed a bundle of infirmities; I suppose from other years.” Here
Plucritus laughed right out, and his laugh was very clear and low.

“Alas! poor Genius! you have been forestalled. A man afflicted that
way is bitter enough and bad enough—but a woman!”

“Yes. It has put me out considerably. For of all things I love the
beauty of proportion. And I am not able to find out who has done it.”

“Virginius,” said Plucritus, gaily, “it is to be the scourge and rod
wherewith He chasteneth. Now, had I arrived there first I should have
gifted her with rarest beauty—as a snare, you know.”

“Well, I am going now,” Plucritus went on. “The removal of a paltry
curse is but a paltry affair, scarcely worthy of my notice. But for all
that, before I go I will lay you a wager, Genius, that you will not be
able to perform your task.”

“And what is the bet?”

“Why, it will grow with time. At present it is nondescript and vague.
Say that ring upon your finger. But to show you that I bear no ill-will
let us shake hands for old comradeship.”

And so these two clasped hands and parted, and Virginius and Genius
were left alone.

Then Genius removed from the middle finger of his left hand a ring, and
held it in the moonlight.

It was a perfect round of opals, designed on exactly the same plan as
that worn by Plucritus, with a wonderful stone in the centre.

“Look at this ring,” he said thoughtfully. “Every tint of the rainbow
is blended in it, and sparkles at every turn, and yet running round
from stone to stone, and centring in the largest like one pure drop,
there is to-night a streak of blood, a streak of red, I should say, and
that means pain. Now I know the meaning of that. It means failure and
disappointment—two things that I detest more than any other.”

Virginius then likewise removed from the middle finger of his left hand
a ring of similar construction, but of diamonds, pure and flashing
bright.

“Look at this ring,” he said. “Every flash of dazzling light is
imprisoned in it. To-night it has shone with marvellous brilliancy.
Look at this centre stone; it is glorious. This means success.”

“To you, perhaps. But your reckoning of success is somewhat strange”;
and Genius looked at the dazzling purity with interest, for it was
marvellously bright. Presently he added: “And yet had we compared rings
with Plucritus I doubt not that he would have been able to express an
opinion too. I noticed the scarlet bloodstones were expressly bright
to-night.”

“Even so,” replied the other spirit.

CHAPTER II

The shabby old farmyard, small and dingy as it might appear to one
more accustomed to the outside world, was a huge and magnificent place
to the untravelled. The gates, the doors, the barns, the stables, the
cow-sheds, the very puddles and the cart-ruts were tremendous. The
swing in the granary took you higher and gave you a more delicious
feeling than any other swing could. In fact, you doubted if there could
be found another swing in the whole wide world worthy to be called a
swing beside it. Then when you went to play at “houses,” couldn’t you
just wander off on to the rocky lots and pick and choose just what you
liked? That very big rock was the drawing-room, and all the little
rocks the chairs and tables. And over there by the flat rock you had
your dining-room, and a little further off was the kitchen.

But you didn’t reckon much of the kitchen. You saw that every day.
But drawing-rooms and dining-rooms! you didn’t often get into these
in real life, for in your house there was only a parlour with a
glorious thunder-and-lightning carpet. For all that, the parlour had
its attractions too. The family never sat in there unless there was
“company.” Then, of course, state had to be kept up. On ordinary
days you played about the kitchen and listened to the ghost stories
of the servant girl. And my! no duchess in the land could have been
more interesting to you than that girl. She belonged to the Salvation
Army, and could sing hymns that really _were_ interesting, not
like those you sang at church, which were so roundabout you couldn’t
understand them. This is what she used to sing, and the tune was so
catchy and easy you could never forget it:—

“The devil and me
We can’t agree,
I hate him
And he-e hates me.
He caught me once
But he let me go-o
From the land o-of si-in and woe.”

Then when she got tired of that she would break forth thus:—

“We’ll all go to glory when we die
(When we die).
Oh, we’ll all go to glory when we die
(When we die).
We’ll all go to glory—We’ll all go to glory
We’ll all go to glory when we die.”

There was something rousing about that last. When one has been told a
thing about six times with much vehemence, one begins to believe it.

But her resources did not end with the religious. Bless you, no! When
she was peeling the potatoes she gained inspirations for ghost stories.

“It was as black as pitch,” she would say, in a low voice. “And as he
was passing by the oak tree he saw something ghastly swinging from
the branches. It was the body of a woman who had been murdered twenty
years ago. And he saw her throat was cut. And all the way home he heard
footsteps following him. And when he got there he fell down dead.”

It was gruesome, as of course it was meant to be. But the teller had
her reward. Some three or four pairs of blue eyes were all fixed on
her, mouths open, breath coming in short gasps. And then, of course,
she had the satisfaction of knowing that the children dared not go to
bed at night, and the still greater satisfaction of knowing that they
were too ashamed to own up to their fear.

The most wonderful part about her was that she would stop quite calmly
in the most awful part to remove an eye from the potato she was
peeling, and then she would actually say, “Where did I get to? oh,
yes.” There was something uncanny about that girl, she had so much
_sang-froid_, and was never frightened at the workings of her own
brain, as so many of us are.

But if you were to be told all the marvellous deeds she did it would
fill a book. In the end she was married and went to live in America.
She married a Captain in the Salvation Army. Probably she fascinated
him as much as she had the farmer’s children.

But it would be a pity, whilst one is about it, not to mention another
of her great charms. On a Sunday afternoon, when the work was all done
and she was dressed in her best, and wearing a silver locket, having
inside it the picture of her young man, the Captain, she would begin
to rap, in a peculiar way, upon the kitchen table with her nails, and
this is what she said, keeping absolute time with the aforementioned
knockers,—

“Go to bed, Tom. Go to bed, Tom.
Father and mother and everyone.”

One day when she was in an extra good humour she showed the children
how to do it. And then it was glorious; you could just imagine them all
walking off to bed carrying a candle apiece.

There was a great deal of life going on about the farm—so, at least,
the children thought. At night, when the men-servants came in from
their day’s work, it was really quite cheerful.

They used to sit at the wooden table. Then there was oat bread, and
plain bread, and cheese, and beer, and milk, and porridge. Upon these
occasions the girl always gave herself a few extra airs and graces.
She would sing little snatches of songs that did not belong to the
Salvation Army, and altogether her manner was different from what it
had previously been. Those of the children who noticed this never
commented on it. She was a person with whom they could never take
liberties. The men-servants eyed her from a distance, but they never
thought of approaching nearer. They had respect for her, and then, of
course, they had been given to understand pretty early the mysteries of
the silver locket, and respected the other gentleman’s claim.

One of them, who was the most good-natured and the best worker of
the lot, used at times to chaff her, but she took it with stolid
indifference, and so he gave it up. His name was Bob, and he was
good-looking, with a square, open, ruddy face, bright blue eyes, and
fair hair. He could eat a quantity of cheese and bread, and a big basin
of porridge besides. The children used to sit round him on the form
whenever they got the chance. It was really marvellous the way he never
choked after gulping down a whole pint pot of beer.

The other men-servants were not so interesting. They couldn’t ride a
horse like him, they couldn’t walk like him, they couldn’t laugh like
him. He was, in fact, about perfect. They were a very large family at
the farm—too large for a poor man, or rather too large for an unlucky
man.

The farmer had not started life a poor man, that is speaking
relatively. His grandfather had died a miller and maltster, leaving
a fortune of some few thousands. But the son could never make things
pay. His father had died when he was quite a boy, and his mother had
carried on the business very efficiently till her son was of age. He
had wished to enter a certain firm in a certain large town, but perhaps
the ambition had not been strong enough, or his stern mother’s will had
been too strong, for he followed in his father’s footsteps, and, like
him, could not, as has been said, make it pay.

He married young, a very pretty wife, and he was very proud of her,
and she of him. But there is little doubt he was unfortunate in his
marriage too. She had always been used to plenty at home, for her own
brothers (she was an orphan) were on the whole good business men. It
was considered when she married that she was doing very well. There had
always been a certain amount of pride and reserve about her husband’s
family that held them up as very respectable. They were supposed to
have come of a good family, fond of fast living, who had fallen low.
Her own brothers, especially her eldest one, were all prosperous men
doing well; and what more natural than that she should suppose the
same of her husband? She knew him to be clever, well liked, greatly
respected, and much consulted by everyone. She therefore had no doubts
at all that he was making money and laying by for future years.

So one by one the little children came, and had all to be provided
for. Ten of them there were, and two died young. Her own health failed
as well, for she had never been strong, and there is no question that
doctors’ bills ran away with more money even than hungry mouths.

She was a wonderfully good housekeeper, scrupulously clean and neat
in everything. Hospitable too; perhaps too hospitable, seeing her
husband was the same. Hospitable people get encroached upon, you know.
The people who receive from them salve their consciences by making
themselves believe the givers are well off. Like most beliefs it is
rotten, and worse than rotten.

However, her health failed, and after the birth of her last child she
was never much better than an invalid. But long before this the mill
had been given up and a farm taken. That was a very bad stroke of
business. Farming in England so rarely pays, and millers on the whole
are prosperous.

So it was the farmer found himself at forty-four a poor man with a
large family. Not that he would admit he was poor. He lived on the same
scale as he had always lived, and his wife never for one moment dreamt
it was a hard struggle to make headway.

He was reserved, and he was sensitive, and lacking in that courage and
determination which are essential to the business man. He loved peace
above all things, and though energetic and industrious he seemed to
have no power of bringing this energy and industry to good account.

When, therefore, his wife, now an invalid, tried expensive medicine
after medicine in the hopes of recovery, he paid the bills cheerfully
and never complained. And she, thinking the money always ready, would
take perhaps but a little of this, or a little of that, and leave the
rest untouched. It was the struggle to recover a lost constitution.
Poor thing! who could blame her? And he—why, poor thing too!—he too
may be excused. But in the midst of this heavy strain upon his finances
there suddenly came heavy losses on the farm.

One year the potato crop entirely failed and other crops were poor
as well. Then the cows had pneumonia, and several had to be killed.
Seven calves were shot together in the little field at the back of the
farmyard. Then the sheep had footrot, and after that two horses died,
and both were good and valuable. They were very dark days, terribly
dark days, but never one word of complaint was heard to pass the
farmer’s lips.

Had he been wise he would have given the farm up then and there and
have turned his sons out into some business, or at least his eldest
son. But, unfortunately, his eldest son was no good at figures or books
or lessons, and though he had the best intention in the world to work,
and much pluck in sticking to what he could do, he seemed incapable
of taking any situation that befitted his position as the son of a
well-to-do and much-respected farmer. The second son, a lad of about
sixteen, was absorbed heart and soul in the farm. He loved it, and he
worked well on it, therefore it was as well he should stay there. The
third boy was a mere child of twelve. But besides having to think for
his sons, the farmer had also to bear in mind his daughters, and of
these he had five.

The eldest was a girl of about eighteen. She was tall and pretty, with
a certain distinction that made people turn to look at her. The second
girl was about fourteen, good-natured and easy-going at that age, as
after. The third was a girl of about eleven, fond of dressing, fond of
admiration, impulsive and warm-hearted. The fourth was a girl of five.
Very fat and very pretty. She was sturdy and fought to go to school
when she was three, so she went and stuck to it. The fifth was little
better than a baby, just turned four, puny and delicate.

So the farm was pretty full, you see, and it could be no light task to
provide suitably for them all.

CHAPTER III

The bedroom was still. A candle burned on the chimney-piece, but its
light was only feeble. In the bed lay a woman, wasted and weak, but at
present sleeping, and there was no one else in the room. Downstairs,
supper was being served to the workers, and in the small sitting-room
the more grown-up members of the family sat. The children had gone
to bed and were asleep; the farmer was away at a meeting in the
neighbouring village.

And so the cold, shivering days of December, Christmas and the New Year
wore away. And with them silently and slowly the sufferer wore away
too. For months she had lain in bed, waiting and wasting, and now the
end of wait and waste was coming.

It had fallen to the lot of the second daughter to act as nurse, and
she fulfilled her part well. She was only a young girl, but had all a
girl’s devotion. It fell to her daily task to read to the poor invalid
the Litany from the Prayer-Book.

Who could blame her if now and again she omitted long clauses? That
Litany was so very long and dull, and the delight of skipping so
refreshing.

But even the Litany with its many repetitions must at last have an
ending; and there came a day when it was no longer needed—for the poor
soul that besought its God to hear it and have mercy on it had gone to
take its peep behind the curtain.

It was bitterly cold in the first month of the new year, and there
upon the white bed lay the corpse. The smell of coffin wood and burial
flowers intermingled—white waxen flowers that looked a part of the
white waxen figure in the snowy shroud. Beautiful and peaceful and
care-free was that thin face, now the restless fragment of life had
left it.

In the adjoining room, all alone upon the bed, sat Deborah, the little
sickly baby. It wasn’t very nice having anybody dead in the house—you
had all to go about quiet, and the rooms were dark.

Just then the door opened, and in came Deborah’s eldest sister. She had
been crying.

“You may come with me to see mother,” she said.

So together they went. Marion held the younger sister up so that she
might see and kiss the dead face—and it was perhaps in that first
glance at the dead that she became conscious of her own life.

How beautiful, and strange, and far-away looked that weak and ailing
mother! She who had let you nestle beside her in the bed and kissed you
every night and morning. But now she was going away to heaven—to be
really beautiful and never to be ill any more.

After that life settled down pretty much as it had been before, and all
the usual little trivialities went on in the farm.

Marion became mistress in her mother’s place. Susan was sent away to
school. Elinor, and fat, chubby, sturdy Maggie went to school near by,
and Deborah, being the youngest, stayed at home.

It was very nice being at home all alone, as then she could wander
about the orchard and garden, and the yard and the lot, and be happy.
Besides, there were nine special chickens to feed, and they were so
tame that they would let Deborah carry them about; and she used to sit
upon the little stone slabs at the door and feed them—and they were so
greedy that they nearly upset the tin with the oatmeal paste in it, and
if she didn’t look quick about it she nearly always missed her share,
for naturally she always ate a little with them. Also they used to
drink in such a funny way, holding their heads up and letting the water
trickle down their throats, but though they were always hungry they
didn’t often want to drink—so perhaps they belonged to the Blue Ribbon
Army like the servant girl.

Then there was the old grey cat. It was the most wonderful cat on the
earth, and the biggest. But alas! poor thing! it had seen bad days.
The girl (you will understand that to mean the servant) let some
scalding porridge fall on it one day, which made it so timid that for
a long time it would not come near anyone. And when it had got over
that catastrophe and was one day sneaking round the stable, probably
in search of mice, one of the horses struck out and kicked it on the
head. Ever after that it walked about as if it had forgotten something,
and formed a great affection for Deborah. They loved each other very
sincerely, and she used to nurse it by the hour together; it used to
lay its great head upon her little breast, and she for pure love used
to kiss its velvet ears.

Besides, the grey cat was really so much better behaved than the black
cat. The black cat was cruel and wild and would think nothing of
killing and eating a mouse before your very eyes. Moreover, it often
went away from home for six weeks at a time, and never left word where
it was going to, nor when it would come back; which was decidedly
bad manners, to say the least of it. And it was pretty certain that
it never went away for any good purpose, because after it came back
the least thing would frighten it, and it would fly off for the least
sound, just like some guilty person.

Then there were the little Bantams—two little Bantam hens and a Bantam
cock—they kept quite aloof from all the other big clumsy fowls, and
refused to let their small and pretty families mix with them.

Then there was the fierce old sheep-dog, Spring, who died. There was
a very grand funeral and a properly-dug grave. Jack, the youngest
boy, acted as grave-digger, clerk and clergyman all in one; he was so
serious that he never saw anything the least bit funny about his work.
And there followed him to the grave-side, Elinor, Maggie and Deborah,
all wearing a remnant of black.

They were strange days—curious dream-like days—and they followed each
other silently, like shadows over grain fields.

Thus the time passed on, and gradually, gradually, the cloud darkened.

Some said when his wife died the farmer showed every sign of
relief—perhaps, poor man, he did. In the ruin that was staring at
him he could face it better alone. She was not quite the woman to
invite, he not the man to give, confidences. Oh, Life! Life! Life! how
many couples are there that will face these things bravely? How much
selfishness would have to be torn from its very heart-roots! How much
narrow-heartedness and shallow depths have to be swept right away!

But, by the irony of fate, though he had escaped from his wife he could
not escape altogether from his family. He must provide for them and
look after them, ruin or no ruin.

Accordingly, two years after his wife’s death, he gave notice that he
was leaving the farm, but where he was going or what he was going to do
no one knew.

When it was heard that the farmer had given up the farm everybody
talked.

Naturally people wondered what he was going to do; he was getting
middle-aged, they thought, and too old to start a new line of business.

The real fact probably was that he did not know what he was going to do
himself. He wished to get to some town and there try what luck would do
for him. Experience had not yet taught him that he was essentially an
unlucky man.

Along with all these worries for the farmer his children lived their
own little lives.

Elinor had her photograph taken and went and spoiled the family album
by going into the parlour secretly and forcing all her photos (a round
dozen) into the empty spaces. She tore the paper and spoilt the album,
and you may be sure she did not get off lightly.

Next, Maggie found out whereabouts in this same wonderful parlour the
iced Christmas cake was kept. She went quietly and helped herself to
the delicious sugar. At first they thought it was a mouse. So it was,
but just a little two-legged one, who was soon found out, and suffered
the natural penalty of such greed.

Deborah, however, didn’t do much in this interesting line. She had no
individuality, and it always needs individuality to err. At this time
she had more respect for the grey cat than for any human being, and
more love for the speckled chickens than anything beside. They made up
her small world and she was quite content; it would have been far too
much trouble to commit any of the faults common to childhood.

The farmer, in his spare time, taught her her lessons—and that was
the beginning of the great love she afterwards bore him. He bought her
a wonderful book with pictures and words in, and by the time she was
seven she could read and understand quite well.

Just about this time a boy from the town came to stay with them. He
was a very well-to-do boy, and the son of very worldly people, and he
looked down greatly upon Jane and the men-servants on the farm. But
he formed a great attachment for Jack, the youngest son, probably as
being much older than himself, and able to teach him some wonderful
country games. He was a very curious boy and had what might be called a
wonderful conceit of himself.

One day he appeared before Deborah with a very determined air.

“We’ve known each other nearly a week,” he said decidedly, “so it’s
quite time we were engaged.”

“All right,” she observed cheerfully, for it all seemed quite natural;
and she began to plan a place for him among the chickens in her
affection.

“Yes,” he went on, “but of course I sha’n’t be able to give you much of
my time. I’m a boy, you know. Some day I’ll be a man, so my life will
be a much grander one than yours. You’re only a girl.”

“Yes,” remarked Deborah, and accepted the inevitable with contentment.

“Then if you like you can take a short walk with me now.”

“All right,” said Deborah again. So they went.

For some days after that they took the usual short walk, till one day
he began in the same decided way.

“We’ve been engaged long enough. It’s time we were married.”

“But we’re not old enough,” said Deborah. This was too quick work
altogether for one who always let things glide.

“Yes, we are. Besides, if I’m married to you now I shall feel bound in
honour to stick to you. Otherwise, when I go away I may forget you.”

It seemed a very terrible thing to be forgotten, so she consented.

“But how are we to do it?” she asked.

“Oh! we stand together with the sky above us, and you must say to me,
‘Bernard’ (not Bay, that’s only short, you know) ‘Bernard, I take you
to be my wedded husband’—and then I shall say to you, ‘Deborah, I take
you to be my wedded wife.’ After that it’s all done and nothing but
death can part us.”

So they went together to the old rustic, ear-wiggy seat in the garden,
and were married very solemnly. And he got his place among the chickens
in her heart, and what place she got in his it would be hard to tell,
as it was a very matter-of-fact union.

Some days later he came with a more serious and thoughtful air.

“I’ll tell you what I’m going to do,” he said, sitting down upon the
floor and clasping his hands round his knees. “When I go home I’m going
to school. Then when I’m old enough I shall be going to Oxford. And
after that I’m going to India to shoot big game. Then when I’ve made
a name I’ll come home and marry you proper—on the very day you’re
twenty-one.”

Now there was something very exciting about all that, which awoke even
phlegmatic Deborah, the more so as she was too ignorant to understand
the half of it. Even the grey cat got up to stretch itself, but after
blinking idly at the speaker it settled comfortably once more in
Deborah’s lap.

“What’s Oxford?” she asked curiously.

“Oh!—er—it’s a place where you go to learn to look down on everybody
who isn’t as good as yourself,” he answered, first with hesitation,
then with decision. “There’s another place called Cambridge where you
can go to learn the same thing,” he added as an afterthought.

“But—it’s not a good thing to learn, is it?”

“Of course. If one is a gentleman one must know it, and let other
people know it too.”

“What do you mean by big game?” she asked next.

“Tigers and elephants,” he answered, his eyes sparkling.

“And could you really shoot a tiger?”

“Of course. Just lend me that old cat, and I’ll show you how it’s
done,” he said, springing up. But all Deborah’s instincts revolted at
the thought.

“No, indeed,” she cried, and put as much of her two hands over it as
would go for protection.

“I won’t hurt it. Just you lend it to me and I’ll—”

“I won’t, it’s got the headache and feels tired.”

“Got the headache!” exclaimed he with great contempt. “Who ever heard
of a cat with the headache?”

“It has got the headache,” she persisted. “Darling kicked it—and it’s
had the headache ever since.”

“Well, it’s only a tame old thing, so it wouldn’t do. But listen to me
and I’ll tell you about shooting big game. I shall go on an elephant
right into the thickest part of the forest.”

“How will you get up?”

“Climb, of course, up a ladder. Then in the thickest part of the forest
I shall suddenly see two eyes like fire shining down at me. Then I
shall take my gun—one—two—three. At the third shot it will fall
mortally wounded. And then, so that everybody may really know I’ve
really shot the tiger, I shall have it skinned, and bring the fur home.”

“But suppose instead it killed you,” observed Deborah, who by this time
was fully roused to the possibilities of such an event.

“Well, you see, I shall have to be a pretty good shot before I could
think of going out. And after that—well, a man with a gun, who knows
how to use it, is a match for a tiger any day.”

They became very great friends indeed, and took the short walks
together every day most religiously, till at last the time came for his
going away.

They met each other in the kitchen lobby when there was no one there,
and kissed several times very sadly. Deb wiped her eyes with the corner
of her small pinafore, but he kept up manfully.

“I’ll come back when—I’ve shot the big game—and—you’re twenty-one,
you know.”

But he never shot the big game, and he never came back.

CHAPTER IV

Once more night was reigning, but the frost had gone. It was cold, but
with the chilliness of late spring, not winter, and the gusty wind blew
heavy clouds across the sky. A rainy mist hid the mountains, and added
darkness to the already dreary night.

And even as the night was indistinct and gloomy, the Spirits were
indistinct and gloomy too. The soughing, sighing wind as it passed
among the branches was miserable, but then it is this same dreary wind,
they say, that purifies and clears the air.

“The old home, as they call it, is to be broken up,” said Plucritus.
“The farm was a very bad speculation. It has never paid.”

“Who is to blame?” asked Genius.

“Why, the farmer. He is one of those delightfully amusing and
interesting men so rarely met, who can legislate better for other
people than for themselves. He gives other people advice gratis, they
take it and prosper. He gives himself advice, and follows it, then
fails.”

“Yet,” said Genius, slowly, “I respect and like the farmer. He is a man
of well balanced and proportioned judgment.”

“Oh, yes. That makes him the more interesting. He’s a bad speculator,
that’s all. Personally, I am not particularly fond of him, you know.”
Genius laughed.

“That should be a mark in his favour,” he said.

Plucritus laughed in turn.

“Well, no. I am not fond of him, but I’m going to cultivate his
acquaintance more. When I am interested in a man I always cultivate his
acquaintance. Humanity is so very interesting.”

“Thousands of years have not altered it then for you?”

Plucritus shook his head.

“Oh, no. We tire of our playthings but do not lose our interest in the
game. Besides, where you are I must of necessity be.”

“But you mistake. I am not with the farmer, I am simply bound to have
an interest in one of his children.”

“And I have an interest in the same child, and therefore through that
child an interest in the farmer. Not that I can do much, but still I
can watch the game, and help when needed.”

“You do not mean to work him any harm?”

“Oh, no. I am powerless to work real harm, you know, being but an
inferior power. Let him but pray to God Almighty and he’s pretty safe.”

“Yet to-night I am gloomy and ill at ease.”

Hereat Plucritus burst out laughing.

“You’re a fool,” he said. “Why don’t you go away and leave them?
Tawdry, poor and plebeian—what are you dreaming about? Go away now and
you are doing the greatest kindness; stay, and you will only create
misery and death. You can go to hundreds who will repay and appreciate
your presence—whilst where you are you will never be understood. The
sight of that child’s puny face and figure sickens me. You are going
the right way to make yourself the laughing-stock of all.

“These people are going from here to the town, to live a very humdrum,
miserable, ground-down sort of life. There will be nothing elevating,
nothing intellectual—nothing in the least refined about it. There will
be a great deal of nonsense talked about refinement, the sort of thing
you abhor, but no true refinement in itself.”

“All the more reason then why I should stay to make up the deficit.”
But a shadow crossed the face of Genius.

“Will you _stay_, or will you _go?_” Plucritus had reached
across the wooden seat, and as he whispered the words his hot breath
blew upon the cheek of Genius like some unwholesome fever-blight in a
pestilential marshland.

“I will stay.”

“Fool, fool that you are, and rightly mated with a fool. Stay then and
become a kind of circus-clown, a kind of Punchinello with a hump—not
meeting with applause like him though, but with jeers and scorn, the
only thing you’re fit for.”

And away he went, and the blood-red rays from the blood-red ring
flashed round about him like a blood-red sulphur cloud.

“Why is he so eager for my departure?” asked Genius, turning to
Virginius, who stood there silently as ever.

“He has his own reasons doubtless, but they are hard to fathom.”

Virginius came and sat down beside Genius. “But you will stay. Duty
demands that you should stay—and I can say, or beg, or ask no more.”

“Yes, I will stay.”

“Shall you care for the change, do you think?”

“To me, as you know, it is immaterial.” Then Virginius smiled. “I
apologise sincerely for my apparent disinterestedness, but like your
human soldier I am bound to take the country as I find it. All my
energies are bent on reconnoitring and organising; there is nothing
left for ‘buts’ and ‘ifs.’”

“It seems to me, Virginius, if you would but stoop to make yourself
agreeable, and put on some little affability, you might be a ready
match for Plucritus and the rest of them.”

But before this the cold and stern expression had returned.

“The trickery of bribery is beyond me,” he observed.

“Beneath you, you mean,” said Genius, somewhat sorrowfully. “I can
understand it.”

Virginius now rose, and began pacing back and forwards upon the
rock-crowned hill-top. The wind still cried in misery, and big drops of
rain fell upon the earth.

For some time silence prevailed, till at last Virginius broke it.

“Genius, I am going to make a request; I am going to ask you to look at
me.”

“That is easily done. I have fulfilled it.”

“No. I am going to ask you to look at me. When I am most silent, look
at me most.”

“That is precisely where the difficulty comes. Plucritus is so
essentially interesting and fascinating that he attracts attention
entirely to himself.”

“You will see less of his fascination in the future. You have thwarted
him and he dislikes you. You see you are not working as an immaterial
power.”

“What a topsy-turvy rendering,” said Genius, and he laughed. “No, I am
working in the concrete—with a child. The child has a mind so pliant
that it bends to my slightest whim most unconsciously.”

“That child also, besides having a mind, has what, in this world, they
honour with the name of soul.”

“Oh, yes, but that’s the unknown quantity over which one half the
world stumbles blindly and the other half develops itself into a
superstitious bigot.”

“You make sweeping statements.”

“Contempt for the world has taught me it.”

“I should advise you to restrain that contempt. But let us return. In
the same way that you exercise a strong power over the mind, so do I
exercise a strong power over what is called the soul.”

“Yours is the harder work,” said Genius, and he laughed.

“Yes, the task is always difficult and delicate. But this child is not
particularly addicted to any particular sin. That is in a measure owing
to you. You have a knack of absorbing vices to a certain degree within
yourself—in the same way that you absorb passions, thoughts, and even
actions.”

“Well, let us proceed. What does this lead to?”

“Simply this. I wish to warn you. Plucritus dislikes you because you
have thwarted him; he dislikes the child because its natural tendency
is more toward good than evil; and he dislikes me because I am his
natural and his greatest enemy.”

“Well, a triple alliance should certainly overcome him.”

“There is no alliance,” replied Virginius, earnestly. “I am
unable to make alliances except those which spring from unstinting
self-denial and self-sacrifice. Our alliance now would be simply one of
self-defence, and that to me is impossible.”

“Then,” cried Genius, seriously, “I suppose it means we have each to
fight the devil separately.”

“That is what it means. I wish to impress this on you as it is the last
time we shall meet for many years and be able to converse as friends.”

“Then you are able to foretell the future.”

“No. I simply watched Plucritus when he spoke, and by long experience I
have learnt somewhat of his tactics.”

CHAPTER V

The farmer and his family left the old north-country farm and went to
live in a large town some sixty miles away.

To the children at first this was all delightfully new. The house was
bigger, the rooms higher, and altogether it was wonderfully strange.
Hot water upstairs and down was a tremendous luxury, and a bath into
which Maggie and Deborah could both get together, and still leave
room for Elinor if she had also a mind to come, seemed really too
miraculously funny for words. But when you looked outside it was not
so inviting. To be sure there were trees in the garden opposite, and
very pretty gardens and trees belonging to the houses at the back, but
there was nothing loose, nor wild, nor natural about them. They hadn’t
breathed the scent of air blown off the Fells, nor drunk of the rain
whose clouds had blown across the Cumbrian Mountains. No, they were
simply city trees and city grass, and gave one a feeling of unrest and
unhappiness one could scarcely understand, for at the time you didn’t
understand that you were comparing them with a fuller, freer growth far
away. And here there was no interesting servant to impress them with
her conversation. And no milk, nor porridge, nor fowls, nor chickens,
nor anything that there had been before. The old grey cat had been
given away, and only the best of the furniture transplanted. So that
at the bottom there was something distinctly sad about this new home.
However, they settled down, and after a time things looked a bit more
ship-shape.

Then came the vital question—Where were the children to go to school?

Opposite their house was a semi-detached villa in which lived three
ladies who conducted a private school. It was eminently respectable,
indeed select, and just the place for the three younger girls to be
sent to. About five minutes’ walk away was a large church school, very
respectable and in good working order, and also well conducted, but
still supplying only elementary education.

Marion determined they should go to the former. Their father, for once,
was resolved they should attend the latter.

It was a very uncomfortable time.

“They will grow into little common vulgar things,” said she.

“They will get a sound education,” said he.

But that had no attraction for her—perhaps she did not quite
understand the phrase.

So matters went on, and after a terrible deal of argument the children
went to the elementary school. Their father took them himself, and
Elinor confidently, though privately, affirmed afterwards that the
schoolmistress fell in love with him, though on what grounds it would
be hard to say. Elinor loved to circulate stories like this—it added
zest to life. This precocious young lady had previously gathered Maggie
and Deborah together and admonished them.

“Now you’re not to speak to any of the children at this new school
we’re going to. They’re very common, and if you talk to them you’ll
grow as common as they. Now do you hear, Maggie? You’re to make no
friends at all.”

“All right,” said Maggie.

“Aren’t we to speak to them if they speak to us?” piped Deborah.

“Of course not. Now remember. At dinner-time I shall ask you.”

How Maggie fared Deborah never knew, but she herself fared badly.

She was placed next to a very loquacious child to whom pride,
_that_ kind of pride, was a sealed book.

“Yer’ll need-a-bag ter keep yer books in like me,” said she.

No answer.

“D’ye ’ear? Yer’ll need-a-bag.”

“Ye-es.”

“Yer new, aren’t yer?”

“Ye-es.”

Then she began stroking Deborah down the back in a most friendly manner.

“Is this yer frock or yer pinnifore?”

“It’s my frock.”

“Sara Jenkins, come out, you’re talking,” came the sound of a teacher’s
voice across the class.

“Please it was me,” said Deborah, getting up, trembling in every limb.

“Sit down. Sarah Jenkins, come out.”

So out went Sarah and received two raps with a cane. She came back
howling and wringing her hands, but she soon recovered.

“Have you ever had the toffee stick?” she asked.

“What’s that?” queried Deb.

“Why, the cane. Yer don’t know nothing.”

“No,” said Deborah, meekly.

“Shut up—she’s looking at us.”

Deborah reddened painfully. It was the first time she had ever been
told to “shut up” by a stranger.

Thus the time passed till twelve o’clock.

The three children waited for each other.

“Did you speak to anyone, Maggie?” asked Elinor, imperatively.

“Oh, no,” replied Maggie, and looked straight ahead.

“Did you, Deborah?”

“I—I only said ‘thank you’ when a girl lent me a pencil.”

“There was no need.”

On the second day Elinor altered her order.

“You can speak to the other children,” she said. “Some of them are
really very nice.”

But Elinor was a cure.

She was up to as many antics as the day was long, and formed a
friendship with all the pupil-teachers of that school, keeping them for
the most part screaming with laughter, or open-eyed with astonishment.
For the particular mistress who taught her she formed a more reverent
attachment.

One day Deborah came across her just before school time, busy stuffing
the front of her bodice with brown paper.

“What are you doing?” she asked languidly.

“Well, you see, Miss So-and-So has a remarkably good bust, and I want
to be more like her,” she answered.

“But you’re not going to school like that,” said Deborah, still with
the same half-interest, as she saw Elinor fastening her buttons over
the crude padding.

“Of course I am. What’s wrong with me?”

“Oh, nothing,” but she eyed her with mild astonishment.

All that afternoon the pupil-teachers were a mixture of giggles and
laughter, but Elinor looked as serious as a judge, and as matronly as
if she were her own mother.

A little while after this a mouse ran out in her particular class,
causing most naturally great excitement.

“Oh! OH! Miss Montague, there it is just behind you! There, behind your
foot! Oh! Oh! it’s run up your petticoat!” and Elinor ran out to shake
her skirts. “There, it’s run under the desk.” But it had really run
under the desk long since, only Elinor had grown tired of the monotony
of sitting still, and the others enjoyed it immensely; to see the
dignified teacher skipping about thinking the mouse was on her was to
them delightful.

Elinor did not stay long at school—she left in about a year. She
had never made much progress there, lessons evidently not being her
particular _forte_.

The only thing she had perhaps really learnt was to recite Gray’s
“Elegy,” and even Miss Montague gave her credit for being able to do
that.

The school lives of Maggie and Deborah afterwards became fairly calm.
Marion also was reconciled to the inevitable, chiefly no doubt because
one of the clergymen sent his son to the same school soon afterwards,
and upon that there followed a doctor’s daughter. This girl made great
friends with Maggie and Deborah, and the friendship lasted for a good
many years. But she at least was strong enough to keep to the rule of
never speaking to any other girls but as inferiors.

When she first came her mother had expressly forbidden that she should
be caned; consequently the other girls detested, even hated her.

Deborah out of school soon forgot all about all this. She never formed
any friendships except with those girls who distinctly put themselves
out of the way to approach her, and these naturally were very few.

There were two things only that made up her world. One was love for
her father, and the other, love of a world created out of involuntary
dreams.

Together with her love for her father went a strong religious tendency;
she had a great belief in the goodness of God and the love of Christ.

Instinctively Deborah felt the cloud that was hanging over them, yet
could not account for it.

For the first two years after leaving the country her father had
answered various advertisements, and gone personally in search of
situations, but nothing ever came of them. Then came a third year,
one of the dullest and gloomiest that could be imagined. There was
very little to live on, and only those who have had to live on nothing
and yet appear as if they lived on something can fully understand its
miseries.

Perhaps the saddest and most miserable thing of all was to see the
farmer in his best black coat. It had grown very brown and old and out
of fashion, and because he had grown thinner it seemed rather to hang
on him. There had been a time in the country when he regularly went to
church in it night and morning, for he had been a churchwarden nearly
twenty years. But now he never went to church at all. He read the Bible
at home some times instead. You see he had no top hat; the one that
formerly shone so well and looked so smooth was now shabby and old,
and how could a man who had regularly gone to church in a silk hat for
twenty years and was now growing old ever accustom himself to go there
in anything inferior?

Besides, he had no money, and once when Deborah, with a child’s
pointedness, had asked him why he never went to church now, he
replied,—

“One’s clothes are too shabby, and it looks badly to put nothing in at
the collection.”

When he said it he had looked out of the window and she only saw the
back of his head, which was growing very white and bald.

On a week day he wore an old grey coat, which was also too big for him,
and it was also very, very shabby.

But Deborah loved that old grey coat, it was somehow or other so very
like him, and he used to wear it in the country; only then it had not
been frayed at the corners as it was now.

At night, when she came home from school, he always helped her with her
lessons. He used to rule the lines with a round ruler, and he never
ruled them crooked nor made a smudge, as she was always doing. But it
must have been a bitterly miserable and humiliating time to him; he had
never been idle in his life before, and now there seemed absolutely
nothing for him to do.

His second son had gone to America, whilst he had placed his third
in an engineering office. He had congratulated himself upon this last
stroke of business, and felt confident he had given him a good start in
life; but very curiously, very depressingly, the whole thing went smash
just about this time and added to the general misery.

Jack, therefore, went for a while to stay with an uncle in the country
and do his book-keeping.

Of the girls, Marion stayed at home to look after the house, whilst
Susan took a situation as mother’s help. But it was a very unsuitable
place and she was obliged to leave. However, from there she went to a
children’s hospital to nurse. This was at eighteen. She stayed there
for several years and then went into one for adults. Afterwards she
took up private nursing and got on very nicely.

Elinor, when straits came to a very bad pass, was sent to learn
dressmaking. From the accounts she brought home they seemed to be very
strange kind of people, and perhaps she was right, as once when she
landed at the place in the morning it was to find they had decamped,
which naturally brought her home in the greatest state of excitement.

Maggie and Deborah continued at school, being too young to leave it.

“The end of it will be we shall all have to turn out and become
servants,” Marion used to say.

That seemed a terrible thing. They had not been brought up to think
that a servant is as good or as bad as a duchess. But then—who ever is?

And so the time dragged on.

After a time their father began to go regularly to town each morning,
and things at home began to look a bit brighter.

It’s wonderful what a change a little money can make after absolutely
none; one feels one has a right to live in the world where otherwise
one would be far better out of it.

Next, the greatest thing was that the farmer was able to buy a new suit
and a new hat. He looked quite a gentleman again and was once more able
to attend the church.

Still, though the cloud had lifted it had not by any means dispersed;
only they had become so accustomed to the deep gloom that this partial
lift seemed like the bright sunshine.

CHAPTER VI

In the front bedroom the gas had been lit and lowered. The objects in
the room showed obscurely, till suddenly there flashed into it three
lights—one purest white, one blending every colour of the rainbow, one
brilliant red—but after the first clear flash more dusky.

Plucritus leant his hand upon the wall and looked upon a picture. It
was quite a small one—a simple print—but when the glowing light
around him shone on it, it seemed to gain life and size out of all
proportion to the room.

“There! what do you think of my picture?” said he, turning to Genius.

“Your picture? It belongs to me,” he answered. And there was evident
annoyance in his tone.

“Pardon,” replied Plucritus, lightly. “You and I lately seem rather
to have rubbed each other and quarrelled over trifles. This is a
little print in black and white—not worth a farthing—it is in an old
frame scarce worth a cent. It is therefore worthy of the flames—and
therefore, by most biblical reasoning, it belongs to me.”

“The Bible be damned!” said Genius, striking his hand upon the maple
bed-post. “I say it belongs to me.”

“Virginius, he has _damned_ the Bible,” commented Plucritus,
ignoring the last remark. He spoke in a half-serious, half-comic tone,
with just a little heightening of surprise in it.

“No,” said Genius, quickly recovering himself. “I simply wanted to
express an opinion upon biblical reasoning.”

“But still for all that you have damned the Bible.”

“You enjoy the repetition.”

“Well, it sticks to me. It is but a trifle; but then I remember
trifles—life is made up of them.”

“Yes. It is for that precise reason that I demand the rights of the
picture. It belongs to me.”

“Oh, I see. You wish it to stand as a kind of object-lesson picture. Is
that it?”

“Exactly.”

“Then I give way at once. I did not quite understand you. I thought you
meant to monopolise the personages represented in it.”

“Well, so I do,” asserted Genius, smiling. “They are in some ways very
nearly allied to me.”

“Indeed?” said Plucritus, affecting astonishment.

“Indeed and indeed,” replied the other. “The Spirit who accompanies the
man in this picture is my twin brother—at least I please to think so.”

“How you must feel for him,” said Plucritus, sympathetically.

“But do you know, Genius, without wishing to tread on your corns in the
least, I must admit to being a little vain.”

“Of what?”

“Well, of my histrionic powers.”

“Ha! you had better be careful. I am very jealous;” but he was laughing.

“Yes,” continued the other. “I can manage acting with the exact ease
and precision with which you can manage it yourself.”

“Well, let me see some of your acting,” remarked Genius, “so that I may
judge of your opinion of yourself.”

“I shall be only too delighted. Now, as you know, Deborah is coming to
bed in a few moments.”

“Yes, I am waiting for that. It is then that the real teaching begins,
the only kind she truly appreciates.”

“But for all that you do not monopolise the whole of her attention.
Deborah has some little regard for her father.”

“A very strong affection,” affirmed Genius.

“As you will, but please do not look so serious. The thing I am going
to show you is purely farcical.”

“Plucritus,” said Virginius, speaking for the first time, “I must ask
you to leave this alone; the child is not old enough to fight the
battle.”

“Fight it yourself then. What else are you here for?” he answered.

There was silence, and there came swimming through the mind of Genius
the words of Virginius—“When I am most silent, look at me most.” But
though he looked he saw nothing.

Just then the door opened and Deborah came in.

The room was dark, as the gas was very low, but after groping about she
managed to turn it up.

Then she began to unfasten her frock, and was very soon ready for bed.
When ready, she knelt down to pray.

Plucritus now stepped forward and sat down by the bedside. He took her
two hands in his very tenderly.

“Debbie,” said he, “don’t you think it would be a very good thing to
pray for your father?” His voice was so low that it sounded just like
sweetness.

“Oh, yes. But I don’t know how. I can only think it.”

“Well, listen to me and I will tell you. Say this after me.”

So she clasped her hands very tightly and closed her eyes.

“_Please, God, let father live a very, very long time._”

“Please, God, let father live a very, very long time,” she repeated.

“_And let him be very, very happy._”

“And let him be very, very happy.”

“_Let the business that he goes to every day be a very prosperous
one._”

“Let the business that he goes to every day be a very prosperous one.”

“_And let his death-bed be a bed of roses._”

“And let his death-bed be a bed of roses.”

“_And let me soon grow up to work for him._”

“And let me soon grow up to work for him.”

“_And let me be with him always._”

“And let me be with him always.”

“_And let me be with him when he dies to comfort him._”

“And let me be with him when he dies to comfort him.”

“Please, God, oh, please, God, do. Amen.”

She added that last line herself, she was so frightened He might
be hurrying off somewhere else and think she only meant it a good
three-quarters instead of a brimming-over whole.

But during the prayer Virginius had drawn very near, and just before
the ending he placed his hand upon the kneeler’s head and Deborah felt
a sudden thrill of pure happiness run through her.

Scarcely, however, had his hand touched her head than Plucritus with
his free hand tried to wrench it off, and not only tried but succeeded,
and a feeling of intense misery followed the thrill of joy.

“It is because I love him so, and I dread the thought that he should
ever die,” she said; and then she prayed it all over again still more
fervently.

“God is love, and God is good,” she said. “And He loves father because
he’s good too, and so He’ll look after him real well,” and then she got
up feeling very comforted.

Plucritus turned to Genius.

“How did I manage it?” he asked.

“I suppose I need not tell you,” Genius answered. “Ah! what have you
done?”

“You should have been watching,” said Plucritus. “You are just too
late.”

Once more he had turned the curious dull red light upon the picture,
and changed it by this glamour till it seemed almost life-size. And
Deborah, led by what she did not understand, looked across at it.
It had been put there for the first time that day, and was a simple
representation of a wooded terrace and a garden. On the broad steps a
woman stood, upon the ground a man—dressed for a period some three
hundred years ago.

Deborah looked and looked again, and then with a sudden start, the
colour rising to her cheeks and the light to her eyes, she walked
across to it.

“How funny! How very funny!” she exclaimed, and looked at the picture
for a long time without speaking. Then she looked at the words
underneath it, and they were:—

“Against my wish I am sent to bid you come to dinner.”
“Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your pains.”
“I took no more pains for those thanks than you took pains
to thank me.”

“How curious,” said Deborah. “I suppose these words are what they’re
saying to each other. How beautiful they look! Just like the people in
my world.”

Then hearing someone calling she put the light low and got into bed.

Deborah, once in bed, was happy. The day was over and done; that long,
half-miserable day in which you were never sure from one minute to the
next whether you were going to be punished for some offence you hadn’t
done. For then it was that Genius, taking the child in his arms, showed
her all those pictures and scenes that she so loved.

From this earth she flew away to another just as real, where the people
lived and talked like us; only not quite like the people she met every
day, as Deborah’s life was bound up in the church-school walls and the
poverty-stricken home.

Indeed she loved the other world far more passionately and clung to it
far more faithfully than ever she loved or clung to this.

“I love to watch them and listen to them,” she used to whisper to
herself. “They never bother to notice me nor try to send me away, and
that is what I like.”

And watching them along with Deborah from the very earliest times was
always a crowd of grown-up school-children.

“Why don’t they go away?” she used to ask herself. “No one asked them
to come. They’re too inquisitive by far. But though they look in some
ways like school-children they are quite grown up, and they behave far
better and are far quieter than ever school-children are.”

No wonder Deborah loved this other world.

It had in it every glorious blended colour of the rainbow, and was
essentially so different from the life she led herself.

Still, though she gave almost all her time, consciously or
unconsciously, to this other world, she did occasionally spare some of
it for thoughts upon religion.

It would, perhaps, have been impossible to find a child with a stronger
belief in God’s power and goodness, or one who tried to walk in the
right path more earnestly.

But along with it she was constantly trying to gauge the depth of her
own truth and feeling.

On this particular night of the hanging of the picture she was
especially wakeful.

“Now I wonder whom I really do love best,” she said to herself, “God or
father?”

“You love your father best,” said a voice.

But because it was very low and even, she thought it must be the devil.

“I don’t,” she answered; “I love them differently, that’s all. Father
lets me kiss the back of his head, but God I worship.”

“Did you hear that?” said Plucritus, turning to Virginius. “That is
capital. ‘God I worship.’ Why are you not more clever? When I speak
she takes me for an angel; when you speak she makes sure you are the
devil.”

CHAPTER VII

The appearance of prosperity on the farmer’s part lasted for just
about two years. During that time Maggie won a scholarship and went to
another school. Deborah still remained at the old one, and still did
the old home-lessons.

It was with great joy she once came home to say she had got the prize
for these same home-lessons, and her greatest pride was that half the
glory of it all was father’s. And he was just as pleased. Poor man!
he didn’t get much success, so who could grudge him that? And he went
to see her get it, though he didn’t often go to that kind of thing;
and she had been so very nervous for fear she should make a mistake in
going up and so make him ashamed of her. But the gentleman who gave the
prizes had patted her ever so kindly on the head and he said he thought
the home-lesson prize the best prize of the lot, for it showed the
people at home took interest in the children’s work.

After that the children at the school wrote an Essay on Kindness to
Animals for a prize given by the well-known Society for the Prevention
of Cruelty to Animals.

Naturally Deborah wrote one too. And the farmer put himself out greatly
to gather together material for her to write upon. He looked up
anecdotes, and told her some of his own personal experiences. And who
could have had more personal experience than he? Why, he had been one
of the best drivers in the country round, and the horses just seemed to
know when he held the reins, and curved their necks and champed their
bits accordingly.

But no, there was no prize gained for that; the solitary prize they
gained between them was that little book for home-lessons. He was
disappointed, though he never admitted to it. However, he took her face
in his two hands and said,—

“Never mind, we’ll try again some other time.”

He had arranged that she and Maggie should be teachers, and because she
had perfect trust in him she thought that teaching was the finest thing
in life. Besides, he and she had arranged that when she grew up and he
was getting old (she could never bear to think of that, though) they
were going to live together.

“I’ll make him so really happy,” she used to say to herself, “that he
won’t know he is not walking on velvet carpets all the while,” and she
meant it.

Matrimony had no attractions for Deborah.

“How anybody can go and live with a strange man they haven’t known all
their lives I don’t know,” she used to ponder occasionally. And she
used to sigh.

“I expect it’s because their fathers are not half so good as mine. I
never met anybody, not anybody, half so perfect.”

So the time went on. And every night, since that first night at the
beginning of the two years, when she had uttered the prayer for him,
she still continued to pray. Repetition instead of weakening only
strengthened it. Nightly the silent tears would squeeze themselves
between her closed lids because she felt it all so strongly. And every
night she rose from her knees comforted. It was as if God stood there
and said: “Yes, I will take care of him. He has been very good and very
patient through all his losses and failures. And now I am going to let
his last years be very happy ones. Only trust in me, and have faith.”

One night after this fervent prayer Deborah got into bed feeling in
love and charity with all men.

Now, she was very frightened of the dark. “I feel as if when I’m in
the dark there are things pressing all round me,” she used to say to
herself, “so that I cannot breathe.” But she had also been told by
various members of the family that people who were frightened of the
dark had evil consciences. Therefore she used to try to overcome this
excessive fear by earnest prayer.

On this particular night, however, she seemed for once to have got
the better of her fear, as she neither closed her eyes nor pulled the
bed-clothes very high about her head.

The real truth was she had got on to one of her favourite lines of
thought—the devil.

“I can’t understand the devil,” she said half aloud. “I think he’s a
silly old thing. The idea of him setting himself up to fight against
God! Why, he might know he’d be beaten any day. I’m not the least bit
frightened of him with his ugly horns and hoofs—he doesn’t seem to
know whether he’s a man or a cow.” And she laughed.

But before the laugh had ended a curious sensation came creeping over
her. It was as if something were compelling her to look at the foot of
the bed, and she looked.

The light was pretty low, yet high enough for her to discern the
objects around; but by the lower bed-post there was an unfamiliar
shadow.

Deborah felt as if some power beyond herself was dragging her up in bed.

“Sit up,” said the voice.

“But—” she gasped.

“No buts,” said the voice.

So she sat up, grasping the pillow behind her with both hands, and for
the first time in her life, and perhaps the last, she knew what it was
to feel her hair literally rising.

And there—yes, Deborah never forgot it—there stood the dark, dusky
form so different from that which her imagination pictured.

Her first wild longing was to get up and run, crying for help, but
every limb seemed frozen.

“What! will you run away from that which you have laughed at?” said the
even voice. “Look!”

She looked.

It was a face and figure to remember, just above medium height, not
too tall. One arm rested on the bed-post, and he was slightly leaning
towards the bed. But the face. Every feature was perfect and most
finely cut. The chin a little square, though more inclined to oval. The
mouth proud and firm, with lips bent into a cruel and perpetual smile.
The nose straight and strong and perfect. The forehead high and with
one deep wrinkle. But the eyes—who, having seen them, could forget
them? They were the only thing about him that was not human. They were
deep-set, gloomy, cruel, far-reaching, and yet not the least like human
eyes. They seemed as if they showed you things, terrible things, too
awful to be spoken of.

And Deborah, held by a power much stronger than herself, looked right
into them, into those great black sombre dusky balls of hidden fire,
and they returned the stare.

Suddenly she began to find the feeling of extreme fear passing.

And gradually as it had come the vision melted, but Deborah still
continued to sit up in bed.

“I wonder what the angels were about to let him get in,” she thought,
her heart still beating hard. “And when I said ‘Jesus Christ’ he never
moved a bit. But he hadn’t any horns as they always give him in the
pictures. I wonder how I knew it was the devil. I expect because he
looked so horribly dark and bad. I’d best sit up for fear he returns.”

She sat up, and some time afterwards she heard her father coming to
bed. She called him in just to have the light turned up and see a human
being again, and after that she lay down and slept peacefully.

Still, though Deborah remembered the scene for ever after she never by
any chance mentioned it to anyone.

“They would only say I imagined it,” she said, “and laugh at me for
believing in a ghost. Besides, if I did tell them they wouldn’t
understand, as it wasn’t a ghost.”

And after a time the incident slipped back into the dim recesses of her
memory, only to be called back at a later date.

CHAPTER VIII

Two years had passed away, and the January of the third had begun. The
scene was once again upon the hillside, a bright starlit night in
January 1889. But the same miserable wind of two years back was moaning
through the trees, and well it might.

On the broken seat sat Genius all alone, his head bent in his hands,
unconscious of the wind, the cold, the night.

Whilst he sat thus thoughtful Plucritus glided silent on the scene.
The blood-red light from the blood-red ring shone round about him in
glorious, feverish light. There was nothing dull nor dark about it now.

“Ho! you here, Genius? How disappointing! I came for a little quiet
midnight stroll far from the haunts of spirits and of men, only to meet
with you.”

“Liar!” And looking up Genius revealed a face fraught with all pain and
suffering.

“Call me what names you will, I am in glorious form to-night. I have
compassed death and bound a captive, spreading much suffering.”

“Ay. And be careful in that same net you get not bound yourself,”
Genius observed, springing up.

“Threats are like foam on water—idle and useless when applied to me. I
have been with the farmer through all his so-called agony, and it was
very fine.”

“Is he then dead?”

“Oh! dead as these sodden leaves beneath us is his body. Drowned in
the winter water. I was with him to the end. I whispered in his ear
his many sins, I and my brother. And when the end came the heavens
were shining bloody red around the dying sun, and their ironical glory
struck even him.”

“And well they might,” said Genius, speaking huskily, “and well they
might.”

“Once I remember when he was a lad he fell in the mill dam and was
dragged out more dead than living. Later in life, perhaps some fifteen
years ago from now, he went to London with a friend to look round an
exhibition. As they stood watching some machinery working the thing
exploded. By curious fate the friend beside him was killed upon the
spot, but he remained untouched. He returned to the country alone.
The one was taken and the other left. Is it not strange that he whom
Providence twice spared as by a miracle should in the end have come to
curse his birth and take his life?”

“Yes, it is strange,” replied Genius, “and passing strange. Devil
incarnate! how much had you to do with it?”

“Why, everything and nothing. It was my little fire-fly, my glorious
Will-o’-the-wisp that danced among the dark and blackened branches.
Ting! Ting! the magic music played, clear and entrancing. ‘Providence
has spared you once. Providence has spared you twice. All for what?
Can it be that you are kept—simply just to be bereft of all life’s
pleasures? Ting! Ting! No. No. Try again! This only once.’ Tinkle!
Tinkle! And he tried—only once—only once—on, on, to the bitter
end—when the clear ball burst.”

As Plucritus spoke he moved about from spot to spot, laughing at almost
every line. “Poor, misguided fool! How he shuddered and paled when Fate
raised the pall and showed him his own death of shame. How he stared
aghast and hollow-eyed when he understood the trickery played on him!”
and he laughed again.

“Have you no mercy nor consideration?”

“Well, yes. Of the bread-poultice sort. I put it on luke-warm and
forget to remove it when cold. It sends such a delicious feeling of
ill-comfort through the sufferer. Poor Genius! Poor tricked fool! Poor
poser of impossible virtues! Why are you here?”

“Because at present I am not wanted elsewhere.”

“And why so melancholy? Are you not thankful for a holiday? Away from
all the tawdry narrowness, you should shine. Now listen to me.” And
suddenly he turned and came and sat upon the seat.

“I am listening. But keep that damned light of yours out of my sight.”

“Oh, certainly.” And with a sudden movement all had darkened.

“Now listen to me. For the last twelve years or more you have been a
failure. You have been placed in soil in which you do not thrive—soil
having very little nutriment.”

“Pardon me,” said the other, laughing scornfully. “The duller the
background the brighter and clearer the picture shines. Mind your own
business and leave me to mind mine.”

“I am minding my own business, and your business is mine, and I am
capable of managing both,” replied Plucritus.

“Well, continue.”

“I say you are in the wrong place. Go away. Leave her. I can put you
where you can be far better thought of, far better loved.”

“And could you find me a more unconscious or more loving pupil?”

“I could find you a more appreciative one,” Plucritus answered quickly.

“That is not the point, and I prefer for once to stay.”

“It is sheer pig-headedness.”

“Exactly. The pig has always interested me. Have you anything more to
say?”

“What! you will stay with the daughter of a thief?”

“Even so.”

“He who took the widow’s substance that was trusted to him?”

“Even so.”

“You will stay with the daughter of the coward and the suicide?”

“Even so.”

“Are you thinking what you’re saying?”

“Even so.”

“When, may I ask you, are you going to move the curse?”

“When the time comes.”

“You will not move it, you will deepen it.”

“I will argue it when the time comes.”

“Genius,” said the other one after a pause, and in a different voice,
“I do not think you fully appreciate the extent of my powers.”

“Perhaps I do not.”

“I—I am stronger than you think,” he went on warily.

“I think I can fathom the depth of your strength.”

Just then the white light flashed across the ground and showed
Plucritus in the act of throwing back his head and laughing silently.

“Ha! what are you up to now?” asked Genius, hastily. But in an instant
Plucritus had flashed the counter red light on the scene.

“There is Virginius somewhere round about. I was laughing in the dark
to be reminded of the farmer’s death. Thinking that justice at last
would have its day.”

“The farmer is not damned?”

“Oh! excellently damned. Irrevocably damned,” and Plucritus laughed.
“Now comes the farce ironical. I am most interested in my prayer.
To-night and last night it has altered slightly. There are no more
prayers for a prosperous business, no more prayers for a happy
death-bed, no more prayers for a long life and lasting happiness.
It’s all merged into one insane and childish cry ‘_God, bring him
back—Oh, please, God, do!_’”

“When will they know the actual facts?”

“On Wednesday, I think. I am going to be merciful, you see, and bring
him back. His crossing to Ireland simply meant more expense. The dock
wall or the river would have answered any day. But that has nothing to
do with my present quest. I have come to ask you for the last time,
Will you go or stay?”

Genius rose, and round him shone his own warm, dazzling lights all
intermingled.

“Had you been kinder I might have acted differently. But you forget, or
reason is at fault. They say on this earth that such as I are born in
pain; rightly or wrongly I would not presume to say. But as it is this
suffering simply draws the sufferer nearer to me.”

“And farther off from God.”

“As you will. That is Virginius’s duty, none of mine. Why do you laugh?”

“You speak so innocently, so childishly, you make me laugh.”

“I understand you,” answered Genius, with some slight contempt. “It is
useless bandying words with you.”

“On the contrary, I laugh from the very bottom of my heart—or what
in me corresponds to that function in the human breast. I laugh at a
delicate joke, the flavour of which even you cannot appreciate.”

“Enjoy it whilst you may—at a future time must come the reckoning
day.”

CHAPTER IX

Thus the two years of prosperity had ended in deeper gloom than that
in which they started. Christmas had gone by in the usual festivities,
and rather strangely the whole family had met together on Christmas
Day—for the last time.

At the beginning of the New Year, Maggie and Deborah had gone away to
stay with some friends at the other end of the town, and Maggie had
gone two days previous to Deborah, who was going in for an examination
on the second day. And Deborah, whose love for her father seemed to
grow with each succeeding day, felt the short separation greatly.

“It’s only for five days,” she said to herself. “And he’s coming to
bring us home on Saturday, but how I wish he were coming too.” For
lately he had looked very, very ill. His face had been grey and his
eyes curiously absent, and he had had a bad cough for many weeks, and
he said he suffered greatly from lumbago.

Besides, he had not gone down to town so often lately—or if so not
till later in the afternoon—and there seemed very little money.

Deborah, seeing this, prayed all the more earnestly the simple prayer.

“He’s all right,” she used to say at times. “It’s only me, I’m
fidgety.”

But on the day when she had to go away she felt as if she could
scarcely bear to part with him.

Whilst she was busy making her preparations in the morning for going he
read the paper. But every now and again she ran down to speak to him,
just for the sake of saying something, but he seemed even more silent
than usual.

At last when she was ready he came up into the lobby to see her off.

She threw her arms round him and kissed him with all the passionate
love she had for him, and he kissed her, and said to her,—

“Mind thou does well now. Mind thou does well.”

It was not very elegant, was it? But be that as it may, they were his
last words to her, so perhaps even the severest critics will let them
be. At the time she thought they referred to the examination she was
taking, but afterwards, long years afterwards, they came to have a
broader and a clearer light.

“You’ll come early on Saturday,” she said. And the door closed.

She went off lightly into the town, feeling somewhat bright and happy.

He never came on Saturday. On the Friday he went away from home when
the others had gone out for the evening to some friends. He went away
all alone in the cold, shivering fog and took the night boat across the
raw, dark sea. The next that was heard of him was that he was drowned.
From the Friday night until the Wednesday night nothing was heard at
all.

It was Jack who came to bring them home on Saturday, and he came in the
morning instead of at night.

How miserable it was going home! Let alone the biting wind, how cold
and cheerless it was in every room!

There was his hat and all his things, just where he always left them,
because he’d put on very, very old things to go away in—things he
hadn’t worn for years. Why, he’d taken that old grey coat that was so
frayed, and which he used to go to tend the bees in—and now it was
mid-winter, and the hum of the bees was silent, and the scented flowers
all dead. He had taken everything that was old and thin and worn,
and all night long he had stood on the deck and spoken now and then
to a sailor. It was terribly cold, one of the coldest nights of the
year—and he had such a dreadful cough.

Two days afterwards they’d found him dead, or drowned—who can tell,
who knows? For none was there to smooth the bed of roses or to soothe
the last happy end.

The long heavy hours passed from Saturday morning until Wednesday
night. No news, nothing but the long, long wait and sickening hope that
had no brightness in it.

At last the desolating news was known. Jack brought it home, and after
he had told those upstairs he came down into the little cellar kitchen
and told Maggie and Deborah. They could tell by his face as he came
in the door what had happened, but he just looked at Deborah, perhaps
because she looked so terribly hard at him, and then he came in and sat
down and took her on his knee and turned his head away and said “It’s
all over,” and his voice seemed very husky.

That night when Deborah went to bed the queer pain nearly stifled her.

Never to be able to kiss him again; never to take his hand; never to
sit on his knee and sing “Lead, kindly light,” whilst he whistled,
nor any of the other hymns and glorious hunting songs which he had
taught her; never to sit on the chair beside him and work neat rows
of figures; never to play another game of chess, which she so loved
because he always let her win; never to play bézique again with him,
nor get his yellow slippers from the cupboard; never to put her hands
again into his pockets to find out what was there; never to hear
him speak, and never, never see him, was terrible. Under ordinary
circumstances this great trouble would have made her pray more
earnestly for comfort unto God. But now as she knelt down to pray each
word seemed strangled in her throat and like to strangle her.

The only prayer that came was the one uttered for him—that prayer
which now was smashed to shivering atoms. For, truth to tell, Deborah
had never prayed for anything else but him; he had been the one great
earthly link that joined her to God.

Who can talk twaddle abstract to a child when its very existence is in
the concrete?

“I can’t understand it. I can’t understand it,” she cried in horrid,
aching pain. “It seems as if something had really listened to my
prayer and answered it all the other way about—or—or God can’t have
listened. They say at school that God is love—but oh! oh! I can’t bear
to think of the pain he’s forced father through, and then to have left
him in the end to drown in misery, and all alone.”

She got up from her knees without a prayer.

“There’s nothing to pray for,” she said dully, and got into bed choking
with sobs.

The next day someone said it was a great mercy that it was known for
certain he was really dead, and that they ought to be very thankful
they were able to bring him back.

It was said by someone for a little comfort, even as we all try to
comfort each other at such sad times.

So when Deborah went to bed she thought she’d try to frame a prayer on
that.

“Please, God, thank you for letting us really know he’s dead,” she
said; but the next minute she was on her feet. It was no good, no good
at all.

The God Almighty whom she had loved and praised and tried so hard to
please from her earliest years seemed to have developed into a harsh
and cruel tyrant.

“Father was so good and kind and patient,” she cried, “and he had to
put up with such a lot that no one ever knew of. Oh, God, tell me why
you’ve done it, tell me why.”

But God never answered, for God’s ways are not man’s ways, neither are
His thoughts our thoughts.

Yet though all Deborah’s feelings revolted against God she dared not
own to it—not even in her deepest heart.

“I’m very wicked,” she said earnestly. “It’s all for my good that
father’s gone.”

Then something within her rose burning hot and strong. “I don’t care
if it is for my good. I hate the thought of it being for my good. Why
should he have to suffer for my good? I’m not worth it. If that’s the
case it makes it all the worse to bear. Besides, it isn’t for my good.
I feel all black and ugly and uncertain and half stunned.”

They brought her father’s body home and placed him in a better coffin,
and then he was taken away to the churchyard in the North, to lie under
the shadow of the great grand church, in the same grave with his wife.

It was terribly strange when they brought him back into the house.
Maggie and Deborah were in bed, and Maggie was asleep.

“It’s him,” said Deborah to herself, sitting up in bed to hear the thud
of feet.

How helpless, how terribly silent was the entrance now! And he never
came upstairs to kiss them nor to say how he’d fared whilst he had been
away.

No. And they didn’t jump out of bed and look over the banister, nor
call to him. No, it was all different now.

Yet last week at this time he’d been alive and moved about this very
house, contemplating in all seriousness and desperation his own
approaching death.

Two days later they took him away again in the dark, cold morning.

“It isn’t him,” cried Deborah, inwardly. “He could never die. I can’t
live without him. He was everything to me. I don’t believe he could
die. He was too great and good to ever die.”

There came another piece of news.

The farmer had been the sole trustee for £700.

But when inquiries were made for it at the bank it was found that it
had gone.

There then lay the explanation of these two last seeming prosperous
years.

And all blamed him, for he was in the wrong, and the law is for
the punishment of wrongdoers, and no man has a right to take his
neighbour’s goods.

Deborah at the time scarcely felt or understood this latter shame.

The first blow had been so strong, so sure, that for the time it
paralysed every other feeling beside.

CHAPTER X

It now seemed that a new and different life had begun—one in which the
sky was dark and cold and grey, and in which there was no beauty.

They had been very, very poor once before, but now they seemed even
poorer, and life seemed a misery and an uncertain drag.

There was still Elinor and Maggie and Deborah at home besides Marion,
and Jack, who had come home to study for a Civil Service examination,
had not yet obtained an appointment, although he had passed.

He would probably have had to give it up but for the kindly help of a
nobleman, the son of a duke, whose tenant the farmer had been, and he
was thus enabled to obtain an appointment in the same town.

Elinor went away from home to keep house for an uncle, she being about
this time nineteen.

Then set in those days of poverty and greyness and lovelessness which
are so bitter to old and young hearts alike. But to Deborah, for the
time, the feeling of utter emptiness and desolation deadened all others.

There was no one to come home for, no one to want to look nice for, no
one to watch for at the window, no one to work hard at lessons for, no
one, in fact, to do anything for.

They called it “home.” Perhaps in some ways it still was home, but
where is the real spirit of home when father and mother have both gone?

There was little of light or warmth in this home now. It had dwindled
down to four, two being children and two grown up.

And so things went on, without much love anywhere, chill and
comfortless.

Besides the desolation caused by the sudden cutting of loved
companionship there hung round the house the feeling which always
follows on a tragedy.

It appeared as if in every room there hovered a silent, fleeting cloud
of pain—none the less felt because it was not seen.

On the stairs, in the hall, in the sitting-rooms, in the shabby little
bedroom, and in the kitchen one felt as if the dead face were still
looking out, hopelessly, miserably, silently, and many a time, when
Deborah passed through, the sharp aching pain she was getting to
understand so well would rise full in her heart to think of him.

Her mind constantly dwelt on him; it was impossible to forget.

Nightly she dreamt about him, and it was always that he had come back
again.

Each night for months the same dream would come, each time with some
little change to give it more reality, and each morning she awoke to
find it but a dream.

Each night and morning tears filled the place of prayers, since father
was gone, and along with him everything worth living for, and the
remembrance of his misery remained alone.

These terrible dreams went on for months—horrible, hateful things,
like some refined torture, holding the brightness of hope for one
minute only to supplant it the next by the blackness of despair.

Deborah always believed that he had really come, as sometimes he would
take her hand and smile and say, “I have really come this time, it
is now no dream at all,” and she would awake happy, only to get up
miserable.

At last there came another quite different dream, one whose beauty and
reality was like cool, healing balm to hot suffering.

She had been walking in a straggling village street, filled with small
houses and everyday people. There had been no aim about this walk; she
remembered stopping to talk to some persons by the way and looking in a
little sweet-shop window at some large pink sweets marked four-a-penny.

In the midst of all this triviality there had come a dreamy, far-off
voice which said, “Follow me on to the end—follow me to the end.”
Thereupon, looking onwards, she saw at the end of the street a narrow
gateway.

“I expect that’s the end,” she said idly, and walked on slowly, not
thinking much about it. But when she came to the gate it led into a
silent wood, and somehow the silence spoke so loudly that she was
constrained to go in.

A path led onward—a narrow, ragged path shaded with heavy trees.

Onward she went, on, on, and ever as she went the path grew wilder,
lonelier, and the great branching avenues and trees more grand.

It was a hard and weary road to tread, and at last her feet began to
grow very tired from the rough stones and the long way she had come.

“Why am I going on?” she said. “The voice was so far away that I
scarcely heard it; perhaps it was only a dream. Besides, whom am I
following?” She walked on again. “I expect it’s father,” she said at
last. “He’s the only thing worth following. If I could find him I
should be happy.”

As this grew into a conviction she gained hope and courage and pressed
onward. But still the great gnarled forest grew in silence and in
grandeur, and ever the path grew harder to tread.

It seemed then as if she grew so very tired that one foot would
scarcely move before the other, but still she went along, till at last
in extreme weariness and pain she fell down under a large tree among a
great heap of dying leaves.

Then through one of the big black avenues of trees had come the figure
from the picture, the man on whom she had looked with such curious
interest when the print was first hung.

It seemed as if from that point a good many roads branched off, all
dark and rutted and gloomy.

He glanced down some of the paths and bent his brows as if to try to
pierce the darkness, and presently his eyes lighted on Deborah lying
there.

Now Deborah was very pleased to find this man. By some curious process
which she did not understand he had long ago left the picture and
passed, a real and substantial figure, into that other world of hers,
so that in the midst of all this loneliness she quite felt she had
found a friend.

Instead of that he only looked at her very thoughtfully and coldly,
and with a rather unfriendly surprise, and turned away.

It was a very great blow to her, as naturally she could not realise
that although she had always been looking at him he never before had
looked at her.

Just as he was turning away he turned back again.

“Will you keep your father waiting?” he asked. But he said it as if it
were an afterthought, and rather uncertainly.

After that he disappeared, but where she could not tell.

So there was nothing to do but to get up again and go on alone.

Presently the road seemed to grow worse still, and it seemed as if it
would never end.

“Why am I coming?” she kept saying to herself. “No one told me I was
coming for anything, and I’m beginning to think father can’t be here at
all.”

And then in the darkest, weariest part the road bent suddenly to the
right and there was father!

She was so pleased to see him that for the time she thought of nothing
else.

But after a while she looked around, and there on one side she saw the
forest, and behind him on the other a glorious, pure white light was
streaming. What it was, or what its shape, she could not tell, but it
was something like a cross, and then an altar.

And this meeting was full of happiness which had in it no pain.

Why, even as she stayed there he left her and went away to walk in the
glorious garden beyond the light, but she scarcely felt the parting,
and laughed and said, “Why, I’ve let father go;” and he answered, “No,
I’m here. I walk here, whilst you walk in the shade.”

And she woke from her dream comforted and happier and lighter than she
had ever been for months. But afterwards she thought about it very much.

“I wonder what that light was. I really wonder what it was. As soon as
it shone on me I felt happy. I’ll go back into the forest again and
find out.”

But she never went, neither did she dream of him again in any form.

“I want to go back again, I want to go,” she cried. “I want to find him
and talk with him again, for I felt no pain when I awoke.”

CHAPTER XI

Then as the months passed by everything settled down into a more or
less level state.

But in Deborah’s life two great gaps had been made—one the place left
empty by her father, the other the place left empty by God.

Both had completely disappeared together, and she had no more power to
recall the one than the other.

Not that any difference showed itself on the outside. She was still the
same quiet, unobtrusive, uninteresting child, with the same bundle of
infirmities and the same nervous dread of people and of things, which
latter infirmity, however, only appeared now and then.

“It’s no good,” she would say at times after trying hard to pray.
“I can’t do it. I haven’t the same interest in praying for myself.
Besides, where’s the use?”

But giving up religion was a hard thing to Deborah. It left life so
grey and lifeless.

There were no more beautiful dreams about the angels, and no more trust
in God’s love and mercy—and without these religion was a blank.

Gradually, however, every bit of her spare time became filled by the
people from that other world.

It was not left till night to visit them—she was with them nearly all
the day.

At prayer time especially they called all attention to themselves and
by degrees she forgot to feel the sharp stinging pain whenever she
knelt down beside the bed.

“We are acting the part of God in turn,” observed Genius to Plucritus.

“Perhaps so,” said he. “But this is a species of idolatry.”

“At any rate I am not playing the part of a deceiver. I am what I
appear to be.”

“Not you. Half your time you spend in masquerading as the man in yon
picture.”

“Well, and don’t I tell you that he is my brother— my twin brother?”

“All the more reason why you should steer clear of him. I’ve no faith
in the love of twins. Remember Esau and Jacob.”

“A pure relationship of the flesh, by which a man sold that which
didn’t belong to him for a dish of red pottage.”

Hereat Plucritus laughed and changed the conversation.

“Have you noticed how silent Virginius has been since the farmer’s
death?” he questioned.

“Yes.”

“He is fretting, I believe— suffering from a kind of distemper.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes. I should say he was labouring under an acute attack of the sulks,
brought on simply because I’m a good hand at making prayers.”

“Ah!”

“He has not forgiven me yet for those half-dozen sentences I taught
Deborah. I expect he would like to have been the instigator of them
himself.”

“He would have worded them differently, or at any rate under the
circumstances, and knowing the facts, he would have omitted them
altogether.”

“Virginius is a bungler,” said Plucritus.

“How can a spirit who never attempts anything ever bungle?” asked
Genius impatiently.

“Does he never attempt anything?” And Plucritus laughed in a harsh,
disagreeable way.

“Never that I can see. His only work seems to be to stand there
immovable and receive insults.”

“Now and again he will lay his hand lovingly on the heads of little
children,” said Plucritus, mockingly.

“Only to be pushed off again.”

“That may be. But as you seem down on him I must stand up for him,
since above all things I love fair play. Now I’ll tell you a very
pretty story, and one which the children would say was ever so funny.
Listen. You know that every night when Deborah is asleep you fly off
to your own land, and are, I should say, mightily glad to get there.
But I am not so fortunate—at least of late months I have preferred to
stay. So each night, being left alone, I have prepared a very pretty
dream—very realistic, very simple, just the kind of thing a child
would appreciate. Having played the part of God to such perfection
I now took to playing the part of the farmer. I had learnt all his
expressions both of word and feature, and could act up to his part to
perfection. Naturally Deborah was taken in. She would put her arms
round me and kiss me in the most affectionate way possible. Meeting
with thus much encouragement I was far too kind-hearted to give it up.
I made many excuses for my long absence, and even went so far once as
to explain that that had not been me in the coffin at all, but someone
else. _That_, as you know, was quite the truth. But though, truth
to tell, I got a bit sick of it, I always had my reward in the morning.
She would awake with a face as round as the moon, to be changed in less
than five minutes to one as long, or longer than the proverbial fiddle.
Now Virginius, who is always staring and gaping and never for two
seconds shuts his eyes, saw all this, and he raised his saintly voice
to interpose. He said it wasn’t written down in the book, but I was
able to prove to him that it was. Well, after that he bided his time,
and one night just lately he descended to concoct a dream himself.
Naturally I was curious to see what it would be. It was a most artistic
one. He didn’t do it all himself; he got one of the spirits up there to
paint the scenery for him.

“It began in a village street and led from there into a forest. You
know the kind of place—a rather different kind from what one meets
in this world; a bit better done, perhaps. Well, Virginius had really
been most ingenious. I could not for the life of me understand why a
mere child should be shown such a scene as this, so I kept myself on
the alert to help if need be in case of emergency. Moreover, I resented
this intrusion. The forest was mine, the path mine, and I marvelled
at his audacity in daring to portray them. Now Deborah got very tired
of that walk, for it was longer than she reckoned or than she knew;
moreover, it was a trial of faith, as she wasn’t quite sure what she
was going after. But she went on for a long time fairly well. At last
she fell down” (here he laughed). “They all fall down, you know, and
then what was my surprise to see approaching from an opposite path that
gentleman,” and he pointed to the picture. “You may be sure at this
point I was fully awake. ‘Now then, Virginius,’ said I, in my most even
voice, ‘we’ve had quite enough of your foolery. This forest belongs to
me.’

“Now I believe Virginius’s idea had been that this man should help
Deborah out of the forest, or that they should help each other out.
But that did not suit my way of thinking. Virginius was doing his best
to make the man say something, so he paid no attention to me, but I
knew he had odds against him. The gentleman refused to hear the weak
voice, since by this time I had interposed, and all Virginius’s good
intentions fell through.”

Here Genius, who had been greatly interested throughout, interrupted
him.

“And do you mean to say he went away without saying a word?”

“Who? Virginius?”

“Why, no. The human being.”

“Well, no. In this world we are never distinctly brutal to each other
till we cannot avoid it, and politeness oils the wheels of life. So
when he had turned away he turned back again. ‘Will you keep your
father waiting?’ said he.

“‘What’s the good of letting the cat out of the bag?’ said I; so he
took my advice and went on alone, which was just as I wanted. But
Deborah, who didn’t need much telling when she was going in quest of
her father, got up, and that was rather different from what I wanted.”

“And what happened to them?”

“Well, I can hardly tell. I believe she saw a Will-o’-the-wisp shining
in the forest and took it for something else.” He looked intently at
Genius and laughed. Then he continued,—

“As for the man, well, I would not presume to say.”

“And that is the end of the dream?”

“Exactly and truthfully.”

“The Will-o’-the-wisp?”

“Certainly.”

“Then there was another fall?”

“Well, yes, I expect so. She muddled and draggled through the black
mire till she didn’t know whether she was standing or falling.”

“And that is the end of the dream?”

“How many more times do you want telling? Did ever anybody ever see
anything else in the silent forest besides Will-o’-the-wisps?”

“Why yes, at times I have heard of the pure light.”

“Oh, God!” said Plucritus, and he laughed. “Oh, God!”

CHAPTER XII

The years glided by fairly smoothly so far as outward events were
concerned.

Maggie won a scholarship which enabled her to take a three years’
course at a better school—and Deborah afterwards won the same.

Maggie became a pupil-teacher in the school where they had gone
when they first came to the town, and afterwards Deborah became a
pupil-teacher there too.

Deborah did not like teaching; it had only been in father’s lifetime
that it had appeared to her the least bit nice. You see she had a great
many infirmities, some easily discernible, some less so.

But there was nothing else that she could be, so the inevitable had to
be accepted.

Not that she was distinctly unhappy at teaching, far from it.

“If there is one class of people I despise it’s the people who grumble
at the work they have to do,” she used to say. “Pride alone should keep
them from it.”

So whenever anyone asked her how she liked teaching she always said,
“Very much indeed;” but if they still asked if there was anything she
would like to be better than a teacher she always told the truth and
said, “Yes—a nurse.”

She had quite made up her mind that when she had passed all the
examinations necessary for teaching, and was old enough, she would go
into training for a hospital nurse, because she loved to look after
sick people.

Sometimes some people, just for the sake of talking, probably, would
press the question further and ask if she would like nursing best of
anything, and then she would look at them and laugh, and say, “Yes,
best of anything;” but they didn’t understand the look, and they didn’t
understand the laugh, and so they let the matter be.

Deborah at school had indeed always been reckoned a dreamer, and one
teacher had made her life a species of mild misery by perpetually and
unceasingly calling her by that name.

Did she raise her pencil one minute from her work there would come
across the class that everlasting voice,—

“Now, Deborah, there you are again! dreaming as usual. Dear me! What a
wonderful brain yours must be!”

And the other girls would laugh; but because she had never been able to
form a single friendship she could never join in.

When she became a teacher she used often to ponder on these words.

“Well, anyway, I can’t be so bad,” she used to think. “Because if any
of these children talk or play or are lazy I know it at once, and if I
never did anything else but dream I should never know it at all.”

There was a deal of hard work to be done in those days too.

It was in the days when pupil-teachers taught all day and learnt
all night, and went early to school in the morning for an hour’s
instruction.

It was about this time that Jack and Deborah became very great friends.
The friendship, on her side at least, grew out of gratitude.

There had come to the town some short while before a very great actor,
whom for her own reasons she badly wanted to see.

Deborah rarely if ever went to theatres, and was not sorry to miss the
treat, as they did not appeal to her.

“I never forget that it’s only acting, and at the most serious parts I
always feel inclined to laugh,” she remarked.

That was probably because her experience had been somewhat narrowly
limited to a few pantomimes and still fewer plays.

The pantomimes, with the exception of one, had been intensely coarse
and tawdry. That one indeed, “The Forty Thieves,” had been all that
beauty and taste and brightness could make it, but it had not been
brought out on the same scale afterwards because it had not paid.

The thing that seemed to take was an intensely vulgar woman with an
intensely vulgar face, dressed in an intensely vulgar costume, singing
an intensely vulgar song to an —— —— audience.

At the finish of each verse loud laughter and applause greeted her,
which naturally only aggravated her intensities, and every time she
appeared it was the occasion for a fresh outburst of feeling.

Whether the audience were laughing at the woman or at her song it would
be hard to say; probably they knew best themselves. That was some
years ago. Things have no doubt improved since then.

However that may be, the theatre had never held any great interest for
Deborah beyond this one man. But he probably made up for whatever lack
she might have, since she would rather have gone to see him than any
sovereign or statesman ever born.

So it was a wonderful piece of good fortune when Jack promised to take
her to see him.

It was a terribly stormy night on which they went, and the wind and
rain came in great gusts and showers.

When they came home Deborah looked at the picture on the wall, and it
seemed even more lifelike than it had ever been before.

“I never knew before I had any respect for theatres,” she thought.
“What a difference one man can make! What a very great difference!”

Some time after, Maggie went away to college and the family dwindled
down to three.

CHAPTER XIII

Whatever were Deborah’s qualifications beauty and attractiveness were
not among the foremost. From the age of fifteen to twenty she was
tormented unceasingly with sties upon her eyes. Now, you will probably
be so disgusted when you read this that you will close the book. But
there is a little originality somewhere about it, if you care to think,
because the heroines of books are not often afflicted that way. These
sties, moreover, were by no means of the insignificant kind. They
were like big gatherings that disfigured and discoloured whichever
side of her face they arose upon. No sooner was one gone than another
came, and frequently two would appear together—on the top and bottom
lid—closing her eye completely. Once or twice indeed she would have
two on the one eye and another on the other, which was the height of
discomfort. For besides being very unsightly they were exceedingly
painful, and would sometimes throb till she was nearly beside herself.
Sometimes, when they hurt more than usual, she would cry from sheer low
spirits; but that only aggravated them the more, and made her look so
ugly that everybody laughed and then pitied her.

“I don’t see why I should be afflicted like this,” she used to say,
looking in the glass. “They come week after week and I’m never rid of
them. Besides, I hate teaching with my eyes in this state. I hate to be
seen with these red, ugly, swollen lids.”

“It is to teach you patience and sympathy,” said a voice.

“Fiddlesticks!” said Deborah. “How is it I need so much more teaching
than anybody else round about? And I’m sure the other week, when I had
three sties on my eyes and a gathering on my finger, and a headache
which lasted four successive days without a break, I hadn’t spirit
enough left to be anything but patient; so where is the virtue in it?”

Naturally there was no reply to this.

One day someone observed, “What a pity your eyes have been so spoilt.
You used to have such nice lashes and now they’ve nearly all come off.”
But there was absolutely no comfort in that, so she might just as well
have left it unsaid.

Now the time was drawing on for Deborah to go to college to be trained
as a teacher; in another four months or so the old life in the old
school would be over.

“How desperately dull life is,” thought she. “Why doesn’t something
happen?” And something did happen—she fell in love.

It happened like this.

There came as an assistant master to the school a young man who was
very nice.

Deborah was, as a rule, rather hard to please, but saw took a distinct
fancy to him the first time she saw him. He was tall and he was
well-built, with a refined and pleasant face.

“I wonder who he is?” she said.

“Oh! don’t you know? It’s the new assistant in the boys’ school,”
replied a girl who was with her.

“Oh! how lovely!” And a new interest had come into her life.

And Deborah, weakly, sickly, diminutive and full of infirmities, drew
near to this unknown light.

She got an introduction and felt happy; he seemed just as nice to speak
to as he was to look at—and that isn’t often the case, you know.

“I like him well enough to try to be nice to him,” she said. “I hope
I don’t have any more of these beastly sties for a month or two,” and
quite forgot that she had any more infirmities—as who would not?

For a time all the shyness which had accompanied her from her youth
upward vanished literally as if by magic.

She would go down into the other school at every opportunity, just to
see the young man and speak to him.

It was the happiest and most natural part of her life.

“I wonder if I could make him love me too,” she thought. And she used
to watch him in church or wherever else it might be, and keep saying,
“Love me, love me, love me,” and in some ways it was very great fun.
The greatest fun was to say, “Love me, love me,” when she was talking
to him, in a voice but he couldn’t hear.

But there came a day when all this golden love cloud gathered into one
of purple.

Deborah fell seriously in love with him, and all the fun and the
laughter died out of it.

Still everyone went on laughing just the same as on that first day
when she ran into school and told them she had found an ideal man.

And because she had begun by laughing herself she was bound to keep it
up, and no one saw the difference.

One day she saw him talking to another girl, and it was the first time
she had ever seen him speaking to another woman. The girl was very
pretty, with blue eyes and brown curly hair, and she was little too,
but she was a pretty figure.

Deborah became madly jealous.

“I hate her, I hate her, and I hate him too,” she said. “What does she
want, meddling with him? He will come to like her best.”

And then she went home and looked in the glass. Yes, there was another
of those ugly disfigurements puffing up the whole of one cheek.

“Why is she so pretty and I so plain?” she thought. “If I were as
pretty as she is I—I—I what? I nothing.”

A prize distribution took place in the town some six weeks or so after.
Now, though by this time it was the middle of summer, the wind and the
rain on that particular day were extreme, and so Deborah found as she
took some dozen girls down to receive prizes. It was a long walk, and
by the time they got there none of them looked very presentable.

She never forgot that day, for had the Fates conspired they could not
have made her appear more disreputable. Her hair was dishevelled and
her fringe out of curl, and her hat, which had blown off in the journey
down, kept lurching constantly to one side.

But the first person she set eyes on when she came to the journey’s
end was the young man. For the time being she forgot her appearance in
the delight of seeing him.

They sat together during the ceremony, and afterwards walked home
together, and still she forgot to think of her untidy state.

But when she was inside the house she went upstairs.

The first thing a young woman does, as a rule, when she has just seen
the young man she likes, is to look at herself in the glass. That is if
she is natural, but of course, as we all know, there are a great many
very unnatural women in the world. Deborah, however, belonged to the
unnatural sort, evidently; she deliberately refrained from going near
the glass, though it was there waiting for her.

“I daren’t look at myself, I look so hideous,” she thought, and that
was just about the truth.

In a fortnight’s time they broke up.

It was a very miserable fortnight. For one thing, Jack was going to be
married at the end of it, and it meant the entire breaking up of the
only thing that had been home; and for another it meant the end of all
that short and golden dream.

When the last day came the pain round Deborah’s heart had reached such
a pitch that it seemed almost uncontrollable. Along with it came the
sense of bitter disappointment; she had quite failed to make the least
impression. That was only natural; but it is so difficult to form a
just opinion of ourselves. When it came to saying “good-bye,” she felt
so aching and miserable inside that she thought it would be best to
share the burden.

“I won’t take the least notice of him when I say good-bye. He thinks I
can’t live without him. Conceit!”

So when it came to the last adieu she managed it better than she
managed most things.

Usually when she shook hands with him she did manage to leave her hand
in his just the twentieth part of second, but to-day he was just the
twentieth part of a second too late to catch hold of her hand at all.
That pleased Deborah, or at least it pleased something within her which
she was trying to identify with herself. And always before, no matter
what state her eyes had been in, she had always looked at him quite
straightforwardly; to-day, however, she didn’t take the trouble to look
at him at all, and took no notice of him, but began talking to the
next young man; yet all the time it was all she could do to keep from
turning round and giving him the biggest scratch he’d ever had in his
life.

Then he went away, and she was left all alone, to laugh and be as
foolish as usual.

But all the time, down in her heart of hearts, she kept saying, “Why
wouldn’t they let me kiss him? I wanted to—I wanted to.”

And something else whispered, with mock sympathy, “Well, never mind. A
man’s conceit is equal to a woman’s love any day. By saying ‘good-bye’
to him like that you hurt him just as much as you hurt yourself;” but
somehow or other it was very cold comfort—very.

Next Jack got married and the house became very dull. A few weeks later
Deborah went to college.

CHAPTER XIV

College was very distasteful. Her one aim and object in life was to
live quietly and to be peaceably let alone; but there was never any
quietness here, and much less peace. Privacy was almost a thing unknown.

For all that, the discipline and the life were in many ways excellent,
and the governesses worked so hard that they had a knack of making lazy
students ashamed of themselves.

There were never any slovenly-prepared lessons, and everything was
done with clock-like precision. The great fault was that the hours
of drudgery were too long, and the occasional sound of chimes would
greatly have improved the everlasting tic-tic.

The most comical part of the whole thing, perhaps, was the French
lesson. Deborah used to sit and shake with laughing the whole time it
was in progress, it was so very funny.

But she had one thing to be thankful for whilst there. Her eyes were
very troublesome for the first three months, and at last the attention
of the college doctor was called to them. He just simply said, “Buy
an ounce of boracic acid and put it on them.” So it was bought, and,
wonder of wonders! it acted almost like a miracle.

“I can’t bear this doctor,” many of the girls used to say.

“Well, I shall always feel grateful to him,” she would rejoin. “He
cured my eyes when I was beginning to think they were incurable.”

That was probably the greatest benefit she derived from being there.

When the holidays came round she stayed a week in the town where she
had been brought up, and then went into the country for Christmas.

Whilst waiting in the station for the train she came across that same
young man who had caused her so many heartaches and burnings.

Absence had not in any way altered Deborah’s affection for him, so
when she saw him there in the station she could just have danced for
joy. He had with him the other man to whom she had given such an
affectionate farewell four months since. He was very nice and quiet,
and kind-hearted in an unobtrusive way, and it isn’t often one meets
that kind of a man.

It happened by chance that they were standing on the same platform
from which her train was going, and Deborah was not feeling the least
bit shy that day, so she went to speak to them. However, the young
gentleman kept distinctly aloof; he even made as if he were going to
walk away, but he didn’t.

“I think you knew Mr —— a little,” said the other.

“Oh, yes, I knew him very well,” she answered. But when she went to him
and held out her hand he didn’t make the slightest effort to take it,
except in a very cold and uncertain way.

“I don’t seem to remember you in the very least,” he said, and looked
at her just as if she had been a perfect stranger to whom he had never
before spoken.

“But I remember you perfectly,” said Deborah, and laughed, for she was
much too happy to think of anything but speaking the truth.

They went together to the railway carriage, where Maggie was already
settled, and he stood there till the train went out.

Just before it went he said to Deborah: “I don’t know how I could have
forgotten you, you are just the same as you used to be.” But she knew
she had never been anything very grand, so she only laughed and looked
at him. Truth to tell she could scarcely look at anyone else.

When it came to the last sad minute she was bound to look away.

“If I did dare to look at him then, he would understand too well,” she
thought, and so once more it was a most unsatisfactory farewell. When
they had settled down, and the train was on its way, she hid herself
behind a paper.

“He had forgotten all about me, and it’s scarcely four months ago. I
expect all the times I used to run down to see him he was thinking of
someone else.” She felt a bit broken-hearted; she remembered all the
silly little subterfuges she had been up to, and how she had once worn
aprons for a fortnight because she thought it looked domesticated and
as if she understood something about the management of a house.

“I don’t know what you can see in Mr ——,” said Maggie, from the
opposite seat. “He is so shy.”

But Deborah did not argue—it was not worth it.

After the Christmas holidays she went back to college and the two years
dragged away.

Deborah, when she first went to college, was forever being scolded
about her essays.

“It’s no good your ever thinking you can write,” a hard, contemptuous
voice was continually saying to her. “You had two or three rather
signal failures in that line before coming to college at all, and even
in this mediocre place you fail to make the least impression with your
work.”

On the other hand, a clear, firm voice kept ringing, “Some day, when I
care to write in my own way, they shall listen to me.” It was a very
proud voice—too proud, perhaps.

There was a girl who was noted for being the best essay-writer in the
college. She was a little older than most of those who were there, and
was supposed to have a better conception of life and things as they
really are. But she was not a great favourite, as she rather looked
down on most of the other girls, and understood the art of being rude a
little better than most people. Her name was Jane Shaw.

Towards the end of the first year Deborah’s essays were said to be
improving, and by the end she had managed to make as many marks as
Jane. Not that she ever counted marks; she laughed at and despised
them, which was another piece of pride.

The subjects for essays in the second year were, however, more to
Deborah’s taste; they were not quite so cramped, and gave one a better
range for expression. She began to pass Jane by, not intentionally but
unavoidably, for it was easier on the whole to write well than badly.

Toward the end of the second year the senior students prepared for an
oratorio, which they were going to sing in St Paul’s on Ascension Day,
as it was the year of the late Queen’s Diamond Jubilee.

One day one of the students who had come from the same school as
Deborah came running up to her.

“I say, there’s going to be a general practice, and we’re going to ——
College. We’ll be sure to see Mr ——. He’s there, you know.”

But she didn’t relish this piece of news; she would very much rather
not have gone. She had known all along that he had come back to London
as a master in the college which he had left two years ago; he was
clever.

So the night for the practice came and went.

When they got back again this girl, whose name was Minnie, came flying
up to her.

“I say, did Mr —— speak to you?”

“No.”

“But you saw him?”

“Yes.”

“And he never spoke to you?”

“I never looked at him.”

“You couldn’t help it. You sat just at the other side of the table.”

“I never looked at him. Did he speak to you?”

“Oh, yes. He was quite nice. Much nicer than he used to be. I thought
he would have forgotten me. I never spoke to him half as much as you
did. How strange that he should have forgotten you.”

“I—yes.”

“What’s that?” said another girl who had just come in.

“Oh! we’re only talking about someone Deborah used to run after.”

“What about him?” said the other, and she laughed very loudly.

“Well, it’s like this,” Deborah replied. “Two years ago I fell
desperately in love with a young man, but it was one-sided. Naturally,
the next time I met him he didn’t know me.”

“But the strange part about it is that he should remember me,”
persisted Minnie.

“Well, you see,” laughed Deborah, “I expect all the time I was in love
with him he was in love with you,” and she walked away.

But that night, when the silence bell rang, she hid her face in the
solitary pillow.

“I’d have forgiven him if he’d forgotten her too; but to remember her
after two years, and to forget me after four months, it’s too bad—it’s
too bad,” and she lay awake for a long time, too miserable to cry, too
restless to sleep.

“Besides, he never knew her except the little bit I told him about her,
and that never interested him. He tells lies—so now!”

However, it’s no use dwelling on these things; but Providence was kind
enough to let her see him once more, in just about as tantalising a way.

And something had said, “Go and speak to him;” and something else had
said, “Come away.”

And she went away, feeling more like a wild cat than a woman.

“If—if—” she gasped.

“Life is made up of ifs,” laughed a voice in her ear, and it was all
over.

The older Deborah grew, the more unhappy she grew inwardly. Not that
anybody knew—for in college they never took her to be anything
seriously but sleepy.

For one thing, as she grew older, she was beginning to feel more and
more the want of some religion. Many and many a time she would get out
of bed in the middle of the night and kneel down and try to pray. But
on every occasion a feeling of intensest blackness would surround her,
and she was bound to give it up.

“It’s all very well the clergy telling us to pray,” she would say,
getting back into bed. “But I can’t. Every time I would do it something
stops me. I’ve lost God, and where He’s gone to I can’t tell. And I
suppose everybody would blame me and say how wicked I was, but it’s
because they don’t understand. If I could believe in God and pray
to Him as I did when I was a little girl I’d be a deal happier and
stronger than I am.”

And so it came to the last few weeks of college life—the time for the
awarding of prizes for the year.

Probably all those who have attended schools have experienced that
general dissatisfaction which customarily attends the distribution of
prizes.

“It’s all done by favouritism,” the girls used to assert. “The way the
prizes are given here is a disgrace.”

And one or two rather flagrant examples were given by way of specifying.

“Yes,” said Deborah, who understood things just as well as most people.
“I can’t understand what pleasure there is in receiving prizes under
such circumstances.”

“But you’ll get one yourself,” remarked one of the girls. “You’re bound
to get the composition prize.”

“Well that would only be fair,” cried another girl, and for a wonder
all the others chimed in “Yes.”

“Don’t be too sure,” observed another, and she nodded her head wisely.
“I’ve been watching Jane Shaw lately.”

“But Deborah’s essays are splendid. Jane’s are only very good,” urged a
would-be champion.

“Don’t be too sure,” retorted the same wiseacre, and she went to bed.

The next day Jane came to Deborah.

“You will get the composition prize,” she said somewhat ungraciously.

“I don’t think so,” rejoined Deborah, but she knew she was not speaking
the truth.

“Yes, you will,” she answered sharply. “I have kept count of our marks
for the year.”

“You don’t mean to say you’ve kept count for a year,” said Deborah, in
wonderment.

“Of course I have,” she replied with a little toss of her head. “I
always like to know exactly where I stand.”

After a pause she continued: “Of course I have stood no chance from the
very first. I lost twenty marks right out once because the Principal
differed from some remarks of mine.”

“Indeed.”

“Of course, and I do not consider it fair that I should have lost them.
You, and such as you, write simply according to the college rule.”

Deborah was silent. Probably Jane did not know how rude she was, and
with her parting hit she went away.

Then that pride, the only strong and lasting pride in Deborah’s
composition, asserted itself.

“Why should I enter into the competition with such as Jane?” she
thought. “She may have the prize with pleasure. So long as I know I am
really first I don’t care about the marks or the prize one bit.”

Another girl came running up to her.

“I say, I’ve just been adding up the composition marks and you are
first.”

Deborah began to think seriously.

She did not want the prize and Jane did, and the last fortnight’s
unceasing talk about prizes had sickened her.

“I’ll go to Miss C—— to-night after lessons and tell her I’d rather
not have it, as I don’t care for prizes.”

Having decided in her mind she began to screw her courage up to the
right pitch.

But Jane came to her and began again lamenting her loss of the prize.

“Well,” said Deborah, for somehow or other she felt sorry for her, “you
need not bother. I will not take the prize in any case—I don’t quite
believe in them.”

“Do you mean to say if they offered it to you, you would not take it?”

“Yes.”

Jane went away.

Later in the evening she entered the room and went straight to Deborah.

“_I_ am first on the list, _you_ are only second,” she cried,
and walked off without waiting for any reply.

That night when Deborah went upstairs the dormitory was empty. She
turned the light up and drew her curtain and prepared for bed.
Suddenly there was a great rush of feet down the stone stairs and
Deborah’s curtain was swirled back with a rattle.

“Do you know who’s got the composition prize?” exclaimed half a dozen
voices.

“Jane.”

“Who told you?”

“She did.”

“It’s like her impudence,” remarked one young lady.

“It’s shameful,” observed another. “She never wrote half so well as you
did.”

“No, I know,” said Deborah, and she looked round at the girl who spoke,
and laughed.

“Are you going to make a fuss about it?” asked another.

“Oh, no. I ought to be thankful to her. She has really spared me the
unpleasant position of posing. In any case I would not have taken the
prize.”

No amount of sympathising or expostulating could draw another word out
of her, so at last they went away. But all that night, till the silence
bell rang, other girls came running in with the same cry.

Long after silence and darkness reigned Deborah sat on the side of the
bed, and a fight which was bitter and hot was raging inside her.

“You are too conceited,” urged an even voice in her ear. “You imagine
you write much better than you do. It is no good thinking you are
unjustly treated; the prizes here are given as fairly as possible, and
it is only the disappointed students who raise the hue-and-cry.”

“I know,” said Deborah, and sat silent.

“Besides, you have no gift that way,” the voice went on. “And it’s
time you learnt it. You’ve had five more rejections within the last
eighteen months—not to speak of those before entering college, and it
ought to have taught you to understand your proper place better.”

“I know.”

“You have no talent except what is very mediocre. You are worthy only
of a second prize, and not perhaps of that.”

The sense of injustice came burning hot and strong, and she clenched
her two hands in profitless anger.

“Then why, if I have no talent, have they always said my essays are
different from all the rest? Why have those governesses, who have
nothing to do with the subject, congratulated me on them? Why have they
always been read, and why—”

“Oh, now we are coming to quite a new phase,” replied the voice.
“Formerly you looked down on college opinion, now you are laying store
by it.”

“Well,” said Deborah, dejectedly, “it was the only bit of encouragement
I ever got.”

“You don’t need encouraging, and perhaps one of these days, when you
get properly discouraged, you’ll take to teaching seriously and give up
writing, for you’re no good at anything else.”

Deborah got into bed.

The next day brought the news that she had not even obtained the second
prize, it had been won by another girl.

“Never mind,” whispered an easy voice in her ear. “They put you out of
the race altogether—it was wisest.”

“But you are quite sure I was the best?”

“Oh, perfectly.” And then there came that easy laugh which made
Deborah almost laugh too, but not quite; the loss of the first place
had been more to her than most people may imagine.

During the last year that Deborah was in college her second brother,
who had for some years been a great anxiety, died suddenly of pneumonia
after a three days’ illness. What debts he had contracted, and after
all, considering his life, they were wonderfully few, were paid by the
sisters.

About this time also they were able to pay back the money which had
been wrongly taken by their father.

CHAPTER XV

When Deborah left college she took a school in the country.

“Now, you are quite sure you know your own mind,” the principal
observed, for he had not expected this application.

“Yes, quite sure,” and he was only too pleased to get it filled up.

A country school to the uninitiated may probably appear a haven of
rest and peacefulness. But under certain circumstances, and in certain
places, it may be the exact opposite of this. The one to which Deborah
had gone was a most charming one, and on the outside it looked all that
was successful.

“You have come here to learn, and you must bear it and put up with it,”
said a voice, but at times the misery and meanness and littleness of
the surroundings choked the voice altogether.

The feminine portion of the aristocracy in that place were of that
section which believes implicitly in the art of snubs and condescension.

Such women are pretty numerous in the world—if they were not so the
world would be a vastly different place.

At first the manifold bows and smiles and nods amused her, but at last
they palled, as all things do in time.

“If they only knew how ridiculous and insincere it makes them look
they would not do it,” she thought. “The only one among them for whom
I have any respect or affection is the clergyman’s wife—and that is
because she treats me sensibly as a working woman and does not try to
overpower me with her excessively charming manner.”

This village was a very good school in which to learn, and it taught
Deborah more than any town school would have.

Not that she had any belief in anything. Far from it. Why she so often
thought of Christ and His doctrine she could not tell.

“I don’t believe in Him, and I never get any good from praying to Him.
If He is all love and all-powerful, why doesn’t He give me back my old
faith?”

But every time she knelt down to pray the old feeling of suffocation
and blackness returned.

At last she began to think of Christ as a man.

“If I forget that He is a God I shall catch hold of Him better.”

And no sooner had she done this than she was struck by the extreme
marvellous beauty of His character. “I’ll cling on to Christ, though I
don’t understand Him very well,” she thought.

But if you follow Christ He will lead you by the most terrible uphill
undiscovered paths that ever you trod in your life, and if you try to
follow Him blindly, without any clear guiding light showing the way
upward, you are of all creatures on earth most miserable.

So because she thought that Christ would have approved she would often
light the school fire and sweep up the hearth. There were more people,
doubtless, who approved of this besides Christ, the woman who cleaned
the school being prominent among the number.

The clergyman in the parish was very fond of Deborah. It was only
natural, because she managed the school very well and kept the children
in order. He was a very interesting study, though he was old, and at
times he could be very charming.

There was, however, one gentleman there whom Deborah much liked. He was
the father of a boy whom she went to teach every night. He was always
kind to her, and always polite whenever she might meet him, and never
condescending. And she was very thankful.

“If it were not for this gentleman,” she used to think at times, “I
should get to fancying there was something wrong with me, I get so many
snubs which seem to me uncalled for.” So she felt a certain respect
for him: unobtrusive kindness always excited that feeling in her, as
perhaps it does in most of us.

At last the snubs ceased to have any effect; when one is subjected to a
great deal of that kind of thing it generally happens that way.

For some months before she left the people had become nonentities to
her; she was taken up with things which were far more a case of life
and death to her than they could ever be.

CHAPTER XVI

As soon as Deborah came out of college she made fresh literary
attempts; she was not successful. Now, frequent and continuous failures
are depressing, but they usually have the good effect of weeding out
the unfit and leaving only the strong. However, she was beginning to
feel dispirited. She had tried tragedy, comedy, mixtures, satires,
ghost stories, and myths, and everything had failed and been returned.
Each rejection had come like a dull thump on the top of her heart, but
none perhaps for some years had had quite the same dispiriting effect
as the first. Still she had hoped that when once out of college, and
with more time to give to writing, she would manage better; but that
was not so, the failures still continued. When she had been in the
country about a year she went to London for a week’s holiday.

Susan was there and they had a very enjoyable time.

“Do you know, I have a most irresistible longing to have my fortune
told,” Deborah said one day during this holiday. “It has been growing
on me for some time.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in that kind of thing,” remarked Susan.

“No, I don’t. But I want to try to find out something. Will you come?”

“Oh, yes,” Susan answered; she rather liked the idea.

There was a nurse staying in the same house who believed implicitly
in such things, and she furnished them with the name and address of
a woman who, according to her accounts, had much fame as a truthful
fortune-teller.

It was a hot Friday afternoon when they went, and the next day Deborah
was returning to the country.

The woman had a fine face and a pleasing manner.

She first of all told Susan’s hand—and she really did contrive to tell
it marvellously well. She told her a great deal too, and all that she
said was true. By this time it was getting very dark, and there was
every appearance of a thunder-storm—the heat all day had been intense.

When she came to read Deborah’s hand she had exhausted her supply of
words. But after a while she said,—

“You are unfair in your prejudices. You take strong likes and dislikes
without any good foundation for them.”

“There now,” said Susan. “That is you to a ‘T,’ Deborah.”

After that the lady was some time casting about in her mind as to what
she should say next, till suddenly Susan queried,—

“Has she any particular gift for writing?”

That rather startled Deborah; she had not expected it, although it was
the one thing and the only thing she wanted to know.

The fortune-teller looked very minutely at both hands and then declared
very decidedly,—

“No. There is not the slightest indication of any gift that way—not in
the slightest.”

There was a short silence, during which Deborah had the most curious
feeling of baffled anger she had ever felt in her life.

“I told you so,” said a voice in her ear far plainer than any human
voice. “How many times do you want telling? You may be quite sure if
this woman saw the least signs of anything that way she would tell you
at once.”

By this time the fortune-teller had begun to speak again.

“You have a gift though, and that is for acting. You should go on the
stage. You would make an excellent actress.”

Deborah laughed, and she might be excused the rudeness of it: a more
unlikely person for an actress was never born.

It was she who had always been told to sit down in college when she got
up to recite, and who had invariably been placed in the lowest class
for reading. Moreover, she was short and insignificant in appearance,
and by no means understood the art of dressing to advantage. Besides,
another word for being an actress, in Deborah’s mind, was being “fast,”
and she knew she was very far from being that. Again, she was not fond
of actresses nor acting, though that was probably due to ignorance.
There were only three of the few she had seen whom she had ever really
liked, and those were Ellen Terry, Winifred Emery, and Annie Hughes.
Yes, and one other—Amy Roselle; but she was dead.

Ellen Terry had entranced her. She had only seen her once, but that
once to her had been a perfect dream. She watched her almost with the
absorbed interest she gave to the people in her other world, and when
the play was over had felt an intense longing to go and put her arms
round her neck and kiss her.

To return to the fortune-teller.

After she had delivered the last shot, as it were, she had no more to
say, and they took their leave.

Deborah was so angry and so disappointed that she could scarcely eat
any tea, but was actress enough not to show it; so perhaps there was an
ironical truth in the lady’s statements after all.

“Fancy her telling you you could act,” said Susan.

“Oh, yes, they always tell you something like that, or they think your
vanity will be wounded,” Deborah replied, and hoped the thunder-storm
would pass off before they went into the street again.

They visited the theatre that night, and the fortune-teller passed
completely out of Deborah’s mind, not to return for nearly two years.

As she sat in the theatre and watched a great actor she began thinking
of the curious interest she had always taken in him ever since the
hanging of the little picture, long before she knew there was such a
man in reality at all.

“I wonder if, supposing I tried very hard with my writing, I might some
day just be allowed to shake hands with him,” she thought. “I’d rather
be spoken to by him than any other celebrity in the whole world.” She
sighed.

“I’d never be able to make a great enough name. I try hard enough now,
and it never has the least effect.”

When she went home she wrote another story, and pocketed all her pride
and sent it to a very inferior novelette series. But they returned it.

Deborah then made up her mind.

“I will write nothing more till I am thirty,” she thought. “I’ve spent
all my life so far in nothing but rejections, and after a certain point
I don’t think they’re good for people. Besides, it’s waste of time.”

The truth was that she had been thoroughly disheartened and did not
like to own up to it.

So she began to study for matriculation, but she was not fond of
this kind of study, and it took all her strength of mind to keep it
up. Perseverance, however, will do much, and when she had worked
successfully through a book on mechanics she felt almost as if she had
worked successfully through the examination itself.

Still, as time went on she began to grow low-spirited. Never in all her
life before had she stuck persistently to books. Never had she let more
than four months at most pass without writing some story or other; it
had seemed a part and a necessity of her life.

Now month followed month, and one year lengthened almost into two, and
still she stuck to the lesson books.

Low spirits were natural to her, but this was a place which would never
dispel them. The unkindnesses, the unpleasant quarrels weighed on her
just as much as her failures, and no amount of not-caring could ever
take the sting away.

Besides, there were other troubles, flimsy skeletons in the cupboard
that one never mentions, sending out at times their unwholesome odour
from between the narrow chinks.

The wish to pray, to cast this heavy, darkening burden on to other
shoulders grew. Deborah prayed to Christ, as she had never prayed for
anything before, except her father, to give her faith and light to
throw off the gloom.

She might just as well have prayed to a stone wall; to pray was simply
to increase the gloom, an empty mirage that on approach mocked at the
struggling traveller’s pain.

All the time she could spare from lessons she spent in that other
world; it was the one bright spot in her life, the thing for which she
was ineffably thankful.

One day at the beginning of the last year of the old century she sat
down to work out a problem in mechanics.

She never solved it. Indefinitely she began to scribble on the paper as
in the olden time.

“Oh, God!” she cried, “give me a man who can resist temptation for the
sake of good, and not because he is bound in by tradition or the world.”

And straightway she left this world and flew to that other. There she
found the man she wanted, him who had gone there so strangely long ago
as it seemed from the printed picture.

And Deborah began to write, and having once taken up the pen had not
the power to lay it down.

CHAPTER XVII

From that time forward the village, its inmates, and the school became
blanks to her. True, the school dragged her down like a prison chain
each day, for she had grown to hate teaching, almost to loathe it. She
watched the clock from hour to hour as it crawled slowly round, and
longed with feverish impatience for the time when the trivial lessons
should be over and she free to write again.

Never before had she written with such an absorbed interest, nor been
so utterly unconscious of everything around.

After the first few chapters of her book had been written a new light
suddenly burst upon it. It was as if in some curious way the crowd that
had always stood around in that other world was standing there. And
like lightning speed one night it came to her.

“These are the audience, those the living players,” said a voice.

“Well,” she thought, stopping in the middle of a line, “how very
curious. And that crowd has always bothered me so. I could never
understand it.”

And she went on again and never stopped; the whole thing seemed to have
gained a broader and a clearer meaning.

But progress in her writing meant sitting up many nights till midnight
and after, and next day the constant absorption would tell upon her,
and school became a species of martyrdom. The least noise would set
every nerve working, and the fidgetiness and ordinary naughtiness of
the children tried her almost beyond endurance. She did her best not
to show it, since one of the first rules of teaching is “Never be
irritable with the children.” Like all other perfect rules it is almost
an impossibility. It might with advantage be amended to this—“Be
irritable as rarely as possible, and let every offence you commit in
that direction translate itself into a firm resolve to guard as much
as possible against that error in the future.” The whole force of the
precept lies in the second part.

As the story grew Deborah found herself more and more entangled in it
and had no wish nor power to draw out. One night there came swimming
up in her brain the words of the fortune-teller. She remembered the
night well; it had been stormy and heavy, and there had been some peals
of thunder and flashes of lightning. Suddenly there had grown up an
intense desire to take the part of the leading woman in her book. It
was not as if she had ever liked theatres, it was not as if the glamour
of footlights and applause had ever appealed to her; no, it grew out of
a wild and unrestrained jealousy.

“I love this man,” she said to herself. “I’ve known him for fifteen
years and over, and he’s always lived in my other world, and I can’t
bear that he should belong to anybody else. I love this woman too,
and I’ve always known her, and I know exactly how she looks, and
laughs, and moves, and speaks, and I can do everything just as she
does—because—I don’t know—because I can.”

And Deborah was happy, for the world showed itself in all its glorious
silver light. Each night when she sat up writing alone she would take
the plain framed photo from the mantelpiece and set it there on the
table by her side, and before she put the light out she always kissed
it.

“You’re not quite as good as my man,” she would say, “but you’re the
next best thing. And you will find this part just suits you.”

Thus the time flew on till the book was finished. A glorious, rosy,
golden time, in which every vision of ambition flashed across the
hitherto dull landscape.

At times would come that whispering warning,—

“Suppose—suppose it should fail like all the rest.”

And then the pain was like a ragged knife. She would walk across the
little sitting-room, back and forwards, back and forwards.

“No, no, it can’t. It’s all too real and true to me to ever fail. If
it fails it’ll nearly kill me. I can’t write anything better. I never
shall, however hard I try.”

So, because she dared not, she never thought of failure.

As the last chapters drew to an end, there arose that most anxious
question to the uninitiated—“Where must I send it?”

Editors she had tried till she had sickened of the process; besides,
it was longer than the usual MSS. sent, and not quite suitable for a
serial story. So she began to look round for a publisher, and picked
out one at random—one of whom she had never before heard; for of the
business part of literature she was deplorably ignorant.

Next she decided, or thought she herself decided, to take it up to
town. That was a very unusual kind of thing for her to do, as she was
very nervous of strangers and strange places; but it showed what a
desperate state she had come to when she even determined to brave such
a very great man as a publisher.

“I’ll just ask him if he’d mind reading it through carefully, because
when stories are sent by post I don’t believe they ever look at them.
Perhaps if I did take the trouble to go myself they would look at a
chapter or two. And after that I think they’d understand.”

In the meantime she had sent the manuscript to be typewritten; but she
had given the typewriters rather short notice, and they were very busy,
and by the time the day arrived for her to go up to town a few of the
chapters were still missing.

She had made up her mind to go on a certain Saturday, but was delayed
on account of the slowness of the typewriters till the following
Thursday, when she went either from impatience or from a stronger
impulse, which she did not understand, for some of the chapters were
missing still.

* * * * *

Ah, Deborah! little do you foresee the terrible journey before you on
which your eager young heart is urging you—the horrible, treacherous
pitfalls, the cruel rocks, the wild, lonesome moors and wastes, the
vale of agony and humiliation, the sombre, silent forest of failure and
despair!

* * * * *

“And so,” said Plucritus to Genius, “and so the time is drawing near
for the fulfilment of the curse?”

“The removal you mean.”

“I mean what I say. Can you seriously imagine that a book so full of
crudities and absurdities might be successful?”

“Why, yes. The world is so full of common sense and wisdom that we can
afford to be magnanimous.”

“And you intend to carry it through to the end?”

“Yes—to the bitter end.”

“That is a very apt expression—it implies so much, though frequent use
has made it commonplace. For all that you do not expect there will be
any bitter end; you expect this to go through fairly easily.”

“Well, yes, if things run smoothly; but I have always to reckon with
you.”

“And I am a dangerous enemy. That book has not tended to make us any
better friends. I have been drawn into it with a familiarity which I
resent. Caricature and laughter at the expense of those in power is
only excusable in the ignorant, and rarely pardonable even in them.”

“You mistake,” said Genius, laughing. “The cap was never meant to fit
you; but if it does, why, then, you had better wear it.”

Plucritus was silent, till at last he remarked, with a decided sneer,—

“Deborah expects great things from this book. It is to be the making
of her name and fortune, and is to translate her from a plain and
insignificant village schoolmistress into one of the first actresses of
the day.”

Genius interjected: “Deborah is so wrapped up in me that she is
unconscious what she wants; however, that will settle itself later.”

“Well, yes,” rejoined Plucritus, and he laughed. “A bigger fool than
she never walked this earth. Experience scarcely seems to have the
power to teach her anything.”

“You should blame me,” said Genius. “Deborah, apart from teaching
children, is very irresponsible.”

“Well, and it is my duty,” observed Plucritus, in his hardest,
cruellest voice, “to make all people on this earth responsible; we do
not recognise an irresponsible person. They are useless except to form
the everlasting bulwarks. But may I ask you (since you wish to bring
the responsibility upon yourself), may I ask you why you have thrown
yourself so signally on the side of Virginius? He regards you with
little favour and no friendship, and for the last twelve years or more
he has been perfectly immaterial.”

“I have thrown myself on his side,” said Genius, “because, try as I
will, I cannot but admire him. I have watched him narrowly though he
seems but a negative, silent power, and I have been more than struck by
the patient dignity with which he has stood under insults and lies and
calumny. Probably it is the attraction of opposites—as my own impulse
is to answer fire for fire and be magnanimous only in victory.”

“Are you quite sure your twelve years’ study have been profitable?”
asked Plucritus.

“Quite.”

“If you had taken my advice you would have left studying spirits and
have confined your attention to the world.”

“The world!” cried Genius. “I have studied the world, and have found
it about as interesting as a repeating decimal, a long continuance of
redundancy.”

“Once Virginius advised you to restrain your contempt for the world.
It was the only piece of wise advice he ever gave you. But we will
wait and see the issue of this marvellous book, which is to remove
hereditary curses, lighten the author’s faith, and work as many
impossibilities as are contained in its leaves themselves.”

CHAPTER XVIII

THE SILENT FOREST[1]

Then Deborah, walking alone in the shade of evening, came on the
outskirts of a dense forest. The foliage within was thick and feathery,
the branches heavy and dark. Above there hung a cloud so black that it
sent a dull shadow through the dull leaves, and made the ground below
blacker than itself.

Just outside the cloud, where the sky was pale with the after-glow
of clear evening, shone a star, a very large and bright one. But the
cloud was so heavy that it hung over the whole forest like some dark
curse. It looked like a thunder-cloud that could not burst, being held
by iron chains covered with black rust. There was unutterable silence
in the forest, so that you looked in with a strange fear, and then
turned away, and yet again returned. Surely no living thing stirred or
breathed in there!

[Footnote 1: There are indications in the paging of this chapter in
MS. that it was written separately from the previous chapters. It
was afterwards added and the connection is obviously incomplete. To
this state of incompletion may be referred the indefiniteness of
the conclusion, though it may have been also part of the author’s
deliberate intention.—ED. NOTE.]

A great dampness rose from the ground, a vapour in the gathering
twilight, as it rises in the marshy districts near the sea. Now a bat
whirled out from the gloom on to the lonely flats, and then came a
sound like the hoot of an owl. But was it an owl? Oh, no. It was one
more “exceeding bitter cry,” at the bitter end, you know.

Then, there is life in the breathless forest after all.

The cry was repeated, louder and clearer, and it died away, you know
how, just as if it wanted somehow or other to cling on to life. You
didn’t like to hear the end of that last cry; it was so inarticulate
that it spoke.

But it ended at last, as all such end. What had happened to it? It had
fallen among the black leaves.

It had touched the black water. There is a very still Deep in the
Silent Forest, and its waters run slowly but surely. It’s part of the
curse, you know, raindrops distilled from the Black Cloud.

It was only one of many deeps, but the silence had fallen again, even
deeper it seemed than before, till a breeze swept over the tops of the
trees, and here is what it sang as it passed:—

“This is the Forest of Failure. Here is the Humiliation Vale. It
is filled with tears which are never seen, and sighs that are
never heard. All mankind has to tread it—now or then—now or
then—willy-nilly—each man treads it, and alone, now or then.”

Deborah saw a gate and passed in. And over the gate there was a prayer
written, just as we see writing through a looking-glass.

“I ought to know that prayer,” she thought.

“It is the Lord’s Prayer,” said a voice.

“No. I think it is too short,” and the gate clanged to with a horrible
grate.

“I want to go out.” It was too late—too late. But what pretty flowers
grew along the path! White ones with yellow eyes, and jessamine, and
even pink wild roses, and honeysuckle too. Yet when you picked them
they fell like dust.

“This is very strange,” thought Deborah. “I thought they were real.”

But no one answered, unless silence answered—no one at all.

And, looking on the ground, she saw that it was all covered with soft
black dust, before and after.

“It is easy to walk upon,” said she. “And the flowers look pretty as
they grow, but the silence and the gloom frighten me just a little.”

And then suddenly black rocks rose in the path with little jagged
edges. They cut into your shoes and hurt you ever so much, and instead
of getting better the road became worse.

Presently from between two black rocks shot out a crimson fountain
across the path.

Deborah stood still.

“It looks like blood,” she said, and shuddered. “And it kills all the
flowers as it passes on. I don’t like this wood, I think I’ll go back.”

But when you looked behind briars had grown across the path, and the
silence was so terrible that it seemed to say “Go on.” And there was
only one way to tread, and that was through the path of blood.

So Deborah went on, and the red stream soaked through the thin shoes,
and sent a strange kind of pain to her heart.

“It’s just like having toothache very badly, only I never knew of a
dentist who could pull out hearts.” But the pain became so bad that
for the time she was silent too, like everything else round about.
And then the stream flowed into a deep chasm that seemed to lead
underground, only now and again you could hear the gurgling as it went,
so that it never seemed to pass away, not quite.

After a time the road looked better again, for the rocks had vanished,
but now and then in the gloom you put your foot down on a very sharp
one, and when you drew it up quickly it gave you cramp, so that you
almost feared to put it down.

This path made you very tired. You kept slipping because you could not
see properly, and the worst of it was there was no path out, nor any
back. You were forced forward by Silence, that cruel and most perfect
teacher that sneers at heartaches and pain, and looks with a withering
smile on self-pity.

You see it was a magical forest; to stand still was to fall, to fall
was to be stifled by something. It is best to go on, therefore, as long
as you can. And then, after a weary length of road had been travelled,
the gloom turned to darkness, so gradually that at first you thought it
was your eyes that were dim; and ever from the unseen channel came the
gurgle of the stream, the only sound in the still forest.

Presently the darkness had turned to blackness, so that you groped the
way along; and now the weird Silence and the gentle sound of the unseen
stream led you between them in blind faith, till with a sudden bubble
the stream shot up again and you slipped in the quagmire of leaves.

But the road was so black that you did not see the colour of the
stream, and you thought it black too; and it softened the leaves and
the black dust, and your feet slipped in it, and the pain was coming
back to your heart as it had come at the fountain long since, only
worse if anything, and perhaps different.

Then the road grew much worse, for this unseen fluid was covering it.
Suddenly a light shone overhead, the first along the whole dark path,
and soon it died away.

But to Deborah standing there uncertainly came a figure, a gliding
spirit wearing a curious robe. At times it shone white as silver, and
again black as dusky night.

“How familiar is this figure,” thought Deborah. “In some ways it is
like the prayer. I ought to know it, and yet I don’t.”

But being extremely weary, for the road made you so, she had scarcely
the strength to think at all.

This forest makes every mortal weary that passes through it. Oh! very,
very weary. It teaches you so much too; more than the most brilliant
ball-room or entertainment or anything that the gay world can give. It
is a magical forest, you know. When the dust falls from the flowers
Silence says, “Were not those pretty little baubles? Anywhere but in
the Dark Path they would have won a first-class prize for brilliancy
and colour.” And then Silence laughs as the dust flickers down. “The
world would build a hot-house for one of these posies, and pay a
thousand guineas down if it were fashion. Ah! but you are in the Dark
Path and must travel on. We stand no whims, we who govern here. Though
your feet ache and your ankles are weary you must still go on or the
black leaves will stifle you. Do you hear the gurgle of the Stream?
It’s Pain, you know. Silence and Pain. Twin sisters. Gurgle, gurgle.
Your father has trod it all before. How his feet ached too! Poor
father!”

Oh! this stream is a very teaching stream. It makes men feel to the
very marrow of the bone. It stings to the core so that brilliant lights
flash from your aching, feverish eyes, and the world laughs and says,
“Ah! that was very good.” Not knowing what a sepulchre it laughs at.

Now let us go back to the Spirit, standing there in the forest.

It isn’t an angel, and not even a Spirit of Paradise, not in the
accepted sense; but it is so familiar to Deborah that she rubs her eyes
and looks again, and can make nothing of it.

“It’s Dante out of one of the pictures,” says she; but even that did
not solve the riddle, not at all.

“It is that being who guided him.” But no.

It was indeed hard to describe this spirit, for it was so transparent
and yet so real. You could see the trees through the graceful robe
quite plainly, yea, and something more. You could see other black paths
in the forest which had hitherto been hidden. For this place was all
magical, and the spirit was magical too. It had the power of explaining
the key to life, or rather lives, and no sooner did you look through it
than the whole forest became peopled with poor drudges in the shape of
men. And it made you irresistibly sad. Here you saw a man struggling
on, his feet all drenched with the red stream that to him looked black.
He had fallen, and the black leaves smirched with blood clung to his
poor lean ribs. Now he staggered. Good God! Would he fall again? Oh,
yes. Hark! The bitter cry! And outside in the world a shrill laugh
went up, for as he fell he kicked out somewhat with his heels and the
devil translated it onto a comic canvas, and made it appear too funny
for words. He is still now. The black leaves cover him. What was his
last living thought? God’s secret and his own.

And lo! _There_ is another path, and along it crawls a woman, all
alone—there are no pairs in the Forest of Failure, Silence will see to
that. There is the red dye again, that to her looks black.

It is a very fragile woman, with a lovely face, which the gloom hides.
She has very tender feet, and there are so many flinty stones along the
path. The black leaves cling to her skirts like millstones.

There! Another fall! No upward struggle here. There is a golden hoop of
a wedding-ring that slips off the skeleton finger into the thin stream.
It is dyed blood red. And there is another little plaything in her
hand, a baby’s rattle, red too. Why, you know, it is only the failure
of domestic love; and when she falls there is no cry in the accepted
sense; a childish sob that speaks more than words, and in the outside
world the shout of drunken revelry has drowned it. That’s how it is the
tears and sighs of the mighty forest are never heard.

And there were very many other paths, and many faces; and on all the
faces suffering was written, so that there was a terrible beauty and
refinement in the forest. You see it was not the Forest of Sin, or
reckless Self-indulgence, but the Forest of Silence and Pain, that do
not allow of them.

Now I said that the Spirit’s robes were transparent; they reflected,
or rather revealed, things that were beyond. But all this Deborah took
in vaguely, or perhaps it seemed to her she had been used to looking
through that figure all her life, so there was nothing very wonderful
in the sights it showed.

But the face Deborah was not so sure about. It was a face as perfectly
moulded as if it were cut in marble. There was no trace of human
passion or emotion on it. A broad brow, a calm eye, a straight nose
with finely-cut nostrils, a mouth of exquisite beauty, if somewhat
coldly drawn, and a well-shaped chin.

The whole figure was one of grace and calmness, strangely out of
keeping with the human agony around. Why, even now, through the clear
robe appeared a face of such exceeding torture that it sent a sickly
feeling to the heart. Then suddenly the white robes turned to a dusky
black and hid the pale, hopeless features.

“Don’t you know me, Deborah?”

“Well,” thought Deborah, “it’s just as if someone were playing the
‘Frühlingslied’ backwards. I know that voice, and yet I don’t.” But
aloud she said,—

“I expect if you were to tell me who you are I should perhaps remember
you.”

At this the Spirit laughed, and Deborah started, for of all places in
which to hear such a sound that seemed the most unlikely, and moreover,
the alteration in the face was so complete that it was almost dazzling.

“This is a very heartless Spirit,” thought she. “I could not have
laughed in this wood, not for anything. The agony is too sacred.”

And, as if interpreting her thoughts, the Spirit answered, “Let us
walk out of the Forest on to the Moors. They are lonely and cold, and
the night wind is keen. We can hear, and see, and understand better
there.”

And he led the way by some unknown path on to a high moorland dotted
with crags, with hills rising black in the distance. Stars were shining
bright in the clear sky, for it had deepened to that length of twilight
which approaches night. A crescent moon rose over the irregular bank
of mountains—the narrowest, clearest crescent, like a thin slit in
the blue-grey heaven. Over there was the sound of running water.
How different from the deep gurgle of the wood! And there the white
splashing of a waterfall over a rocky bed. There was a clump of fir
trees and the smell of the pine forest; and there—oh! what was that?
Oh! only another bitter cry, and you thought it was the cry of a dog or
wolf in the autumn’s frosty distance.

“One hears very plainly on this moorland,” observed the Spirit, and
smiled again. “This is the sounding board and mirror of the world. One
hears and sees. One pays a pretty dear price, but I think it is the one
of the few things that returns full value.”

Deborah was silent. The moor was so unutterably lonely; a vaster
loneliness than the forest; it did not stifle, it awed.

“Look over there,” pointed the Spirit, “where the sky is hidden by the
black billows of cloud. That inky pile is always there. Below it you
see the gloomy mass of the forest boundary. Black, black, always black.
Now I will hold this wing of my robe with my hand, so. Look through it
towards the Silent Wood. What do you see?”

“Bubbles of light floating here and there at intervals amongst the
trees.”

“Will-o’-the-wisps. Here—there—up and down—now quick, now slow.
Watch and listen earnestly.”

And Deborah, looking through the robe, saw the bubbles shining in
the darkness; and listening, heard the sound of faintest music—harp
strings and bells—and the lights kept time to them. Ting! ting! They
danced in the branches, balls of clearest, transparent light. Oh! There
was a beauty! Crimson and larger than most. The Spirit moved slightly,
the scene became clearer. Why, it was another dark path, and the ball,
moving airily, lit it up as it tossed gracefully forward to the magic
sounds. Another figure in the path. This time a man. And he was running
and stumbling forward in the darkness, grasping at the dazzling ball.
But it always evaded him. The music quickened—his step quickened also.
The shining globe danced forward. Then he, being weary, for the road
had been long and dark, and he had stumbled often, leant back against a
gnarled tree trunk, his chin sunk upon his breast. His was a very ashen
face, with sunken eyes; blackened leaves smirched all with red stuck
to him everywhere. The clear ball, swung by a backward motion, danced
to where he leant with the weariness of death, and stood suspended in
the air before him. He raised his eyes and looked at it for one second,
then the lids fell again. It danced nearer, swung itself even till
it grazed his hand. Stung to life by the touch he started quivering.
The red light was reflected in his eyes. The ball rose in the air to
the level of his head. With a sudden plunge forward he caught it in
both hands. It burst and fell around him in crimson flames of blood.
Over head, and face, and hands, and shoulders. Ugh! think of it. Hist!
Ssh! The music is still. With both hands raised above his head in
helpless agony, his face drawn back, he staggers sideways. Hark! ’Tis
the bitter cry. Oh! but this is agony, exceeding agony, burning to the
brain and heart. That bitter, bitter, bitter cry. To hear it sends the
blood like icicles to the heart, and makes it run slower and colder
for ever after. He doesn’t fall. His tattered coat has caught in the
forked branch of a tree. He looks like a dancing puppet run down and
left unstrung. His legs, and arms, and head hang limp and lifeless. He
has gone. But there is something grotesque about him after all. Scarce
has the last low wail died away before a roar of laughter rises. An
excellent joke provided for the world, because the upnotes of his cry
resembled somewhat the crowing of a cock.

Ah! There is another glimmering light—blue this time and purple.
Another path—another figure. Only a woman now. Round! Round! in a
giddy whirl the ball flies. Her feet are cut by briars and stones, and
the red stream has dyed them.

Will-o’-the-wisp! Will-o’-the-wisp! What devil’s cruelty has put you
there? Will you burst too and shower your death-pangs on her gentle
head? Why, no. Suddenly, as by a puff of unfelt wind, the dancing
flame goes out. The music stops. She stands still in the path that to
her has turned to fatal blackness, her eyes wide open, staring into
space. Then, terrified by the darkness and the hopeless failure, she
gives one terrible scream. No soul could stay in a body after that; it
would rend the very heart-strings. She falls down too; and because the
road has been long and weary, and the rocks sharp, the scanty clothes
have been badly torn, and in the fall they have slipped aside and show
more of the human form than this world reckons decent. Very tender
limbs, worn thin with pain and silent suffering. But again the Devil
translates it. The Spirit’s robe has changed, and Deborah looks down on
a different scene, one of the world’s own.

It is a company of women, dressed in the loveliest gossamer and jewels
that money can provide. Arms and busts shine out in satiny smoothness,
and the slight veiling discloses other charms. This is the lap of
Luxury and Chastity—that ill-matched pair which the world pretends can
grow abreast.

There is a very lovely woman in the midst, clothed all in white, and as
the scream dies away these are the words she’s saying: “Alas! too true!
and was it not disgusting?” And the other women yawn, and echo, with
airy laughs, “Oh! terribly disgusting.”

And Deborah, looking round on the chill moor, sees it peopled with
white Spirits all looking in the same direction, to that vision of fair
women.

And then the curtain falls upon them, and Deborah, looking at the forms
around her, sees a smile on every lip of scarcely veiled cynicism. “Oh!
terribly disgusting,” they cry with the right accent and tone, and look
at one another and laugh as Spirits will, and then disappear once more.

The Spirit turned to Deborah.

“The voice of that woman is as clear as a bell,” he remarked, with a
cruel smile. “Think you it would echo well through the Silent Forest?”

“I cannot say,” answered Deborah.

He laughed.

“Some day we shall hear it,” he went on. “Now or then, willy-nilly,
each man treads it, and alone—now or then.”

“But she seemed a wealthy woman of the world.”

“And she will die a success to the world,” he rejoined, kicking a
pebble thoughtfully with his sandalled foot, so that flint sparks shot
from it. “But we have all to reckon with eternity. It can canker and
rust, and make harsh discord of one-time harmony. A rusty bell with a
broken clapper is not very delightful to the ear at the best of times.
Now let us sit down on this rock and talk. See, I will draw my mantle
round you, and then we shall scarce feel the cold.”

So they sat down. And the crescent moon rose higher, and the stars
shone brighter, and the waterfall splashed merrily near by.

“It is night now in the world,” said the Spirit. “Here we come to view
the great theatre. Do you think it is worth the price?”

Deborah shivered.

“It is not for me to judge,” she replied. “Perhaps I’m a coward.”

The Spirit smiled.

“So you think the price paid to come to this chill dreary place too
dear.”

“Oh, yes, yes. Left to myself I never would have come.”

For some minutes they waited in silence. Suddenly the middle of the
Black Cloud changed to a dusky red, and took a shape—the old,
timeworn shape, the Cross. And on it hung the sacred Figure. Great
drops of blood dripped from hands and feet and brow, and trickled
between the thick branches into the Silent Wood. The pale bloodless
face hung low. Outside in the world the big clock at Westminster struck
the midnight hour. “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight,
nine.” No more. There came then that bitter cry—the bitterest the
still air has ever heard or the wide world ever known—the keynote
from which every voice in the forest takes its pitch, and it was
those words, which must strike a chill even to the heart of the most
thoughtless—“My God! My God! Why hast thou forsaken me?” And oh! the
lingering moan on that last word! What father could ever thus torture
his own beloved son, who had given up all and suffered all for him?

The gay streets of the world were rowdy and noisy—carriages, hansoms,
’buses driving everywhere. Laughter and songs and shouting.

But Deborah shuddered.

“Why did you bring me here for this?”

“To hear the bitterest cry of all. Do you wonder at the blackness of
the Cloud now? It contains such mental agony and human pain. It’s the
great curse, you know, that the world calls a blessing, and says can
save it from the power of hell. Reckoned from the world’s storehouse
that cramped Figure was a marvellous fool. He had brains enough to have
won a kingdom, and He’d learnt no more from His early trade than to
make use of two rough planks of wood.”

Then, as it had come, the pained vision melted away. But afterwards
you never looked at the dark cloud without seeming to see the red drops
flowing from it into the stifling groves below.

“That is the Baptism and the Cup He speaks of,” said the Spirit. “It is
the Reservoir of the Gurgling Streams.”

“But is He suffering all the time?”

“No. No. It is the Reflection from the Forest. That Cross overhangs the
Central part, where He of His own Free will fell down among the leaves,
in Silence and in Desolation. The learned Jews shook their sides with
laughing when He fell, but rather strangely He rose again the third
day.”

“And the blood that flows, is it not real?”

“Oh, yes! very real,” replied the Spirit, smiling. “Having felt it I
thought you would have known. It’s pain, you know. Just in the same
way that the sun attracts the moisture from the earth and lets it drop
again, so that cloud attracts the red-dyed dew and drops it every
evening.

“Now we will walk on a little and turn our backs upon the forest
and the cloud. Our moon is growing brighter. Every night after that
wild cry has died away it rounds to fulness, and the stars, gaining
brilliancy in the tingling air, glance and gleam with uncommon
witchery. This is my natural home, Deborah; I love it, love it, with
a wild, fierce love. I had rather hear that cry and laugh than any
charm of music. I had rather see those scenes of agony and the world’s
scenes of joy than any rose-bowered garden on the earth. Then when I
sicken of both I turn to the moorland and the hill, the cold quietness
that reckons naught of either pain or pleasure. I wander here on the
ridge of hills and in the shadows of caves, and then with a sudden
whimsical change of feeling I turn to social life again, and receive
the courtesies of pretty women and the respect of men.”

There was a long silence—not broken for a long time—till Deborah
said, “Why are you so silent?”

And the Spirit answered, “I am thinking—thinking—thinking—and why
should I not think? Ting! Ting! Listen to the magic music in the wood.
Will-o’-the-wisps are dancing everywhere. Harp strings and bells,
neither of heaven or earth. Blue and purple. Red and yellow. Green and
golden. Now in, now out. Ting! Ting! The magic music in the magic wood.
Wild flowers and myrtle—black dust and dying leaves—stones smeared
with blood—and the deep dull gurgle of the stream—raindrops distilled
from the black cloud. Ting! Ting! Tinkle! Twinkle! Tired feet keep time
to the magic sounds. Dull brains grow brilliant. Cold blood grows warm.
Ting! Ting! Now in. Now out. Up and down. Unreal sounds in the Silent
Forest. Unreal lights in the Blackened Paths. Ting! Ting! Silver bells,
golden strings, and burning balls. Baubles for fools! What! Darkness
and Silence! Silence and Darkness! Twin sisters. Grope! Grope! with
trembling fingers and blinded eyes. Hark! The bitter cry! and the echo
from the world. The worse the cry, the louder the laugh.”

And whilst he spoke those glorious eyes were shining with a gloomy,
far-off light.

“He trusted in another man,” he said.

Deborah shuddered. “That is what poor father did.”

“I know. I know. God grant him a double blessing. God grant him a
double blessing.”

“He went one autumn night to meet a man. I held his coat and got his
hat, and shut the door behind him. And when he came back I said,
‘Father, did you see him?’ And he looked at me and answered, ‘He—he
did not come.’”

“Poor father,” said the Spirit, softly.

And overhead the star shone, and the magic moon was still high in
heaven, and the waterfall sparkled, and the stream ran lightly on, and
the hills were clear and the moorland frosty and cold.

“I love this place too,” observed Deborah. “Even to the wind and the
glittering frost crystals. But when we turn and look toward the Silent
Forest I need to hold you very tight. It makes my heart ache, and the
blackness sticks. Would God it could be turned to a garden of Summer
Roses!” And then Plucritus, Prince of the Powers of Evil, turned and
looked at her and laughed. And on his finger gleamed the _opal_
ring.

Ting! Ting! the magic music and the magic fire!

Then another bitter cry and all was still.

END OF PART I

PART II

HELL

CHAPTER I

[The want of the author’s revising hand is here evident. There is no
literary link between this part of the story and “Earth.” The reader
will, however, perceive that it is Genius who is now telling his
experiences to Deborah. Where Deborah is does not seem quite clear.
The concluding passages of the last chapter in “Earth” suggest her
death. Genius presently alludes to her “lost soul in the wilderness,”
so that apparently she is in a kind of Purgatory, in close
communication with Genius. The connection between Genius and Deborah
is exceedingly intimate throughout, and as we have the author’s own
word that Deborah goes to Heaven, it may be presumed that she is there
entirely merged in Genius. At any rate she does not reappear in person
after “Earth.”

We have the author’s own word that Deborah represents herself. Deborah
probably symbolises the human, Genius the mental and spiritual element
in the personality of the author; some confirmation of which may be
found in the clearly-expressed assertion of the dual personality of
the Saviour (in “Heaven”)—namely, as Jesus in His human aspect, as
Christ in His spiritual. With regard to Plucritus and Virginius, the
conjecture may be hazarded that the former embodies Deborah’s lower
tendencies, the latter her higher soul.—ED. NOTE.]

You, Deborah, remember the summer evening when I left you. It was no
more pleasure to me than you, though I cannot say that then the pain
which I experienced equalled yours. The force which parted us, the
first time for so many years, was stronger than my own. For I had made
a bet upon the book, and by the bet I sacrificed my ring, the only
safeguard I possessed.

Between two forces, Good and Evil, I had stood alone, leaning to one
who ever faced me cold and silently. Time and again I tried to break
the weary barrier down, and in you that generated feeble efforts unto
prayer. I had followed your lost soul about the wilderness, sprinkling
flowers upon the barren ground, and unripe fruit, which withered. But
ever like the thirsty wanderer I looked in search of fruitful soil.
Good and Evil stalked with me all the time side by side, the one
laughing, jesting all the way, the other silent, almost wordless.

Mirage followed mirage, till at last the Angel said, “Dig for the well.”

Then, as in the olden times, like our first fathers, I set to work
laboriously. Hindrance followed hindrance, and the task was slow and
painful, more so to you because you could not understand the cause of
pain.

But to return to the present and my going. The journey was long, yet
short, and I took it alone. It led through a mighty forest dark as
night, chilly and damp, with here and there the shining coils of a
sleeping serpent lying prone across the path. This was the mighty
vestibule to hell, that spread through space by regions infinite. Here
the traveller may often lose himself and fall down starved and dead.
Here the sinuous snake will coil its writhing body round him and drag
him o’er the unresisting slimy soil right to the prison gates which he
in life so feared—or, maybe, laughed at.

By the side of blackened pools and hideous precipice I passed far out
into the wild. The darkness was as clear as light before me, for I
saw with darkened sight. Crags, rocks and gurgling torrents, flowing
through dreary chasms, met my eyes, and the further I went the lonelier
I ever grew, for the pressure of intensity had fallen on to Silence
and the power of Goodness no longer walked beside.

I saw the glorious bubbles floating round me—red, purple,
golden-yellow, green—I heard the magic music as it tinkled, I saw the
victim quiver when it stilled. I heard the helpless cry, and then the
laugh of devils as it died; I heard the feeble, far-off echo of the
world, and darker, drearier grew the scene.

One by one the bubbles burst and fainter grew, note by note the music
died upon the ear, the mortal cry of pain was left behind, and Silence,
born of all, closed round me as I trod.

Then before me in the distance gleamed the danger-lights of hell,
bloody-red against the darkness, clear and piercing as they shone. As I
drew nearer they shone still clearer, lighting up the shining bulwarks,
polished and cut like myriads of gem-strewn columns in the night.

The heavy gates were open, no sound disturbed my thought, yet I stood
still upon the threshold and looked behind. Far off in the distance
through the darkness gleamed a gloomy, lurid light upon a leaden ball,
and on the farther side, almost like giant shadows on a giant curtain,
two giant forms were struggling for the ball.

But that to me had little interest. Why should it have? Who ever yet
upon Hell’s threshold glanced back except to breathe the air that is
not? For Misery had come, and Desolation, and Mistrust, that fiend of
fiends which eats the hearts of kings and poisons homesteads, bringing
one general curse to all.

Thus far I had come alone and unattended, but as I passed beneath the
overwhelming shadow I became conscious of this other world.

And the thing that struck me most on entering was the deathly silence
hanging over all. And the next thing that struck me was the weird,
unnatural beauty of the scene. And the next that I was now no longer
quite alone.

To a broad avenue, banked by sculptured terraces and crowned with
towering mansions, I had come, yet in this city of the night no living
form appeared, till, looking up above to some alabaster steps carved by
some magic hand, I beheld a spirit woman watching me.

Even as I looked she moved toward me, with all the grace and lightness
which spirits may possess.

“You are dull of seeing, dull of hearing, dull at recognising,” she
said, and I heard the siren’s voice and remembered my lost ring. I had
no voice to answer, till with an effort I had roused myself.

“And you, it seems, are duller at receiving.”

“How so?” she asked, and laughed and drew much nearer, so that I
recognised the more this spirit beauty.

“I come like an unwelcome guest, finding no preparation at the end of
travel.”

“Indeed,” she answered, “all has been prepared, but it was done in
silence. We knew your hatred of display. And is it true that you are
here without one bite, one ugly serpent twist to mar your strength or
beauty? Then indeed you are welcome. Come this way.”

She led me by the steps of alabaster under the shade of heavy drooping
trees. We passed along the margin of a river, by many statues of
exceeding beauty, whose images were reflected in its bed. But to me,
foreign to this nature, the gloom and heavy grandeur were oppressive.
Even to my feet the hard, unbending marble brought weariness and pain.

“Lady,” I said at last, “this kingdom is in need of something. It lacks
a joyful element of sound.”

At this she laughed, and there was beauty in it, maybe some merriment.

“You are dull of hearing,” she repeated, and looked back at me and
stayed, then laughed again. She pointed toward the river.

“Come nearer,” she went on. “Now listen, listen.” And she raised a
finger. “Does it not run so? Gurgle, gurgle! Is there no rhythm in
that?” And as I listened I could hear the sound.

“There is no joyousness in it,” I said.

“You are dull of understanding,” she repeated, and laughed again and
moved along.

Her dress, now that I came to see it more distinctly and follow it more
closely in the unnoticeable haze, was of the clearest shade of twilight
inlaid with many a shining gem.

And still we passed along, till on a sudden we lit on a great and
glorious building among the trees and jewel-spraying fountains. From
every window sparkled brilliant light.

“That is my home,” she said, and pointed to it.

At length, when I had looked some time and viewed its every pinnacle
and spire, buttress and gable, tower and minaret, I turned to her.

“Is this a church or palace, pleasure house or prison?” I questioned.

“Oh, stranger, you are dull at seeing,” she replied, and shook her head.

And then, for the first time since coming there, I smiled; this
creature’s fascination told on me, the only seeming-living thing about
the place.

“You will come home with me,” she urged. “I am alone, but what of that?
Poor company will suffice one night. And to-morrow who knows? I may
expect my husband home.”

“Your husband?” I queried.

She placed her hand on my arm and drew her lips close to my ear. Her
eyes were laughing, and her voice.

She whispered lightly, “I think you are mistaking this for heaven.”

“That would be the greatest compliment,” I rejoined.

Her manner altered to one of sarcasm and scorn.

“If you esteem it so, why do you linger here?”

“That is an answer quite beyond me,” I made answer. “I think I linger
here because I must.”

“Yes—as a prisoner,” she said slowly. “A much-prized prisoner, almost
like a guest.”

We had reached the broad flight of steps that led toward the entrance.
Here she stood still and took my left hand in her right, and with her
other placed upon my finger a narrow circlet of blood-red stones. I
looked at it with vain regret; to me there was no beauty in these gems.
I remembered my own fair jewels and remorse more keen that I had felt
before cut to my heart.

“Stranger, how little courtesy you show! Silent and thankless even for
a gift.”

“I remember another ring more beautiful than this,” I answered.

Her eyes lit up with that intensity which in its lesser forms mortals
call greed.

“Be content with what you get,” she remarked. “Those stones are
priceless—millions could scarcely buy them; your stones are the dross
of that little planet, Earth—bought, perhaps, with trumpery silver.”

I was then silent, and together we went up the steps.

The entrance was barred with gates of gold. They were like the iron
ones that protect churches. Inside these gates was a high arched
door. It was like the door of some cathedral—covered with knobs. But
they were not of rusted iron; they glowed like carbuncles in a carved
setting, which was itself in substance like black oak.

At her touch the heavy gates drew back, the gloomy door flew open.

Beyond was an arched space like the central aisle of some large temple.

And as we stood upon the threshold I looked in upon the dim, dark
grandeur. Blood-red lighted censers swung from the golden fluted roof.
They lit up the fluted pillars that branched out into the most delicate
arches eye could wish.

Here was the sound of organ music beautiful to hear, yet to my ears it
came like a paining memory of long ago.

“Do you not like our music?” she asked.

“It is short of but one thing,” I answered as we went in, “and that is
joyousness.”

The door closed behind us and the music ceased. Presently it began
again. I listened enraptured and entranced.

“What do you think of that?” she queried.

“That is not joyous, it is madness—an elation which does not last.”

“You are very bad to please. Or rather, let me use my old argument, I
will say that you are dull.”

At the farther end, above a high-standing altar, rose a mighty
crucifix. It was so beautiful, so real, so truthful in its silent
agony, that, looking through the dusk, it startled me.

I grasped the yielding arm beside me.

“What is that?” I questioned sharply.

“You a Christian and so dull?” she exclaimed. “That is Christ, the
carpenter, the king, the God, the Tool, the Fool, anything, everything.
Whatever you will. Is it not like him?”

The airy mockery in her tone jarred on me.

“Go nearer,” she continued, “look at it closer. It is worth studying,
and is of excellent workmanship. Everything in these places should be
and is of the best.”

I went nearer as she bade me. It was indeed of exquisite workmanship.

“I had not thought to meet with that in Hell,” I said at length.

“I do not think you could get it better done in Heaven,” she observed,
and laughed and turned away.

I too turned from it, with a horrible repugnance growing in me
mixed with extreme pain. I saw this figure for the first time in an
unexpected place, and something within me struggled for expression, yet
found none. Beneath the Crucifix, which was exceeding highly placed,
broad flights of steps led up to a crimson altar, and above the altar
was a handsome doorway of gold, which reached just so high as the
Saviour’s feet.

I noticed with some curiosity and surprise that she was ascending the
steps before us. I followed with cold yet burning interest, for in this
place white heat is only quenched with ice, and ice melted with white
heat alone.

But when we reached the upper step the altar was invisible. It had
vanished, and the door alone remained before us. It opened, as all
things opened here, silent and swiftly.

She had been watching, and espied my look of evident astonishment,
which amused her.

“The lights are thrown on in such a manner that when you are below you
imagine you see an arrangement something like a table,” she said. “But
that would be a very inconvenient, and at the same time undignified,
way of approaching the doorway, and I should have thought your own
common sense would tell you it was nothing but a sham—a myth rather, I
might say.”

We stood upon the threshold and looked down the dim, grand aisle.

No painter ever yet imagined in his fondest, highest dream a scene of
richer grandeur. In place of the straight-backed pews of churches,
jewelled thrones ranged tier behind tier, meeting the eye with
ever-gleaming, changing light. Over the font there hung by finest cords
of diamond and ruby intermingled, a royal crown, its golden background
hidden by gems. A great golden bird spread out its giant wings below
us, every feather tipped with curious light, and on its back rested
the mighty Bible opened at the Gospel according to St John. The twelve
Apostles stood out in bold relief around the pulpit, and from the
tasseled cushion on the desk a simple cross was hanging in needlework
of gold.

Yet all this glittering, gleaming brilliancy was subdued by the dimness
of the light, and the organ-loft shone out almost as from a mist of
unreal glamour.

She paused beside the open door and looked behind. I stood and looked
upon it too.

“What wealth! what countless millions have been spent on this,” I
murmured.

She laughed; and when she laughed it seemed as if the jewels gleamed
more magically.

“Yes,” she affirmed, “countless millions have been spent. It is the
work of ages, and has been built to the glory and praise of God
Eternal.”

Then she turned away, and I turned too and gazed within the doorway.

A large hall of great expanse met our eyes. From its sides many doors
led off, and passages, and here and there on the right side high
windows opened on the gardens we had left.

I had hoped on leaving the dim church to throw off the deep depression
that hung round me, but it was hopeless.

From without there came the sound of singing birds, the splash of
fountains, a gentle music, but I recognised they might as well be
silent for all the joyousness they brought to me.

The beauties of the hall were lost except to my intellect. I regarded
them calmly and with an interest that had dulled.

Exquisite workmanship in furniture met my eye at every turn. The
painted ceilings, the polished floor of rich mosaic, the easeful
chairs that were in themselves like flattering apologies for graceful
broad-armed thrones, the squares of rich-coloured carpet, the inlaid
tables with their fine carved legs, the couches piled with softest
cushions, the massive fireplaces filled with living coal, met my eye
and left merely the impression of a dream.

Yet I strove to find some pleasure, but could find none.

From this she led the way into an apartment which was smaller and more
adaptable for private life.

Its beauty was like all the rest, on the richest, finest scale.

She beckoned me toward a sofa by the fireplace, in which the flames
leapt lightly, and with a sudden feeling of weariness I threw myself
down on it.

“You are tired, stranger,” she said softly. “Sleep, sleep, and wake
refreshed. The journey has been long, longer than mortal thought can
reckon.”

And then, overcome with weariness and exhaustion, I slept, and for the
time remembered nothing more.

CHAPTER II

When I awoke, night had fallen without, and I was alone. The fire still
burnt brightly, and what other light was needed came from an electric
candelabra hanging from the centre of the room. I looked around and
noticed for the first time that the walls were lined with book-shelves
extending from the ceiling to the floor. With some curiosity I
approached and scanned the titles. They were all the works of writers
eminent on earth, some dead, some living—mostly dead. One book,
which it surprised me greatly to find there, I took down and opened.
But beneath the title on the inner leaf was written in manuscript
the words, “With the author’s compliments,” and then there came the
signature. I put it back with some surprise and took another, and it
also contained those words. Then I took others, and they likewise had
similar writing in them. At length my eyes lit on a Bible.

“Surely this will not be with ‘compliments,’” I thought, and took it
down.

But there the writing was just as in all the others, except that no
signatures were given.

I passed through from book to book, and before each the self-same words
appeared, till I came to the Gospels. And here the wording altered. It
was simply “From the writer.” From that I passed on to the Revelation;
there the old wording had returned.

I closed the book and left it on a table and walked to the fireplace.

“Someone here or somewhere has a sense of humor,” I thought. “Or I am
in a strange yet vivid dream from which I cannot wake.”

I was not alone long. Shortly the door opened and Plucritus entered.

His entrance surprised me, yet on second thoughts it seemed natural
enough.

“I was sorry not to come along with you,” he said in his customary easy
way. “But I have made the most haste I could; yet even now my stay is
only for a short time.”

His eye rested on the Bible.

“Psalm singing?” he asked.

“No. I have been greatly struck by—”

“The dedications,” he interjected, laughing.

“No—the gifts.”

“Oh. It is only natural. The Bible at one time was so interesting, and
at the same time so expensive, that I made friends with the writers
and obtained copies gratis. You must admit that the binding and
illuminations alone are in themselves treasures of art.”

“Indeed,” I observed drily, “everything about here seems so precious
and expensive that a little poverty and plainness would be most
acceptable.”

He sat down on the sofa I had left.

“You are in a bad temper,” he remarked simply. “But if you wish to see
what you term poverty you shall see it soon enough. But not now, for I
will have—let me see (and here he glanced at a curious kind of clock
above the fireplace), I suppose you would call it ‘supper.’”

He led the way to the door, but there he stayed.

“We have no guests to-night,” he said, smiling, “so we dine alone.
But may I beg of you to assume a more cheerful countenance? My slaves
are not accustomed to sad looks, except from prisoners, and you are
a guest. Also, I must give you a little advice which is sometimes
given in the world we’ve left to poor relations. Look as if you were
accustomed to everything, and don’t pay too much deference—‘attention’
rather I should say—to the servants.”

Then he opened the door, and without there stood a dwarfish creature
bearing somewhat the semblance of a man. He was very, very thin and
little, and very, very old, at least if one was to judge from the
wrinkles on his face, for it was lined with them.

“Slave, conduct this Spirit to the apartment that has been prepared,”
Plucritus said, and the hauteur in his voice matched the pride upon his
face.

“Don’t talk too much to him,” he added more carelessly to me. “He has,
or rather had, a pretty bad habit of repeating things.”

Walking backward across the polished floor the old slave conducted me
to a broad flight of stairs, which led me to a pillared gallery set
with fine armoury and statues. From thence we passed along a corridor
built in grained marble with doors on each side, and through one of
these we entered into a large apartment set aside for private rest.

I had the advantage, being myself a Spirit, of wearing that simple
garment (which is worn by Spirits and needs no other ornament) which
you in your world call invisibility. It is that finely-woven mist which
clings like graceful raiment or like bright hazes round the sun.

Yet I noticed the old creature was bringing forth from a wardrobe in an
adjoining chamber most gorgeous clothing.

“Take it back,” I commanded shortly, turning to him. “This is not my
own.”

He scarcely seemed to heed me, but went on placing vestment after
vestment in almost luxurious profusion on the bed.

Then, losing my temper, for no other reason perhaps than that I was in
hell, I turned to him.

“Fool,” I said, “do you take me for a harlequin or a beggar, that you
force things upon me that are not my own?”

He understood; at least, he desisted and carried them away.

After that he brought me living water with which to refresh and cleanse
myself from those impurities which, though in a different manner,
affect Spirits as well as men.

I was ready to descend long before the summons came, and having nothing
more to do, and not knowing exactly whither to go, I sat down and began
to question my companion.

But I found he was dumb, for on my third question he opened his mouth
and showed the ghastly cavity.

I recognised the spirit of Plucritus well in this, for he was scarcely
likely to have left me alone with a servant who could disclose the
slightest information, even untruthfully.

Finding therefore nothing of further interest within the room I passed
out into the corridor and made my way to the central gallery.

It ran along the walls above the large hall and I walked through it
slowly, more intent on my own thoughts than the surroundings.

You have felt depression and can understand the feeling that was mine.
It seemed as if the whole great palace hung on me; from ever gloomy
piece of armoury some scarcely-breathed sigh escaped; each marble
figure looked at me with silence-speaking pain. My thoughts ran ever
back to the world I had left; at times I thought of you, and wondered
how you fared, being left alone.

But in the midst of this sad reverie I was aroused by hearing a clear
and penetrating, yet eerie, mournful sound. Then I laughed. ’Twas but a
gong calling to that meal of which by this time I was much in need.

I retraced my steps toward the staircase, and as I descended I became
aware of the simplicity of the garment which I wore; but being a Spirit
I had, or rather had had, the power to change it to whatever form or
kind I chose. But now that power had left me. I remembered with some
haste that scene in the bedchamber, in which the wretched menial had
offered me such sumptuous attire. Impatiently, then, I had rejected all
his offers, whether from preoccupation or some other cause, it would
be hard to say. In a marvellously short time, in other places, I could
have transformed the simplicity of plainness into that of beauty, but
now I must either go back for borrowed garments or appear just as I
was. With that independence which has ever been part of my nature I
chose the latter course, and passed down into the hall. There I found
two slaves waiting for me.

And whilst I mention them I may describe them briefly.

In this palace the slaves and menials were countless, and in shape
they were all lean, deformed, wrinkled, and hungry-eyed. They walked
about naked, unable to hide one disproportioned limb or hideous defect,
and ever through the hungry look within their eyes hatred would gleam
and baffled cunning. They alone were in themselves fit subjects for
depression, for spirit-instinct told me that round each form was
wreathed a history of the past, binding like some tight chain.

These led me, with many varied expressions of obeisance, to the large
dining-hall. Here there were many tables, but only one was laid, and
this was at the farther end, beside a fireplace.

They were waiting for me—were not yet seated. As I approached they
turned from the conversation in which they were engaged and looked at
me with some interest. But into the eyes of Plucritus, as he glanced
over me, there blazed a flash of anger. I noticed it, and the cause,
though the expression was momentary.

“This is our guest,” he said, turning from me to her.

“I know,” she answered lightly, coming forward. “We are well
acquainted, though he preferred sleep to me. For all that I have never
had your name on good authority, nor indeed at all.”

“Well,” observed Plucritus, slowly, “I do not know that you will ever
get his name on good authority, as you call it. He has no name, for the
planet from which he comes does not acknowledge him. But as here, at
least, we are courteous we will give him the name that best suits his
vanity; we will call him Genius. Vestné, this is Genius—Genius, here
is my wife.”

“I expect,” she said, with that half-laughing sigh of hers, “you have
cast a libel on us both.”

“Not so,” he rejoined. “I describe you as my wife to suit his morals.
He has come from Earth, you know the place I mean, where they are all
moral on the outside, but underneath they suit their own convenience.”

As he spoke he stood behind her and eyed me with the hard, unflinching
stare which was so distasteful. I remember a rather awkward pause
followed on this remark till Vestné led the way to the table and sat
down. She had attired herself in the most lovely raiment eye could
wish, and the soft, silken coils about her head were of the beauty of
simplicity.

The meal, though most magnificently served, and delicate in flavour
throughout, was a failure. Plucritus, who in hell appeared much
different from what he was on earth, sat like some great prince, moody
and speechless. He wore the usual civic robe above his tunic, but under
this there shone on his arms and neck a fine coat of linked armour,
worked in gold, though hard as steel. He wore neither crown nor coronet
upon his head, and he needed neither. A crown to him was simply a
bauble, unless worn out of courtesy and compliment to those who were
his equals.

I understood well the cause of his ill-humour, and even sympathised
with it. But no remark was passed till the fruit had been brought, and
Vestné, who during the meal had tasked me with many questions about the
people on Earth, laughingly left us.

When we were alone Plucritus continued for some time silent, absorbed
for the most part in cracking and eating nuts. For you will understand
that nuts of certain kinds are a very favourite dessert with
Spirits—so much is often contained within a nutshell.

I made no attempt to join him, either in eating or drinking. A glass
of untouched wine stood beside me—what appetite I had, had been long
since satisfied. At last he broke the silence.

“Genius,” he said in his clear, incisive voice, “would you be kind
enough to tell me something? I wish to know if living among boors has
transformed you into a boor?”

“In all probability,” I answered, “or the question would be
unnecessary.”

“I see,” he commented. And then for a little while silence fell again.

Presently he began once more,—

“Am I to blame you for this negligent, uncourteous attire, or that
cursed slave I sent with you?”

“I am to blame entirely. He did his best—but failed.”

“I see. Then I am inclined to blame him. Failure is a crime, a
lamentable weakness. He may suffer a little more till he has found out
some means of making you do—right.”

His voice as he spoke was filled with cruelty, though towards the end
of the sentence it had sunk so low that he seemed really speaking to
himself.

“In that case,” I went on quickly, “I will wear as many clothes as you
care to put on me—always excepting a scrubby singlet. They don’t suit
me.”

He laughed.

“Be careful,” he said. “You were once mistaken for a woman dressed in
contravention of the law.”

“I know. But I should have thought the better expression would have
been ‘effeminate.’”

“Would you have raised no objection to be called ‘effeminate’?” he
questioned.

“None,” I answered.

“But Deborah does.” Whereat he laughed again. “Since you have gone she
has raised a kind of statue to your memory, and there you sit in lonely
grandeur, for the atmosphere around is ice. Of late she has taken to
dragging every man that she has ever met into this gloomy chamber, and
sets them side by side with you.”

“And what next?”

“Well, there is rather a change in the atmosphere. So some show to
disadvantage. But this comparison always pleases me, because the
comparer gains no pleasure from it, but only bitterness. Many a time I
have interfered and have thrown a kind of halo round you, making you
more a god than mortal, so that the bitterness may be more complete.”

“Do you derive pleasure from this cruelty?”

“Yes. I always derive pleasure from cruelty, as you know. The more so
in this case because the writer had laughed at me.”

“But—” I began, but he continued,—

“If people laugh at me I laugh at them when the time comes. If they
hold me up to ridicule, I hold them up to ridicule when the time comes.
If they speak untruthfully of me I speak untruthfully of them when the
time comes.”

“Really,” I interposed, yawning, “I never knew before you were so
sensitive.”

He laughed. “If I were not so sensitive,” he rejoined, “I should be
less powerful. To make others feel one must feel oneself. Moreover, to
be mixed up with one’s own slaves and menials, to be depicted as a kind
of Jack-in-the-box, and described as turning from dark brown to pale
brown, not to speak of other things, rather surprised me.”

“Come, come, Plucritus,” I said irritably, “where’s the use of all this
acting? One might think something had bitten you and put you out of
temper. Surely you are having enough revenge. What more do you want?”

“Nothing,” he replied moodily. Then after a pause he looked up.

“Genius,” he said, “do you miss your ring?”

“Very much,” I answered.

“Then why don’t you buy it back?”

“Not having the wherewithal to effect a change in raiment, what funds
do you give me the credit of having in order to redeem jewels?”

“You have the book. You can sell the book to me and regain the ring. It
means freedom, you know.”

“Is there anything else you would like besides the book?” I asked.

“No,” he answered with that long, penetrating stare. “The first book
will be quite sufficient.”

“I see,” I went on. “And the writer?”

“Damn the writer. The book will never go through, so you may as well
sell it to me and start afresh in better company.”

“That is your old advice.”

“And my only advice. So long as you stay with Deborah you are a
failure. You have had signal examples of it in the past. She will never
write another book.”

“Then if I sell you the book for the ring I may go back whence I came?”

He laughed.

“Scarcely so. If you want to be a success, and your life depends upon
it, you must come over to my side and leave her.”

“And that means despair following on depression.”

“What matter? God’s kindness counteracts the devil’s cruelty.”

“Do you know, Plucritus, I think I should admire you more if at times
you spoke plainer?”

“How so?”

“Well, it would be rather a change to hear you speak the honest truth.”

For a minute there was silence, then he got up and leant against the
mantelpiece and looked into the curious burning fire.

“It’s a pity,” he said, “for you and I were meant to be friends. It’s
a pity we should be separated by the squalling of one insignificant
woman.”

“It may seem so to you,” I rejoined drily and somewhat at random, “but
I had rather be separated from you by a woman, however insignificant,
than joined to you by one however beautiful.”

“You are not separated from me,” he retorted, his eyes flashing as he
turned toward the table. “You are my prisoner, caught and trapped like
all the rest, and if you enjoy a little more privilege it is simply
because we are waiting the close of events. When the book fails for the
last time she will follow you here, and here you can live, a source of
torture and torment to each other for ever. If you will not bend your
will I have the power to break it, and the only thing that springs from
a broken will is pitiable weakness.”

“I can at least wait the close of events,” I declared briefly. “And for
the punishment, I doubt not I have strength enough to stand it.”

“You talk like all ignorant people, with much assurance,” he said
scornfully. “But you must know that here we never punish in proportion
to the fault. We punish to suit our own convenience and pleasure. Look
at these wizened, shrivelled slaves that wait on us. Think you they
are serving a term of slavery? I tell you they are here unto eternity,
though that little muddled world in which you lived turns its face away
from the inevitable, and pitying its own weakness, talks of the mercy
of God and winks at punishment.”

“I think,” I observed sharply, repaying scorn for scorn, “you must
descry the sin before you touch the sinner.”

“And in case of unfair play,” he remarked slowly, leaning his hand upon
the table and smiling across at me, “to whom do you intend to appeal?”

I did not answer, since to this question I knew well there was no
answer. But through the silence that followed a terrible cry rang. It
was the first distinctly human sound I had heard since coming.

Plucritus started at the sound, then moved hastily across the room to
where I still sat.

“Come with me,” he said shortly. And as I rose he placed his hand
within my arm. I remember well the clasp of those iron fingers as he
led the way across the room out into the hall. We passed out by a side
entrance into the palace grounds, and then on to a high balcony at some
short distance.

It was darkest night, and yet the view around was clear as day.

To one side ran the great river, threading its winding course for miles
as far as eye could see. It was very black, and very wide, and very
strong, and the swish of its waters against the heavy reeds was loudly
audible; by now I was beginning to understand the sounds of hell.

The most glorious sight was the great palaces that rose high among the
trees in every direction, their graceful architecture and brilliant
lights, together with the pure marble of the steps and terraces
that led up to them, making a perfect dream of transcendent beauty.
Moreover, the heavy foliage of the trees threw the more into relief
their exceeding brilliancy.

Then as I listened I could perceive the sound of voices laughing,
talking, and as I watched I saw figures moving on the terraces, till it
seemed the whole scene was filled with life and animation.

Below us I recognised the wide avenue along which I had come, and it
was to this avenue that all eyes were bent. Just then there came the
same cry which we had heard before, this time nearer.

Plucritus laughed softly, and from the neighbouring terraces I heard
one general laugh follow the sound.

Presently from a sudden bend in the road dwarfed forms sprang up
on every side. Shouting, leaping, making inarticulate cries like
wildly-excited animals, half whine, half scream. They were hideous
and horrible demons whose unrestrained excitement lent that swollen
fulness to their features which was more disfiguring than their
leanness heretofore had been. And in the midst the cause of all this
wild, unbounded joy was the body, or what looked like the body, of a
very lovely woman. It was lying bound stiffly to a funeral car shaped
like a coffin, and all round there shone a clear red light. And on the
one side was printed in letters of gold, “With care—Perishable.” And
on the other side, “Fragile.” Plucritus read these words and laughed.

“I wonder whose little joke that was,” he remarked. “There is a good
deal perishable and a good deal fragile, no doubt, but beyond that
there is a good deal durable and strong.”

“Is that the soul of a sinful woman?” I asked, as the screaming,
howling procession came along.

“Yes. Is it not beautiful?” he queried, and there was a twinkle of
merriment in his eyes. “But,” he continued, “it is all put on. The soul
has been puffed out and padded and stuffed, and in itself is loathsome.
But we throw a very fine and artificial glamour over it and give it a
semblance of beauty, so that all these little imps are mad with envy,
and spite, and hatred, and long for the day when they shall have sucked
all the juices away and left nothing but the dried-up skeleton of a
spirit behind.”

“Surely that is impossible,” I exclaimed.

He raised his eyebrows quizzically.

“Never heard of vampires? It is the nature of spirits; Virginius and
his set often more so than us.”

By this time the car had reached us and was passing. Just as they came
below us the bound figure made a desperate struggle to rise, and gave
once more that terrible cry which we had heard before.

A hundred bony hands strong and cruel pressed forward upon the throat
and lips. Others shook their fists, others cursed and swore and called
her every name which they themselves had doubtless been before her. One
old hag rushed forward and struck a cruel blow upon the white breast.

Almost immediately a black swollen bruise appeared.

“Rotten,” cried Plucritus, and he laughed. Then he repeated, “Fragile,
perishable,” and laughed again. “Look at that hag who struck the blow,”
he continued. “She has an interesting history. She was once more
beautiful than the figure lying there; but that was a very, very long
time ago, for then she was a great queen.”

I followed her with interest, almost unable from her appearance to
believe his words. The victim they were bearing along had sunk back,
but her eyes were open, and they expressed all that fear and despair
which go to form the greater part of hell. I watched them pass with an
ever-growing heaviness and oppression at my heart.

“Let us go to see the incarceration,” he suggested, turning to me.

“I had rather be excused,” I answered coldly.

“Come,” he said, laying hold of my arm again. “They are like animals at
the slaughter-house—they will fly anywhere to get away from the right
door, and tear and scratch all who approach them. This woman, when
she sees the place prepared for her, will fight like a wild animal to
escape.”

“And how do you get them in?” I asked, interested despite myself.

“We whip them in,” he replied softly. “Or rather our slaves do. They
enjoy it, and are never particular when to stop. It is all we can do
at times to call them off. It is their method of welcoming strangers.
Come,” he added, “let us go.”

“No,” I repeated. “I have seen enough of this place to last me some
time.”

He only laughed.

“Come,” he said, “you must get accustomed to it. For aught I can tell,
the next may be Deborah.”

And then with a sudden strength, of which I had judged myself incapable
since coming there, I threw his hand off.

“You doubtless have all power over those who get down here,” I
remarked. “But whilst a man or woman is yet on the earth there is still
means of escape.”

“Very rarely,” he commented, smiling. “Once let them get the noose
round their necks, and the more they struggle the tighter grows the
knot.”

However, because I refused to go he returned with me to the palace.

“You have missed a never-to-be-forgotten sight,” he said as he led
the way to the library, where I had first been conducted. “You won’t
succeed in journalism if you throw away opportunities like that.”

“I shall merely leave the place for others,” I replied wearily, for
weariness and dejection were a part of living here, except to those
whose kingdom it was.

“Genius,” he said as he sat down, “what do you think of my collection
of books?”

“It is very fine,” I answered, looking round. “But nothing out of the
way for so great an individuality.”

“What more does it need?” he asked as he looked round.

“Nothing. And that is where it becomes uninteresting. You have
everything.”

“Yes,” he replied. “And I’m growing sick of it. One of these days I
shall burn more than half the lying rubbish. I don’t know why I ever
collected it.”

“That would be a pity,” I rejoined. “To destroy so much beauty of
thought would be very needless destruction.”

“Not at all,” he observed sharply. “I am going—”

Here he was interrupted by the opening of the door, and there entered
several others very similar to him.

“Plucritus, why were you not there?” queried the first comer. “It was
an almost more amusing scene than that witnessed at Dino’s last week.
But you were not here last week. What an age it is since we have seen
you.”

“And I am off again within this half-hour,” he interjected, looking at
a curious watch he brought from the girdle of his tunic. “But tell me
of this scene, was it much better than usual?”

“Well, perhaps not better, but just as good. When—”

“Don’t use names,” said Plucritus, hastily, as if he almost interpreted
the other’s words. “Can’t you see I have a guest?”

“No,” answered the other, looking round superciliously. “Or rather,”
he added, “we met Vestné without and she explained that you had here a
beggar dependent on your charity.”

“Really—” broke in another, and then his tone altered to one of mock
courtesy. “Your wardrobe seems somewhat scanty, sir. May I offer you a
change of raiment?”

“This stranger surely has come from earth,” interrupted a third.
“That planet which is one of our most fruitful gardens. Such a rarity
deserves a golden cage and a public show day.”

“Why, this is he who wished to make a friend of that cold saint
Virginius and failed,” put in another.

“Thereby proving himself for once not such a saint as he appears,”
laughed a fifth.

“This is the spirit who wrote a book and confounded the devil with
something less powerful than himself,” said a sixth.

“Ay,” sneered a seventh. “And in the same book he confounded men with
women, and women with men in a way which was at times _absolutely
shocking_.”

He turned his eyes down at the last words and shook his head. He had
perhaps heard some old lady use the same expression.

“This is the spirit,” said another, “who flung down a challenge at the
gate of heaven and expected to escape the fire of hell.”

The sudden onslaught would in another place and at another time have
provoked me to some answer, but I felt myself incapable of it. I was
learning still further that every prisoner here simply endures—having
no power, sometimes feeling no wish, to retaliate. This latter was the
case with me. I felt a certain coldness clinging round me which numbed
the sharper edge of feeling, so I sat there apparently indifferent to
their scoffing, and felt inwardly the same.

Following this outburst Plucritus rose, laughing.

“I must go,” he observed. “It is growing late. Genius, I must leave
you, but I shall return ere long. Till then, think upon my offer of the
ring.”

“Genius?” cried he who had first spoken, “Is this Genius?”

“That cannot be,” exclaimed another, solemnly. “He has produced nothing
in blank verse.”

“It’s out of fashion,” urged another. “Love-letters are all that are
needed nowadays.”

“You’re getting behind the times,” said another, talking at random.
“Read the _Daily Scorcher_.”

“Is that written in blank verse?”

“Oh, no. It’s after the same rhythm as ‘Mary had a little lamb.’”

“What do you mean? If you cast a slur upon them they will prosecute
you.”

“I said nothing detrimental. I simply meant to convey the impression
that they wrote in a popular vein.”

“I see. But at that rate you ought to quote the poet-laureate.”

There was a silence till someone queried, rather quietly,—

“What’s his name?”

“Don’t know,” answered the one who had first spoken. “He hasn’t got
one. He doesn’t believe in that sort of thing. He leaves it to the lady
novelists who won’t have their photo taken.”

“What does he believe in?”

“Blank verse and popular ballads,
Chip potatoes and lettuce salads.”

“The two last are very good,” said he who had put the question. “The
poet-laureate is undoubtedly a gentleman.”

I think in the midst of this random and unceasing talking I must have
fallen asleep, for when I again became conscious of the things around
me I was lying on my bed amid the silence of night. I was experiencing
that misty, unreal sensation which, when accompanied by dejection and
depression, is so terrible to bear.

At times I felt it must simply be a phase, a part of the working of my
own inner spirit, but again I realised that the force acting on me was
external, and that this unreality was simply a more horrible form of
what was real. I lay awake for a long time wrapped in thought, and when
that light born out of darkness which they call “Day” had risen I rose
too and prepared to descend to the lower hall.

CHAPTER III

To have felt anything of the brightness of early morning here was
quite out of the question. The same feeling of utter loneliness and
depression that accompanied me when I fell asleep was with me when
I rose. As I passed down the staircase the sight of those wretched,
wizened dwarfs filled me with more gloomy thought than I had even
entertained the night before.

When I reached the bottom step I saw sitting there that figure of which
Plucritus had spoken laughingly as some great queen of the past. She
got up as I stood there, and came and fawned upon me, rubbing against
me like some pet animal.

At the first touch my immediate instinct was to recoil, for never until
near contact could one fully recognise the utter degradation of such a
creature. But along with this feeling came another in consideration of
her past majesty and her lost humanity, and I stood still and received
the caress pretty much as a sentinel on duty would have done. To those
who might have a turn that way there was something distinctly humorous
in this, and so evidently someone thought, for at this instant I
heard a laugh, very clear and mirthful, come from down the hall I had
entered. It was Vestné, coming towards us, her hands clasped behind
her, and in that simplest robe which spirits wear. She was evidently
not oppressed with any of the heaviness which hung round me: she looked
more light and brilliant than the night before. Her head was thrown
back a little to one side.

“If you knew how comical you looked,” she said, with very little malice
but much amusement, “you would really try to appear more at home. This
creature is perfectly harmless—as harmless as she is ugly—that’s
saying a great deal. But you drew up as frigidly as if she’d been a
snake, and then seemed to have the wish to unbend but not the power.
Now, if you don’t like their caresses, and I can sympathise with you,
as I cannot myself tolerate one of them, just kick them off. For my own
part I would not have one of them about the place, but it is a whim of
Plucritus. He likes to see them now and then when he comes home, so
they are less confined here than at most of the places round.”

“Where are they usually kept then?” I inquired.

“Oh, they live in the back wings of the palace,” she answered. “Some of
them are very happy there, and have quite nice little homes. At least,
so Plucritus says, but I never trouble to go, it doesn’t interest me.”

At a table by one of the windows in this large hall breakfast had been
laid. She led the way and I followed, the deformed slave having limped
away on her mistress’s approach.

I noticed that here we were being served by two tall footmen in
splendid livery, whereas the night before everything had been removed
and brought by a power corresponding to electricity.

When they had gone I remarked on this to her, and asked why, as such
was the case with two beings, all the rest were not allowed to retain
at least some of this lost and human beauty.

At first she did not answer, but at last she gave some kind of an
explanation.

“Well, you see,” said she, “it costs a great deal to alter them from
their natural state. These two were sent last night after your arrival
to a friend of ours who is rather clever at transformations. It needs a
thorough knowledge of human nature, and a thorough knowledge of their
past history, before anything really effective can be produced. But
those two are admirable specimens, and as long as they remain in good
condition I have no objection to them.”

“May I ask you how the transformation is brought about?”

“Perhaps I ought not to tell you,” she replied. “But still I will, for
it is so delightful to talk to a complete stranger. Let us say those
two men were in their lifetime built up of selfishness. Naturally when
they came here they had to be broken into harness, and before that
could be done the selfishness had to be drawn out of them.”

Here she smiled slightly. “Naturally nothing would be left but
spiritual skin and bone, which when put under extreme pressure
contracts and leaves those stunted creatures you have noticed. Now this
friend of whom I spoke has a very delightful hobby. He collects small
portions of the essence of all sins, since not even the wealthiest can
afford to buy much, except what comes to them by actual possession, and
stores them away. Then if any of us wish to have our slaves transformed
at any time to their original likeness he will do it for us. He builds
them up from what they were originally, selfish, hypocritical,
deceitful, ambitious, whatever it may be. Naturally like clings to
like, and so in a master hand the whole is soon built up. But for
every atom of the original sin he introduces five of decay, so that
they cannot last long in that condition, and have to be renewed unless
allowed to return to their former state.”

“And do you not prefer to have them in this state than in their naked
ugliness?”

She shook her head and smiled.

“No. We like as far as possible to be fair, and it is impossible to
transform the whole and keep them in good repair, therefore we leave
them as they naturally are. The sight of these two, as it is, will only
provoke the envy and spite of all the rest, so they won’t have a happy
time of it after all.”

“Then why have you transformed them?” I asked.

“Plucritus said you liked outward show,” she answered. “And moreover,
our friend was in a mood to be cruel, and sent round to know if anyone
had slaves who wanted punishing.”

“Then does the process entail suffering?”

“Of course,” she replied. “It could not be done otherwise. I have
a brother who has wealth unbounded, and all his slaves are thus
constructed; but Plucritus is somewhat after the nature of a
philanthropist and is rather inclined to spoil than ill-use his
servants as long as they do their work well.”

“And if not?” I inquired, interested.

“Well, then, I suppose they have a lively time of it. I never
distinctly asked, though. But tell me, what you intend to do to-day?”

“I am quite at a loss. Not being either in my own land or on the earth
I am unacquainted with the way the time is spent.”

“You may walk through the grounds if you wish. I am at your disposal
and will show you everything of interest.”

“I am afraid I am in that mood when very little interests me.”

“Then will you walk through the picture-galleries? You might find
something of interest there if you care for art.”

“I have no particular wish to visit the galleries.”

“But you must do something,” she laughed. “You’ll have to do something.
You can’t sit here all day.”

“No,” I remarked, rising. “I will go through the grounds—but alone, I
need no companion.”

“Well, you may go alone if you wish it,” she declared, “but I will join
you there. Solitude is not good for people; it makes them get into a
‘I’ll do this,’ and ‘I’ll do that,’ and ‘you’re not wanted,’ sort of
way, which is very bad for them.”

So I went out alone, leaving her to follow when she cared.

It was quite true that the morning light was shining clear and
bright, that the birds were singing and the fountain playing, but it
was simply an unreal dream picture to me. I walked from terrace to
terrace, descended steps and passed through grottoes, looked at the
marvellous fountains and the curious fishes swimming in their basins; I
passed down avenues of trees and flowers of softest shade and sweetest
fragrance, and at last reached a spot where I heard the sound of the
deep dark river. To me there was more reality about this heavy flowing
stream than about anything around. I passed down a steep path that
led to its banks and stood there looking in the inky tide. Like all
deep silent things it had the power to keep me deep in thought. I am
not quite sure but that its ever-lapping, flowing waters soothed me,
for there I sat watching it and scanning the waste drear land beyond,
scarcely conscious of anything besides.

I was aroused by Vestné calling me from above.

“Now I knew if I left you alone,” she explained, “you would come to the
most dangerous spot. If you sit here much longer the dregs will poison
you, as the vapour is ever rising.”

“I was feeling a much-wished-for restfulness,” I observed.

“It is the effects of the poison,” she returned. “I must beg of you
to come away. If you are poisoned I shall be held responsible. Surely
you will come away, if only to relieve me from the discomfort of that
position.”

Thereupon I got up ungraciously; this interference seemed to me to be
very uncalled-for.

“If you wish it I will come away, but can you show me another place as
good?”

“I really don’t know,” she answered. “You have such peculiar tastes.
Suppose, instead of moving about, you go to the library and write.”

“Write what?”

“Oh, don’t ask me. Anything.”

“I never wrote a line in my life,” I rejoined irritably, turning off
on a path away from her. But if by that I hoped or thought to get rid
of her I was much mistaken. She followed me without speaking the whole
length of a rhododendron walk, and then through a bower twined with
honeysuckle and red roses. At the end of it I turned to her again.

“Well?” said I.

“I’ve hit on an excellent plan,” she answered, as if irritation were a
thing unknown to her.

“Indeed,” I exclaimed. “Then like all excellent things it can keep.”
And I walked on.

At last we came back again to the long terrace and I began to ascend
the steps, but she ran up them lightly and waited on the top step right
in my path.

“I’ve thought of an excellent plan,” she ventured, when I was still
three steps from her.

“What is it?”

“You and I shall write a play together. I will write it and you can
dictate it. That will be excellent, it will pass the time away.”

I smiled. “If I helped you to write it, that would be a sure guarantee
that it would fail.”

She shook her head. “Not at all,” she cried. “When you got too prosy I
would put in a dash of my own position to enliven it.”

“Then we should get to quarreling,” I interposed.

“Not we,” she said. “I should have the common sense to keep my remarks
to myself.”

“I see. And who would act it when written?”

“We would. I don’t mean you, but myself and some of my friends. Come,
let’s go.”

But I shook my head.

“I have not the slightest inclination to write plays at the present
moment, nor to dictate them.” And I sat down on the steps. After a
minute’s hesitation she sat down too.

“I’ve hit on another plan,” she suggested.

“What is it?”

“Let us quarrel.”

“You may begin; if it seems worth while I will join you.”

She got up without speaking, and passing behind me came and sat down by
my side.

I passed no remark, neither did I move. She waited for a little while,
then very quietly she laid her left hand on mine—and there certainly
was cause enough for dispute, since on her middle finger shone my own
ring—the one with which I had sacrificed everything except existence.
I stared at it in surprise and displeasure and then at her.

“Who gave you that?”

“I think I must have stolen it,” she answered, and still she left her
hand in mine. Then as quietly as I could I removed her hand and got up.
She rose also, and into her eyes had flashed all that anger which I had
occasionally seen gleam in the eyes of Plucritus.

“Why do you not ask me for it?” she said.

“It is not yours to return,” I replied.

I remember at this she laughed scornfully and drew the ring from her
finger and looked at it.

“I do not think you will ever wear this again,” she went on. “It has
been altered to fit my hand. And though an inexpensive trifle it is a
pretty ornament—which I should not consent to part with.”

“Since it fits you, you had better wear it,” I remarked. “It was lost
fairly, and, as I understand, can only be returned on one condition. As
that condition is an impossibility it is much more yours than mine, and
I may congratulate you upon the rearrangement of the centre setting.”

“What was it that ever made you relinquish your right to it?” she asked.

“Since you are wearing it you must know,” I answered.

“Not the entire facts,” said she. “Now, tell it me as a story and I
will listen carefully.”

“I should speak as a prejudiced narrator,” I declared. “You had better
ask Plucritus.”

“But he would speak as a prejudiced narrator too.”

“And you would be prejudiced in his favour, so that you would receive
his statement much more readily.”

“Are the women on earth always prejudiced in favour of their husbands?”

“I do not know. I have never distinctly lived on earth.”

“Doesn’t it agree with you?”

I laughed. “I have not wit enough to grasp the human intellect,” I
replied. “I had always complimented myself that there was a great
similarity between the two worlds.”

“How old are you?” she queried abruptly.

“Alternately as old and young as I appear to be.”

“So am I, so are we all,” she observed softly. “Is not the scene round
here magnificent?”

“Yes,” I replied. “Are those forms on the horizon hills or clouds?”

“They are hills,” she said. “Beyond the hills lies one of our great
cities. Some day you shall go there—it is very interesting. But now
let us return to the house, as I have much to do before the mid-day
meal.”

Together we went back into the palace, and to the library. There I saw
were many newspapers for the day piled together on the table.

She sat down beside these with pen and ink and paper, and opening the
first at the leading article began to scan the lines. Seeing that the
papers really came from the earth I drew nearer.

“What are you doing?” I asked at length, when I had watched her busily
employed in underlining and writing out various statements from each
column.

“I’m copying out all the lies,” she answered simply.

“The what?” I asked again.

“The untruths,” she said apologetically.

“They seem pretty numerous in to-day’s papers,” I laughed.

“No indeed,” she went on. “There are fewer than usual. No matter
however small the prevarication may be, I can always spot it.”

“But what is your pleasure in such an unpleasant task?”

“It is no pleasure—it is business, and needs thorough concentration.”

“But considering your people are the instigators of lies, why don’t
they send you down the complete list each day? It would save you the
trouble.”

She laughed.

“Well, you see by the time a lie has passed through the mind of a
man (or a woman for that matter) it has generally undergone certain
modifications, and it is my work to get at the truth, which is, of
course, a lie, in its original form.”

“I see. Then a pure lie is unadulterated truth?”

“Yes. And that is why a real lie is so hard to discover. It is
essentially the truth.”

“But why are you so hard upon the newspapers? You do not leave one
paragraph unstudied.”

“It is my work,” she asserted. “A lie that is allowed to circulate
gains in bulk though it loses in truth.”

“What do you mean?” I inquired.

“Never ask me what I mean. I talk at random, and if it hits the mark,
so much the better, and if not, well, it is none the worse.”

“Do you then read these papers purely from a business standpoint?”

“Undoubtedly. When I read purely for pleasure I read our own. And these
are dull work after them. They lack the brilliancy, truth, incisiveness
and humour that characterise ours. But there—why do I try to compare
them?”

“Yet some of these are very good?”

“Oh, yes,” she answered with a contemptuous curl of her lips. “And very
good things are like very bad things, very uninteresting.”

“You are hard to please.”

“Not at all, but I like if possible to be pleased in a particular way.”

“I see. My only wonder is that since you are undoubtedly interested in
the world you do not take more pains to make your likes and dislikes
known.”

“Interested in which world?” she questioned.

“Earth.”

She now got up laughing and came and sat down on a chair by the fire
opposite me.

“I’ll leave the papers to-day, they make me melancholy, they are so
very truthful. There’s one that says if you want to shake hands with
three duchesses, five countesses, and the very cream of society, you
may do it for three guineas.”

“Do you call it dear or cheap?”

“Dear, monstrously dear. If I were promised cream I should expect
strawberries, but under those conditions I should receive nothing
better than the leaves.”

“Have you ever shaken hands with a duchess?” I asked by way of keeping
up the conversation.

“Why do you smile? Once I offered to shake hands with an empress.”

“And did she return the compliment?”

“Oh, no. The temptation to resist me was too great, so she refused;
consequently she is serving a term of apprenticeship here. At the same
time I offered to shake hands with an emperor, and the temptation
_not_ to resist me was also too great; consequently he is here
too. Now if the emperor had behaved like the empress, and the empress
like the emperor, there is no telling where they might have been.”

“It takes a very simple sin then to translate a man from earth to
hell,” I remarked.

“Well, you see, so much lies in a nutshell,” she explained. “I remember
when I shook hands with the emperor he forgot to release my hand. I
think he was engaged on matters of state, so it was perhaps excusable.
On that occasion I was wearing a toilet which was a simple creation of
beauty, though made at home and without assistance. I remember my train
was badly torn through his mental aberration.”

“But you had the other hand at liberty?”

“Well, you see it happened most unfortunately that the grand vizier (I
think it was the grand vizier) had taken possession of my other hand,
and he also was engrossed by state calculations. It would have been a
pity to disturb two such eminent gentlemen from so sacred a reverie,
so I waited, and afterwards they were obliged to pay the cost of the
spoilt robe.”

“Which, taken from the point of view of the nutshell, was your
reputation.”

“Not at all. I have no reputation. I am above it.”

“And what did your husband say about this extensive handshaking?”

“He never said a word. But I think he was very cut up about the
empress, he thought her so rude. And when she refused to look at
me all the other women did too, and it made me quite low-spirited,
because however much one _likes_ the society of men, one always
_values_ the society of women, especially after they turn nasty.
At last I could stand it no longer, therefore I came home and began to
cry. After a while some of my friends called to see me, and we had the
merriest evening possible, for we sent slaves to collect all the tears
I had dropped on the way from earth to hell, and then we went on to the
highest turret of the palace and threw them back on the earth again.”

“Indeed.”

“Yes. And the women who had spurned me gathered them up quickest,
because they looked like glistening diamonds. And now they wear them,
and when they wear them the men fall in love with them, and the women
turn their backs on them, and sometimes they can’t understand it, but
it is so.”

Suddenly her voice changed from the monotone to one of bright and
laughing interest.

“Now give me a criticism on my story of shaking hands with royalty,”
she challenged.

“A cool criticism?” I asked.

“If you can,” she answered, laughing.

“Well, I should say it began with vulgarity and ended with a moral.”

“Vulgarity?”

“Yes.”

“But it was a real live emperor. He couldn’t be vulgar if he tried. He
never squeezed my hand once.”

“Well, perhaps it was the introduction of the grand vizier.”

“He never squeezed my hand either.”

“Then perhaps it was yourself.”

She got up and drew herself to that graceful height from which she
looked down on most things around her.

“Do I look vulgar?” she said.

“No.”

“Then shall I tell you what formed the vulgarity of which you speak?”

“If you will,” I replied.

“It was the atmosphere in which I moved.”

“And what was that?”

“Humanity.”

She went away and left me thinking.

Now, when we were seated together at lunch she turned to me suddenly
and said, half laughing, half serious,—

“Genius, whom do you consider the greater sufferer—myself or Christ?”

“It is a subject I would not discuss,” I decided drily.

“You are wise,” she affirmed tauntingly. “Ignorance should always be
silent.”

But to this I gave no answer, and soon she changed the conversation.

From that time onward I remained in the palace, unconscious of the
passage of time, except that day followed day in monotonous routine and
weariness.

Vestné was interesting, and at times even gracious. I have known
occasions when she would sacrifice her own inclinations, and even
pleasures, to my convenience. She rarely intruded upon me after the
first day, unless there was reason for it.

If anything, she was more guarded in her conversation, more distant in
her manner, and at times would leave me alone for days together in the
vast palace. On one of these occasions she had asked me if I cared to
join her in going away, but I answered in the negative.

She laughed.

“It may be as well,” she remarked. “To speak frankly, I must admit some
of my friends have found rather amusing nick-names for you. It’s very
impolite, I know, but you should never have paid such a lengthy visit
in the possession of only one garment.”

But press other raiment upon me as they might I always refused it.
Never could I bring myself to wear it, however the obsequious, wretched
slave might beg or bow.

I remembered the remark which had been passed by Plucritus about his
punishment in case of failure, but even this threat had not the power
to turn me, though it pressed heavily on me every day.

Thus the time passed, heavily, wretchedly; I was alone.

Never once did I breathe the pure clear atmosphere of hope and light.
In the midst of heartless enemies I walked a stranger, becoming daily
more accustomed to the jeer and scoffs that met me at every turn. The
very slaves eyed me with baffled cunning, hate and greed, longing
doubtless for the day of which their master had spoken, when the last
ray of hope expired on earth. You, Deborah, should also have to join
me in this drear abode. And, besides, the dream spirit of unreality
encompassed me about. Everything was misty and despondent, even as the
light of day, and earth, and all its shapes, and forms, and joys, and
pleasures are to the broken-hearted.

CHAPTER IV

I remember one afternoon wandering through the grounds alone, hating
my empty existence, yet having no power to alter it, when I was
interrupted by Vestné coming to me. In her eyes there gleamed that
curious, brilliant light which characterised them at times, when stung
to answer or excited by some emotion.

She did not speak till near me, and then she said, quickly and
distinctly,—

“Genius, I do not think you have yet seen all through my palace.
Though you have not asked to do so I cannot think but that you must be
curious. If you will come with me I will show it you now.”

With little answer I followed her back to the door from which I had
come out, and we re-entered the palace. Hitherto I had only been
acquainted with those principal apartments which led from the large
hall and from each other.

But now she led me to a large folding-door at the upper end, remote
from the end by which I had entered on the day when first I came.

I had often looked towards this door with curiosity. There was a
darkness and mystery about it which had caught even my uncaring
thoughts.

Many a time too I had seen a slave pass through it, either in or out,
and in the momentary opening I had noticed the blackness beyond.

I remember as we passed through this heavy door a terrible silence
greeted us, so terrible that whereas without there had been light and
warmth, here one experienced neither. I stood still. A feeling of utter
repugnance overwhelmed me, that feeling of undeniable degradation which
had overwhelmed me when touched by the stunted woman long ago. “I do
not wish to see this place,” I cried.

“Are you afraid?” she asked scornfully.

“If fear is born of unavailing sorrow then I am much afraid,” I
answered.

Her laugh broke drearily on the stillness. “You must come,” she went
on. “It will do you good and act like a tonic. When we get back again
you will feel quite cheerful, and congratulate yourself upon your
luxurious life as a guest.”

I made no further reply.

We had come into a long narrow passage, so gloomy and dark that it
seemed more like the passage through the thick wall of an old church
than anything else.

It appeared dusty and full of cobwebs despite its evident occasional
use, and I remember I coughed once, because there was some irritating
matter in the air.

At the other end of the passage was another door. It was locked, and
I noticed for the first time that she unlocked it before we passed
through; and also from this time I became conscious that she was
carrying a large bunch of keys.

The gloom beyond was greater than it had been before. It was deepened
by a narrow spiral staircase leading sheer down for what might have
been several hundred feet. It was a giddy, gloomy depth, and would
have made dizzy any mortal brain, but we passed down it silently and
swiftly, she leading, I following, till we lighted on firm ground again
amidst total darkness.

Where we had come to I could not tell, as the isolation and heaviness
were complete.

“Can you hear anything?” she whispered in my ear. And again she
whispered,—

“Listen.”

Yes, I heard it. “Gurgle, gurgle.” Ever the same deep sound—the dull
keynote to hell.

Then gradually, slowly and mysteriously, the darkness gave way to a
dull red light. It lit up the arched passages that branched out in
every direction from where we stood, like the crypt of some cathedral.

“They’re all buried down here,” she whispered again.

Gurgle—gurgle—gurgle. There flowed the black stream, turned to
dullest red, along every aisle and dimly-shining passage. No sound of
footfall ever rose among those arches. Nothing but the awful lapping
of the stream. She stepped into a boat which was anchored there, and I
followed.

Of itself it loosed from mooring and floated silently into the central
channel.

Oh, hell! oh, terrible, silent, twisting, twining power of hell!
Remorseless cruel power that clings and holds, and never will give way
but by inhuman power! Oh, devils! dyed and steeped in cruelty and hate!
Luring each willing victim to the brink in hateful silence, till the
last long shriek and counter-laugh are heard! What good can ever rise
from all the torture you inflict? Destroying evil with worse evil,
burning out with white heat that which yourselves implanted!

Oh, giddy, heedless mortals treading the brilliant path or easy,
unmindful of the gurgling warning stream!

Oh! rise! rise! but there—what hope is there to give in hell? It
belongs only to the earth.

Such terrible thoughts overfilled me as we sailed along that I
discharged them with a heavy sigh. ’Twas strange the way the weird low
sound of misery re-echoed through the vaults. A hundred sighs seemed
raised by it, each breathing to the other its own lone fearful tale,
and then all died away; yet when all died it seemed as if my own still
wandered round unrestful, finding no grave.

“Listen,” continued Vestné, again laying her hand upon my arm as if
to steady me; and indeed it was as well, for at her word there rang
out a cry so terrible and so prolonged that it had almost unnerved me.
The horrid repetition struck chill to the very centre of my being; no
creature writhing under the lash could have ever uttered more fearful
cries. To try to deaden the sound was impossible, till of itself it
weakened and died away with a heavy childish sob of pain. I looked at
her and saw the cruel light in her eyes and the smile on her lips.

Hurriedly, and with loathing, I shook off her arm.

“Can it be that such sounds please—nay, even amuse you?” I asked
sternly.

She looked at me, the smile playing round her mouth still.

“When the angels in heaven hear those sounds they sigh and tremble. It
spoils their gladdest concert,” she said.

No further cry ensued, and our boat sailed along. I noticed that at
intervals, and under each arch, a doorway was visible, and on each
doorway a number was written in clear red. One imagined the cells
beyond even without a glimpse.

At last she stayed before one.

“I shall not take you into all, it would be too tedious,” she said. “We
shall visit one or two, and that will suffice.”

“You must know,” she continued in a clear, hard voice, “that a strict
account is kept of the life of every man and woman upon the earth. We
allow nothing to pass, every ill thought, every ill word, every ill
deed, are all entered faithfully and truthfully. Every particular sin
has its particular punishment, and as near as possible we destroy like
with like.”

“And,” said I, gazing round the terrible gloomy place, “are you always
perfectly fair and just in your punishments?”

“Always,” she answered, “We want them to do our work, and we punish
them just sufficiently to make them do our work well.”

“But,” I rejoined, “they have done your work on earth and received no
punishment for that.”

“No, rather they received reward. But here we take away that which has
been given them and appropriate it within ourselves. The processes
which we employ are bound to be severe, because, as you know, of
themselves they will give up nothing, or rather very little.”

“But surely,” I observed, “when they see what suffering they are going
through they will give up all.”

“Too late,” she whispered softly in my ear, and even as that heavy sigh
had travelled through the arches, so these words, the saddest perhaps
that human tongue has ever framed, rang through them too. It seemed as
if a thousand voices from every cell whispered the words, so that one
loud and unavailing lamentation became the universal atmosphere.

She unlocked the door before which we had stopped, but instead of the
cell which I expected a long narrow passage ran both left and right.

Door followed door the whole length down, and the numbers on them
corresponded to those on the outward wall.

The darkness here would have been quite intense had not my guide
carried in her hand a clear light, which pierced the gloom for some
considerable distance.

We walked along the passage for a little time, she leading, I
following, till at last she stopped before a cell, and selecting a key
placed it in the lock. Before turning it she extinguished the light
she carried and left us in total darkness. Slowly, mysteriously and
silently the door swung back and we passed in, and then it closed
behind us. We had passed from darkness into darkness, but gradually the
faintest light began to creep above the cell. It was so faint that till
the eye became accustomed to it nothing was in the least discernible,
and even then at times the heavy shadow fell again, eclipsing all
things as gradually as it had cleared away. And now, huddled in the
corner, I perceived a form, and as I looked intently I recognised a
woman crouching there.

At first I do not think she noticed us, perhaps throughout she scarcely
understood that anyone was there. Her hair, which was grey and
dishevelled, hung over her bare shoulders and her forehead, uncared for
and unkempt. She was lean and ghastly, and her thin fingers clasped
each other round her bony knees, from which position she never moved.
Her eyes were fixed on the floor in a steady yet unconscious gaze.

“If she doesn’t move before long I’ll poke her,” said Vestné. “We can’t
wait here all day.”

But the sound must have partly attracted her. She looked up, and
instead of looking at the speaker her eyes fell on me.

Such a look of dull despair and misery I had never seen before. It
seemed to blind her very sight and deaden all objects but itself.
Then she sighed, and the spirit beside me laughed softly. The shadow
deepened round her, and the flimsy light passed on along the wall till
it came to a rude altar having a crucifix above it. I looked at the
plain cross and noticed that the light played round it curiously. And
at last out of this light I formed a figure hanging there. It was the
woman lying in the corner whose cell this was. Helplessly, painfully,
she hung there, her eyes still dully bent on the ground. Then the
shadow fell once more, and all was left in dreary darkness, and when
next I breathed we were out in the passage once again.

“They are fulfilling the behest of Christ,” declared Vestné, idly.
“They are taking up the Cross.” And yet it seemed as if among the roofs
and rafters there still floated the old wild cry, “Too late—too late.”

“This is the women’s ward,” she remarked as we passed along. “I never
visit the men. Plucritus can take you there if you wish to go. But
being, as they say you are, simply a woman dressed as a man, I have no
compunction in bringing you here at all.”

Again the light she held had vanished.

Once more we stood within a cell, and the same pale flickering light
that haunted it was playing on the wall. Another woman lay crouching
on the damp floor, and as the light fell on her it seemed as if she
tried to catch it with her hand. Unlike the other she was never still.
Lying there when we entered, in half a second she was up, walking with
uncertain, faltering steps some little distance, then returning. She
pressed her hands against the wall, beating against it feebly as if
trying to get away. Next she moved towards the plain-cut altar and
passed her hands over it aimlessly, as if trying to find something in
the concealing gloom. Then back she came to the corner where she had
first lain and threw herself on her knees.

“I’ll find it sometime,” she cried in a clear monotone. “But the night
is so long and my dream so dark. What follows night? The next night,
and yet it seems there’s something missed out that comes between.”

The pale light flickered to the crucifix. I saw her lying there; each
sharp, uncertain movement was translated into a painful writhe.

From thence we passed out to another cell, and the faint light showed
us the floor all covered with gold and silver coins, mostly gold. In
the middle, surrounded by all this tarnished wealth, a woman knelt
huddled up in a small clear space, the money heaped up around her.
Every now and again a pile would slip and fall towards her. And from
the place where it had fallen a serpent’s head appeared, stretching
in her direction with open jaws and cruel tongue. Then she would jump
up and fly across the narrow cell, screaming in hideous terror, and
throw herself upon the altar as if for protection. And the coins leapt
up like cruel fire about her feet as she fled, and the great serpent,
with its golden, hardened scales, followed her with fearful hiss, with
forked tongue and leaping fire all round it. Neither was the altar any
protection from fire or poison, and being immortal she could never die,
so that she must suffer her term of punishment in an endurance much
worse than death.

Then I noticed the light fell upon the crucifix, and looking up I saw
the woman’s form lashed to it, not by nails, but by the serpents’
coils, which this surface wealth had fostered and engendered.

At last we moved away and Vestné, when we gained the corridor, turned
to me.

“That woman has a curious but very common history,” she said. “She
believed that charity covered a multitude of sins.”

Vestné laughed and passed along.

From thence we went to another cell, and entering, I saw a woman
standing in the middle of the floor. Her eyes were filled with the wild
gleam which we on earth call madness. When she saw us she shrank back
terrified into the farther corner of the cell. Her breath came in thick
gasps, and still she stared at us like some wild creature brought to
bay.

Suddenly she flew across the room and caught my arm in her two hands.
They were at burning heat.

“Take me away,” she whispered in a voice half-strangled with fear.
“Take me away; it keeps coming, coming, coming, and then will touch me.
Oh! take me away with you and I will give you everything I have.”

“What is there to fear?” I asked.

“Look,” she said, and pointed on the wall to where the light shone. I
saw nothing.

“It is simply the reflection of her own memory,” Vestné affirmed
calmly. “She stole another woman’s husband and thought to escape
punishment.”

“I couldn’t help it,” the wretched victim interposed, for she had sense
enough to hear the words. “I never knew she’d come to ask for him down
here. I can’t escape down here; the walls are thick, the doors are
barred, and turn which way I will I can’t get out. Oh, God! oh, God!”

“You’re quite safe,” said Vestné. “She died of a broken heart long
since. Try to remember that, and think you’re suffering from a dream.”

“She didn’t die. No, no. She never died. And here she haunts me, and
there she haunts him too; and oftentimes she clutches at my breast with
her strong fingers, and some day she will tear my heart away and suck
my life blood. Oh! if you have any mercy take me home.”

But even as she spoke her voice and hands had lost their power and she
fell backwards.

“She had no mercy herself, yet would solicit yours. She is not yet
cured,” my companion remarked.

The light flickered on the wall beside the crucifix, and stretched upon
it I saw the woman’s figure; but as I looked I saw the crucifix had
turned from wood into the shape of a man, and the woman hung upon his
body, nailed to it as if it had been lifeless wood.

We went away and there was utter silence in the cell.

From there Vestné guided me into a low, darkened chamber, rather
different in shape from the others I had seen. A long low table stood
in the midst, and instead of the pale light which flickered through
the other dreary cells strange, curious flames and darts of fire
floated and danced from side to side.

I cannot tell whether it was owing to the lurid, unreal glare these
lights cast, but the ghastly sight that met us horrified me more than
any I had seen yet.

There on the table lay the form of the woman I had watched drawn
thither when I was with Plucritus.

She lay insensible, and it was well, since about her crowded many
fearful demons, and they were all gnawing the flesh away, or rather, to
those who can understand it better, the spirit.

Their hideous, hungry, cruel faces lost nothing by the glaring lights
that shone upon them as they floated past. From beneath came strains of
weird, inhuman music.

I understood more clearly now the meaning of these terrible things. So
intent were they upon their prey that they never noticed us.

“This is the Vampire’s Feast,” said Vestné, turning to me.

“Do they absorb the whole?” I asked.

“Oh, no. They are only allowed those parts which are of no use to us.
When she is in a fit condition she will be placed in a common cell
to suffer the just punishment. It is really a term of refinement and
purification; after that she will be fit food for us, and servant too.”

I said nothing, but watched the hideous creatures at their meal. On
the whole they interfered little with each other, still now and then
a savage growl would break out when one usurped, even in the least,
another’s portion.

“They should do good work after this,” said Vestné. “They have been
feeding here for days. Come away, they are not very beautiful to behold
even at the best of times.” So we went out again.

“You have locked the door?” I asked.

“Oh, yes. They can get out without keys, all except the prisoner.”

And from thence we passed on to another cell, in which we found another
woman. What struck me most about her was her beauty. Thin and gaunt she
might be (so were they all), but despite all this hers was a beauty of
a very unusual order.

I remember when the door was opened she was standing there as if
listening for something. When she saw us she came forward courteously.

“Take me away from here,” she exclaimed. “I’ve never been accustomed to
it. It is dark and damp. I do not like it. Take me away.”

I was surprised at the quiet way in which she spoke, it was so unlike
the rest whom we had visited.

“You must have patience,” Vestné declared. “You will get out safely
enough when the time comes.”

I noticed, for I was looking at her closely, that at this her lips
trembled, but still she answered, with no very apparent change in her
voice,—

“I’ve been patient for a very long time, longer than anybody knows.
Please take me away.”

“It is impossible,” Vestné assured her.

She now turned to me.

“Sir,” she said, “I am suffering. Take me away.”

I looked at her, but, beyond the sympathy I felt, knew I was powerless.

Then she began again and passed her hand across her brow. “Take me
away. Once when I asked for things they were always given me, but now
no one listens or understands. I want to go away. Take me away.”

“Is this place so very fearful?” I ventured, looking round the cold,
bare cell.

Her voice sank to a whisper. “I think I have bad dreams. And then I
wake, and lie and wait for the day to break. But it never breaks. The
night never ends, and the darkness is suffocating me. You don’t know
what it is, you’ve never lived in here. No one ever comes near me
except when it is very dark. And then men and women come and curse me,
and say that I have ruined them. But I think that can only be a dream,
for they have ruined me. Take me away. Oh! stranger, take me away.”

I turned towards the door. Gradually she was losing that unusual
self-control which had marked her when first we entered.

As I moved she clutched my arm. “I will come with you,” she cried
hoarsely. “Look! Look! They press upon me like spectres from every
side. I am frightened of them; they are killing me inch by inch.
Sometimes I scream in terror, and they laugh. Oh, God! God! God! what
have I done that I should be tormented thus?”

Even as she spoke her voice died down and her strength failed. She fell
back upon the floor.

And then upon the crucifix the form lay hanging. And beneath it stood a
group of men and women watching her.

“Those men loved, the women hated her,” said Vestné. “And now hate and
love have joined hands, for hate lived when love was dead.”

We went out in silence.

“I will show you only one more,” she said, “and then we will go, as
I am invited out to dinner to-night and cannot stay long. We are now
going to a cell which will make you feel more cheerful. It is the cell
of one who has learnt to stand punishment and has therefore finished
with it.”

She took me to a cell at some little distance. A deathly silence filled
the room as we entered, and a deathly chill pervaded everything. The
flickering light passed direct from the wall to the altar, and there
upon it lay the cross, and on the cross another victim.

We drew nearer and gazed upon the dead. Such beauty as rested on her
features seemed to refine the chamber.

“Will this fair creature change to a stunted dwarf?” I inquired.

Vestné shook her head.

“Sometimes you ask too much,” she replied. “She has learnt by some
trickery to stand the punishment quietly. But that is the more profit
to us. We absorb all this beauty; it belongs to us; then she may go
back again, naked and unprotected as a new-born soul, into the world.”

I stooped and kissed the cold brow.

“Death is infectious,” said Vestné, laughing.

“So may life be,” I retorted.

After that we left the hateful prisons and returned to the watery
vaults and to our boat.

We stepped in in silence, and she directed it back to the place whence
we had started.

And under the central arch, as we stood gazing backward, I saw these
words shining forth in vivid red against the blackness: “Where the fire
is not quenched and the worm dieth not.”

“You will have noticed a quotation from Christ’s preaching down there,”
she said as we ascended the staircase. “He was rather a wonderful kind
of man. He managed to hit so exquisitely upon the truth, even in His
lesser sayings.”

“Did you admire Him?” I asked, struck by a vein of seriousness that
underran her words.

She looked at me rather curiously.

“As men go He was very fascinating,” she answered, but said no more.

When we were once more back in that part of the palace which was her
dwelling-house she left me in the hall and I ascended to my own chamber.

Once in there alone I threw myself upon the bed and tried to think and
realise. It was no use. I started up and began to walk about the room.
The pain and heaviness gradually sinking round me appeared to become
greater than I could bear. The horrible scenes I had witnessed still
flashed before my eyes in all their terrible truth and dull despair.
I vividly recalled the wild and unavailing cry of all these creatures
for their lost liberty. I recognised their fearful madness—steeped in
sanity so deep, that to call it madness would be a pitiable lie. Again
I recognised the misty unreality that haunted them as well as me; the
ghostly lights, the shadowy crucifixes all came back to me, seeming
unreal, almost absurd. Was this vast palace but a shadow? Those demons
shadows? Those prisoners shadows? Was Vestné a shadow? Was I a shadow?

“I am dreaming, surely, I am dreaming,” I said to myself, and then the
words of the woman occurred to me. They also had thought themselves
dreaming in endless night.

Suddenly I looked round the vast apartment.

Was I myself a prisoner, caged in a darkened cell, tormented with a
haunting, flitting light, and dreaming myself within a gilded palace?

I went from one thing to another, touching it; and everything was real
and responded to my touch. I walked the whole long length of the room,
I was in no cell. I felt the steady light within the room. It was no
passing flicker, no dying gleam. Then, unable to remain within, I went
out and down the staircase. Slowly I walked back and forwards through
the long hall, fighting the grimmest fight that spirits have to fight,
that of retaining clear existence. How long I walked thus I cannot
tell, but when I roused myself I found that night had fallen and the
lights shone from the roof. Looking towards the staircase I saw Vestné
descending.

She was dressed more beautifully than I had ever seen her, and looked
more brilliant than ever before.

“I am sorry you cannot come with me, I like company,” she murmured.

“I am sorry too,” I rejoined.

“If you care to wear a decent suit you may come,” she went on.

I glanced at the simple robe I was wearing. “Thank you,” I replied. “So
long as I stay here this shall suffice me. It is my own, and that is
everything.”

“But this is a very brilliant entertainment to which I am going
to-night. Come.”

“I think,” I observed, “you have shown me enough for one day. You will
excuse me.”

At this she left me, and I sat down and tried to read. I had taken
Milton’s _Paradise Lost_, but somehow or other to-night it struck
me as the most tawdry, unreal thing I ever read. The beauty of its
diction, the stately flow of language, the marvellous knowledge of
the writer on all points except one, irritated rather than soothed
me. Despite this I still continued reading, till, more than usually
irritated with his appreciation of the Godhead, I flung the book down,
laughing involuntarily.

What was my surprise on looking up to see Plucritus standing at some
little distance watching me.

On seeing him I felt the nearest approach to pleasure this place gives,
and rose, extending my hand to him.

I remember he looked somewhat surprised, as indeed he well might under
the circumstances, but he returned my salutation pleasantly and came
and sat down near me.

CHAPTER V

“I quite forgot,” said he, giving me no time to put a question, “I
quite forgot to borrow a needle and thread whilst on the earth.
Probably you yourself have learnt the art of mending.”

“Well,” I replied, “I am not yet reduced to tatters, though I possess
but one garment.”

“Where is Vestné?” he continued.

“She has gone to take part in some theatricals, I think.”

“Where?”

“Do not ask me. Your relatives and friends are legion, and quite beyond
my understanding.”

“Have you seen many of them?” he asked.

“Very few.”

“Then you have still no friend but Vestné?”

I laughed.

“I was not aware that she was my friend.”

“But,” said he, whimsically, “Vestné is very charming.”

“Maybe, to those who understand her—I do not.”

“And yet she moves on far straighter lines than the women on earth.”

“That may be again. But here the straight lines and the crooked are so
intertwined one cannot distinguish either.”

He shook his head.

“Genius,” he remarked, “you are looking ill.”

“Then send me a doctor, or prescribe some medicine.”

“Do you think you could possibly prescribe for yourself?” he queried.

“By all means. I need change of scene—to be more exact, change of
surroundings.”

“And where would you go in such a case?”

“Back to my own land.”

“The earth?”

“I hardly think so.”

The faintest smile crossed his lips.

“You are ready at last to forsake your charge for freedom?”

“Not at all,” I said. “I never yet forsook anything that really
belonged to me.”

“You are as faithful as a dog,” he laughed. “Another womanly
characteristic.”

To this I made no answer.

“Why do you not answer?” he broke in at length. “I think you are
growing dull.”

“I had better be dull than coarse,” I replied.

“Would your answer necessitate coarseness?”

“Perhaps not. But I am looking farther than my answer, to your reply.”

“My replies are never coarse, unless badly translated.”

“Then you should employ a good interpreter.”

“It is impossible to find one. As you know yourself, there is not a
more maligned Spirit in existence than I.”

“How is the book going on?” I asked, interrupting him suddenly.

“What book? Oh, yours. Well, it has kept me laughing for the last six
months.”

“Indeed.”

“Yes. I never believed before that any woman could be such a complete
fool, and my experience has been pretty great.”

“One fool makes many,” I commented.

“Well, perhaps so,” he went on thoughtfully. “And the more the merrier.
But tell me, what have you been doing of late? I have left you here
long enough to become well acquainted with the place.”

“I have done absolutely nothing except live a profitless existence.”

“Then you have done as much as most people do, but they thrive on it as
a rule, and you, as I say, look ill.”

“This afternoon we visited some of your prisons.”

“Were they in good order?”

“Oh, excellent! But such a gloomy foundation has on the whole rather a
dispiriting effect.”

“It depends on the principle,” he observed gravely.

“Oh! all things depend on that,” I said.

“Which did you visit?” he asked.

“I was taken to see some women, who, had they been on the earth, would
have been termed mad.”

He gave me a sharp sidelong glance.

“Perhaps they were mad,” he surmised.

“I think not. With all the appearance of madness they were sane. Saner
than they ever were on earth.”

“Come, come, that is putting it rather strongly.”

“I think not. They had been brought to recognise their sin.”

“Yes. But that is the only thing they recognised. They ought to
cultivate a broader mind.”

I looked across at him.

“Plucritus,” said I, “if you were placed in a cell ten feet high and
fifteen square, would you yourself find much room for cultivation of
anything?”

For one moment his lips came together in a thin, cruel line, then he
got up, laughing, stretching out his arms as if tired of the discussion.

“If I were placed in a cell of the dimensions you mention I should
burst the walls, even though they were of iron.”

I looked at him as he began walking back and forwards through the room
and did not doubt the strength of which he spoke.

Then suddenly he lighted on the _Paradise Lost_ which I had thrown
away.

“Have you been reading that rot?” he asked carelessly.

“Well, yes, and I’ve fallen into the error common to all people.”

“That of liking Satan best,” he joined in, laughing.

“Decidedly. But at every other line I find myself stopping to consider
how a man of such ability as Milton could ever come to be so deluded in
his ideas of God.”

“He was like Solomon. His wives led away his heart. Three such were
far too many for an ascetic. They helped to turn his brain. Yet it is
strange,” he continued, smiling, “that he should come to form such a
fine conception of the Devil and underrate the Godhead.”

“He was prejudiced in his favour,” I replied.

“The Devil’s favour?”

“No. The Godhead’s.”

“I see. It’s a bad thing to be prejudiced—it can get one into hobbles.
Are you sleepy?”

“By no means.”

“Then suppose you come with me. We can spend the night in visiting some
prisoners, for, like all my visits, this is of short duration.”

Now visiting prisoners was of all things least pleasant to me. I
remembered my terrible experience of the afternoon and also its
results on myself. Moreover, I knew that I should find no relaxation
afterwards from the misery it engendered. But I had no excuse beyond
my own personal feelings, and such things were unrecognised here, so
I followed him with a grim, stony feeling rising within me, caused by
solitude and imprisonment.

He passed his arm through mine.

“It is really quite a pleasure to meet you once more,” he declared as
we went towards the gloomy doorway. “Because though you may not think
it, I miss you greatly on the earth.”

“Can you find no one to fill my place?” I suggested drily.

“No one. Absolutely no one. I look round and invite people in, but they
won’t come.”

“Have you the right of invitation?”

“No. But I take it.”

“Then they see through the deception.”

“Fiddlesticks! They’re as blind as Milton.”

We were now in the passage leading from the doorway to the cells. But
I noticed when we came to the end of it a low doorway which had before
escaped me.

Plucritus opened it and we walked out into the moonlight. Never before
had I been so impressed by the beauty of these grounds. Chilly winter
moonlight it was, which brought with it a certain peace and quietness,
even to me.

We strolled along from path to path, and all was solitude and shadow as
we went. At last we came to a bridge which spanned a large expanse of
water. I had noticed this bridge before, and had often stood upon it,
but in the middle was an iron gate, which had been always locked.

Vestné had told me this water separated their estate from that of a
neighbouring kinsman, and I had seen that the grounds beyond were very
similar, as were also the spires and turrets which I at times perceived
among the trees.

Plucritus opened the gate easily, and when we had gone through shut it
carefully.

“These are the grounds of a near relative and friend of mine,” he
explained. “When we planned our houses we arranged our dungeons so that
he should take one class of prisoners and I the other. We have passages
leading underground, very beautifully decorated, but I thought we would
come as we have done, because this is a scene and a time I like.”

Similar terraces led us to the palace, and as we drew near we heard
sounds of revelry and music coming from its lighted halls. Many doors
and windows stood wide open, so that we could clearly hear the noise
within.

“Now look here,” said I, standing at the bottom of a flight of steps.
“I hope you still remember my apparel. If I go in there in this state
I must be given a few minutes first in which to prepare myself for an
all-round onslaught.”

Plucritus stood still and laughed.

“You’re a confounded nuisance,” cried he. “I would say a ‘damned’
nuisance, but the critics would pronounce me ‘forcibly feeble.’”

“Beware of the critics,” I advised. “They are like children sitting in
the market-place.”

“How so?”

“They are never right. Nothing pleases them.”

“You never tried them with butter and sugar mixed.”

“Indeed I did.”

“No, you introduced vinegar.”

“Pardon me, vinegar is the correct thing. It is good for the chest.”

“It isn’t a case of what’s _good_ for them. It’s what they
_like_.”

“I see. But certainly butter and sugar and vinegar are the correct
thing.”

“Offer them sackcloth.”

“Indeed, I have done so, and fine linen into the bargain.”

“Well?”

“Oh, well, they returned the linen with thanks, mistaking it for
calico, and the sackcloth they sent back with rude remarks.”

“Did they mistake it for anything?”

“Yes. I believe they thought the rude remarks were clever ones. But
that is pardonable. It is often difficult to ascend to sackcloth, even
when one can descend to ermine.”

“Well, let us go together. You will notice I have accommodated my
raiment to yours.”

“You still wear armour,” I went on, looking at the simple robe he now
wore.

“It is impossible to get rid of it at so short a notice, but it is
unseen. Come.”

And so we came to the entrance. This place perhaps belongs to the
brother of whom Vestné had spoken, for many servants in rich livery
thronged the halls, which otherwise just now were empty.

“Come along,” said Plucritus. “It’s all I can do to keep my face
straight passing through here, there’s so much mockery and unreal sham
about it.”

“Cruelty and humiliation,” I criticised.

“Now, don’t preach, Genius. Considering I have had the kindness to
descend to your level in the matter of dress, you might descend to mine
in the matter of feeling.”

“You must know,” he continued, “that my kinsman has a very fine theatre
here, which it has cost years to build. It has been constructed on the
latest and most approved methods, and is at the height of comfort,
convenience and luxury.”

“I can quite believe you,” I affirmed.

“My kinsman is very fond of acting, so are we all. Only we never act a
play more than once of twice. After that we leave it to be studied and
rehearsed by our slaves, and they eventually carry it to the earth and
let mortals make what use of it they can.”

“Then,” said I, “according to your version the stage is damned prior to
the outset.”

“Be careful,” he rejoined. “If you use bad language they’ll turn you
out.... It is prohibited along with smoking and drinking.”

The sounds of music led us to the theatre of which he spoke. It was
fitted up to the greatest perfection, and evidently for private
audiences.

As we entered there was the general buzz which usually accompanies the
orchestra before the curtain rises, but almost immediately after there
was silence, and the lights were centred only on the stage behind the
rising curtain.

The scene that followed was one of great beauty, and the play itself
clever and brilliant, often amusing. I discovered that Vestné took the
leading part, though it was some time before I recognised her.

When the curtain fell I waited with interest for the next act, but
it never came. I found out later that they rarely gave more than one
act each night; the rest of the time was left for what they termed
“varieties.”

But if I had been asked to translate the word “varieties,” I should
certainly have rendered it as “tragedies,” since to me they were most
painful.

Plucritus had gone near the front and sat down, beckoning me to a seat
next him.

There were many sitting there besides ourselves, a brilliant company
both as to beauty and display.

“Now watch carefully,” said Plucritus, leaning back. “You may learn
something, and you may be interested. But do not go to the absurd
length of tears like Deborah when she went to see ‘The Only Way.’”

“I will endeavour to restrain myself,” I declared. “The sight of your
cheerful countenance will act as an antidote, I have no doubt.”

Just then there walked on the boards a woman. She was dressed very
simply, even prettily, which struck me as being a great concession. No
sound of applause greeted her, but she came to the front and prepared
to sing. I noticed that Vestné was prepared to accompany the song,
which appeared to me a most condescending kindness on her part.

She played a few bars and the song began.

It was one of the most beautiful I had ever heard, and contained human
pathos, sadness, and at times even mirth. Besides, she rendered it with
beautiful expression, such as could only come from one whose whole soul
was in the work. I waited till the end, and then after the first spell
had passed I looked round, expecting the applause which never came.
She stood still too, probably expecting the same thing. But at last,
amidst the indifferent silence, someone called out, “That was insipid,
and every other note was wrong.” Hereupon followed a chorus of laughing
assent, and among the general hubbub she withdrew.

I gazed about with an indignation I found it hard to restrain, till
at last my eyes lighted on Plucritus. He was sitting watching me, an
amused smile on his face.

“Why don’t you get up and say ‘It’s a lie’?” he whispered.

“I believe,” said I, “the only reason is that I lack moral courage. It
can be nothing else.” Whereat he burst out laughing, and one or two of
those near us turned to see who it was.

“You there, Plucritus? Why do you laugh?” called one.

“Oh! I have a very amusing companion, who says the lady should be
recalled and asked to sing again.”

“Yes, we have sent to ask her. One trial does not make a complete
failure.”

Gradually there was silence, and in the midst of it the singer
returned. I do not think she recognised anything about her. Her whole
mind seemed bent upon her task; she scarce appeared to recognise her
previous failure, except perhaps in the first line, when for one second
her voice seemed about to break.

The song was different from the other. It was extremely simple, and
whatever beauty it contained was derived from its simplicity. In the
last lines I noticed again that her voice trembled, and silence fell
once more.

Presently there came another voice from another part of the room,
“Utterly absurd!” and another, “I had hardly the patience to listen to
the end!” and another, “Does this creature imagine our understanding to
be no higher than her own?”

Amid this laughter and these taunts she withdrew again. But not for
long. I think they must have sent again for her, because she soon
returned. And this time I could tell the laughter and contempt had had
effect.

She sang again, and every line was steeped in a bitter and absorbing
passion. Whether there was any beauty in it I could hardly say. At the
end, however, she was met with stony silence; none took the trouble to
make the slightest observation. Suddenly the orchestra struck up some
wonderful soft dance music, and with a step as light as foam on water
she tripped off the stage. At this they clapped and laughed.

“She missed her vocation. She should have been a ballet girl,”
Plucritus said to me. Then he rose quickly. “Come with me,” he went
on, “I had nearly forgotten I brought you here as an observer; come
quickly.”

I remember we went out at a door on the side near the stage. It led
down a lighted corridor which was empty and rather cold. From this we
went down a darker passage with one light burning at the end, and
along the passage were low doors at frequent intervals.

He stopped before one of these and opened it and went in, I following.
The door closed behind us, and I found we were in a cell very similar
to those I had visited earlier with Vestné.

The same ghostly light flickered along the wall and shone beside the
altar. The woman who had sung knelt beside it, her arms stretched
across it, her face buried against the hard board.

“Come away,” I whispered to him.

“No. She’s too far gone to notice us much. We will stay awhile.”

I noticed that on her shoulder a blue bruise had risen, and I wondered
how she had come by it. After a while she got up and began walking
very, very slowly about the cell, and every now and again she drew her
hand across her brow as if trying to move something away.

At last she noticed us standing there, but whether she ever realised
that we were other than forms conjured by her imagination I cannot tell.

She pressed both hands to her side and her breath came in thick gasps.

“I’ve been asleep,” she whispered, “and I dreamt. Yes, it was all a
dream. But it keeps coming, coming, and will not go.”

She shuddered.

“When shall I awake?” she cried piteously. “When shall I learn the
truth? When will the day come? They say I can’t do it,” she went on,
whispering again; “and they always say the same.”

“Well, perhaps you can’t,” suggested Plucritus, softly. “You have never
succeeded yet, as you know.”

She looked across and moved towards him.

“Don’t say that,” she still whispered with a half-choking sob.

“You must try again,” he urged.

“Sir, is it easy to try again?”

“I don’t know,” he answered indifferently. “You seem to have a gift
that way, therefore it must be.”

“I don’t know either,” she murmured wearily.

“Give it up,” he insinuated. “Seeing that you can’t do it, it is the
only sensible course left.”

“I _can_ do it, you fool!” she cried impetuously. “I can, I
can—or rather I could.” And her voice dropped again, and from walking
about she had come to a dead stand.

“How did you come by that bruise?” I asked, longing to get away, and
hoping at least to change the conversation.

“I—someone struck at me as I came away,” she replied. “And yet I don’t
know why—I did my best, and never meant to offend anyone. But it was
all a dream—a horrible dream. Everything was upside down.”

And then she left us, and stumbled back to the altar, and burst into
such a horrible fit of sobbing as I had never heard before.

“We’ll go now,” said Plucritus.

When we were outside he laughed.

“That is one of my favourite—patients,” he said.

“And cruelty is your favourite medicine,” I sneered.

“I have known the day when you yourself were cruel,” he broke in.

“Never, except under extreme provocation—and in a just cause.”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“Each excuses his own actions,” he remarked, and by this we were back
again in the theatre.

There was a great deal of noise going on, and someone called as we
entered, in an exquisitely clear and modulated voice,—

“Statesman number three from the left-hand corridor wanted.”

A silence followed this, and at last from the left wing of the stage a
gentleman appeared. So far as I knew I had never seen him before, and
Plucritus, who sat beside me, explained that he had lived a hundred
years ago, when the great European War was in progress.

The one who had called for him sat in the centre of the theatre, and
round him were grouped many spirits, Vestné being at his right hand.

“That is my brother-in-law,” said Plucritus, “and we really get on
excellently well. Some day I will introduce you to him, and there is no
doubt you will form a great admiration for each other.”

“We will leave the future to speak for itself,” I observed drily.

“My brother-in-law is very talented,” continued he; “but he is of such
a modest nature that he has never yet allowed himself to be called by
the name of Genius.”

“Indeed!” I laughed. “What is his particular gift?”

“He has none in particular. They all belong to him.”

I laughed again.

We were interrupted by his calling to us.

“Plucritus,” he exclaimed, “you might at least have the kindness to
keep that conversation at a lower pitch.”

“I was describing your character to a friend.”

“A friend?” he queried, looking round; and then rather unexpectedly he
left his seat and came to us.

There were two things that impressed me about him—the extreme
sweetness and yet hardness of his face. In some ways he appeared no
older than a youth not yet turned twenty, in others he resembled a man
hardened beyond even the degree to which men can attain.

“You are Genius?” he remarked lightly, and I noticed that his voice
corresponded to his face. “Vestné says you are dull over there for lack
of company; you should visit me, I am never dull.”

“This is Vestasian,” said Plucritus, “who, to quote my favourite
earthly poet, Dryden, is—

‘A man so various that he seems to be,
Not one but all mankind’s epitome.’”

“Look at that man over there,” interposed Vestasian, gazing towards the
stage. “He comes in aptly for the second part of the quotation:—

‘Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong,
All things by starts and nothing long.’”

“Genius himself can fill up the third part of the text,” put in
Plucritus:—

“‘For in the course of one revolving moon
He’s statesman, chemist, fiddler and buffoon.’”

“Dryden is honoured,” said Vestasian and that sweet, even voice of his.
“But then he deserves it. But, Genius,” he continued, “you must come
with me—the greatest stranger and the honoured guest.”

“What am I to do?” queried Plucritus.

“Find someone else,” returned the other.

For a second they looked at one another, and Plucritus turned to me.

“I find I shall not be able to stay very much longer. When I go, will
you return with me or stay here?”

“Just as you like,” I answered. “Either place is as acceptable to me.”

“That means you will stay,” Vestasian declared. “I take it as a
compliment.”

And he led the way to where he had been sitting.

Vestné rose as we approached.

“You may take my place,” she said graciously. “I must see my husband.
I don’t believe he’s had any supper, and he’s come _such_ a long
way.”

So we sat down, and she went to him, and as long as I was in the room
they remained together and seemed more than usually content in each
other’s society.

But to return to the man upon the stage. Whilst Vestasian spoke to me
he had been sitting waiting there.

“What is his name?” I asked.

“We never disclose names,” Vestasian answered. “They all go by numbers.
It is less complicated in the long run.”

“And less complimentary too,” I added.

“Well, so it may be. But then we never pay compliments; they are too
broad.”

Then he addressed himself to the man.

“Would you be kind enough to defend your own policy?” he said.

“He never had a policy,” cried someone in the audience.

“He must have had a policy,” shouted someone else.

“Not at all. He belongs to that class of animal called ‘Mammal.’”

“Well, what has that to do with it?”

“Everything. He has no backbone.”

“Hs-sch. If you’re not careful he will round on you. You’re betraying
ignorance.”

“No matter. I said it out of kindness to give him an opening. But he’s
missed it.”

“What is his policy?”

“The destruction of fleas.”

“Are they not an Irish importation?”

“Oh, no. Lace and poplins come from there. It is a revival.”

“What of? Potatoes?”

“Ask him.”

“He doesn’t know. He was a Foreign Secretary.”

“But Ireland belongs to that section.”

“Your dates are wrong. This is a hundred years ago.”

“Why, that’s the time when it was united!”

“Certainly. Ask him.”

“Ask him what?”

“If he’s gone to sleep or lost his tongue.”

“He has done neither.”

“What ails him then?”

“He cannot speak.”

“Why?”

“There’s no gallery.”

“But he is ambitious.”

“What has that to do with it?”

“He can ascend to the roof.”

“What of his head?”

“He hasn’t got one.”

“Yes, he has.”

“Indeed not.”

“Prove it.”

“His brains are in a glass case in the British Museum, labelled
‘Obsolete.’”

“What is his policy?”

“The extermination of fleas.”

“He’s a humbug.”

“That’s a dangerous kind of flea.”

“Is he a War Advocate?”

“It just depends.”

“Upon what?”

“How he feels.”

“Has he exterminated anything?”

“He says he has.”

“What is that?”

“Himself.”

“Did he put himself out?”

“He did his best.”

“And failed?”

“Oh, no—succeeded.”

“He’s a clever man.”

“Ask him to sing the National Anthem.”

“Which one?”

“The English, to be sure. There is no other nation.”

“But he’s an Im—Im—Im—imperialist. Ho—there, waiter!
Whisky—Soda—Rum—Gin—and pure beer.”

“Why do you need it?”

“To drink the toast.”

“No more?”

“To wash the word out of my throat, it stuck there.”

“You’ll get drunk.”

“Why not? I’m loyal.”

“What’s his policy?”

“A walk over.”

“It’s old-fashioned.”

“A fight over then.”

“Never heard of it before.”

“A knock over, if it suits you better.”

“Is he a Radical?”

“Oh, no. Why do you ask?”

“I thought the policy a new one.”

“It’s as old as Adam.”

“Is he?”

“No. He’s older. He generated the policy. So he must be the elder.”

“Then we come back to the old argument—he’s a Mammal.”

“A fossil, you mean.”

“There’s not much difference.”

“Let him speak.”

Suddenly, in the midst of all this babel and laughter, absolute silence
prevailed.

But still the man sat in the chair. “Sir,” said Vestasian, “would you
be kind enough to explain why you are sitting there?”

“He can’t get up.”

“Why?”

“He apes the elder Pitt.”

But as they seemed about to begin the same incessant laughter again,
Vestasian whispered to me,—

“You look tired, Genius. We will go away and visit more interesting
specimens.”

Thus saying he rose and led me out—the others still remaining so
intent upon these sallies that they scarcely noticed that we went.

“Have you guessed the riddle?” he asked when we were outside in the
corridor through which Plucritus had first guided me.

“What riddle?”

“The riddle concerning that man?”

“As to his identity?”

He laughed.

“Oh, no. His identity is immaterial.”

“I think I understand you,” I observed. “But I do not yet understand
the treatment.”

“Think about it. Here is his cell.”

The door was open and we looked in. It was no different from all
the rest—bare walls and floor and the rude altar—but the light
was absent. Just at that moment a yell of scarce-restrained delight
was heard, and looking up the corridor we saw the man returning,
accompanied on either side by devils, leaping, skipping and
gesticulating.

He was subjected to great indignities by them, and they appeared the
more enraged because he took no particular notice of them. He came
to the cell as if guided there by something, since he himself seemed
dazed and hopeless. He stumbled in and fell toward the altar, resting
his arms against it, for indeed, by a terrible truth they did not
understand, it was the only resting-place for any of them.

After the first few minutes spent there he got up and clenched his
hands.

“It can’t be true,” he muttered. “There’s no sense in it.”

Vestasian laughed.

“Come away,” he urged me. “He’s perfectly right. There is no sense in
it.”

From there he led the way up a staircase. It was plain and ordinarily
built in stone, drearily cold and comfortless.

“I will not detain you very long,” he said, “for to-morrow I understand
Plucritus takes you to the city, and you will need some rest and
preparation.”

We came out upon a long stone passage, and I noticed the doors were
numbered like the cells below.

He opened the first one and walked in.

The cells were somewhat larger than the others, but not much. Here
stood a man in the centre of the floor, his hands pressed against his
forehead.

By his side were pen and ink and paper on a table, and a plain,
straight-backed wooden chair stood beside it.

After a while he sat down and drew the pen and paper to him.

He began to write, and wrote steadily for some time. Then the speed
began to slacken, till at last he stopped. He made one more attempt to
continue, but evidently he recognised it as hopeless. He put the pen
down and got up. Again he stood in the middle of the floor, holding
both temples as if trying to force something back that would not stay.

After some time so spent he again sat down, and again began at the same
even, quick rate. But the same result followed and once more he got
up. I noticed the same thing with him that I had noticed in the man
and woman down below: which was, that his breath came in thick, heavy
gasps, as if he were suffering extreme pain.

“It has gone—quite gone,” he groaned.

And he sat down and cried as miserably as any lost child might have
done.

Vestasian took up one of the papers and glanced at it. He put it down
and smiled.

“This has been going on for a very long time,” he said. “If he would
only use breadth of mind and forget things there would be some hope for
him.”

“What else is there to think about?” I asked.

“Nothing.” And he walked to the door, and after we had gone out locked
it once more.

From there he went on to the next cell. I was surprised on entering
to find it much higher and larger than any of the rest had been. A
sculptor stood beside a block of marble, and he was transforming it
into a very beautiful piece of work. He worked at marvellous speed, or
at least so it appeared to me, but time there is often deceptive.

His pleasure and absorption were very evident, as indeed were mine, for
his sure touch and exact precision were well worth watching.

He had built up a marvellous statue, but as he stood back, with all an
artist’s keen criticism, to view the work, it suddenly vanished more
quickly than it had come, and left only the spiritless stone. I turned
at last to look at him. He was staring at it with a heartbreaking look
of fear and dull despair. He went towards it and passed his trembling
hands over the surface. Then he came back, and I heard the same heavy
gasps, which seemed somehow as if they sent their pain into everything
around.

“I—I—it’s all a dream,” he muttered huskily, passing his hand before
his eyes. “But it keeps coming, and the more beautiful I make it, the
quicker it fades away.”

“It’s your imagination,” suggested Vestasian. “There’s no beauty in it,
or if there was, try again. This time you may be more successful.”

But he sat down and shook his head.

“When I awake,” he said, “I’ll try again. I am tired, and the dream is
too, too real. It has been going on all the night, and the night is one
endless spell of blackness and false, fierce hope.”

“Will you give up?” asked Vestasian, softly.

He looked up queerly and then gave a sharp cry, half sob, half sigh.
“Oh, God! God! I would if only I could. But it neither goes nor stays,
even like this ghastly flame that haunts me always.”

“I think,” he went on in the curious voice of one half sleeping, “that
if that light were gone I should be better; it never shines as clearly
as when the work has gone. At other times it flickers round the cell
like some pale torch upon a funeral bier.”

“Here is the altar,” said Vestasian, suddenly moving to it. “Can you
make no use of this?”

“It is an unnecessary table for which I find no use,” he answered
testily, “except sometimes to hold my tools. I do not understand it.”

Vestasian went to the door and I followed him out.

In the passage he smiled.

“What do you think of them, Genius?” he questioned.

“I think they are poor misguided wretches.”

“Do you think we treat them cruelly?”

“I don’t know,” I replied thoughtfully. “To me it seems the essence of
torture.”

He laughed.

“I think you are really beginning to learn,” he declared. “A short time
ago you would have denounced us wholesale. But even the Devil is not
quite so black as he is painted.”

“I think he is much blacker,” I retorted. “But I am beginning to doubt
his existence.”

“It is the first time you have been down here?”

“Undoubtedly. What acquaintance I have had with any of your people has
been upon the earth.”

“And there they appear slightly different from here,” he observed
thoughtfully. “But then you know we are much maligned and caricatured.”

“Why don’t you put a stop to it?” I inquired.

He raised his eyebrows.

“The clergy do that for us,” he returned.

“They rarely mention you,” I commented.

“We are out of fashion. The inferior power generally is. They are so
absorbed in worshipping the Trinity that they ignore us altogether.
Besides, humanity is tender, it has to be coaxed with love.” He spoke
softly, but underlying the tone there was a sneer as cruel as it was
true.

I remember the next cell we visited was that of a little man who, when
we entered, was writing.

“He is a poet—or rather was,” whispered my companion. “Watch him, as
he is interesting. He is, or rather was, a Frenchman, who by his books
kicked over their religion like a footstool.”

After a while the poet stopped and jumped up. He was a funny little
creature, even at the best of times.

“It’s happened again,” he exclaimed. “I’m mad to attempt it—no one
will read it as it is.”

Then he saw us and came forward precipitately.

“Sir,” he said, catching hold of Vestasian by the arm, “just come and
look.”

He went forward.

“Well?” Vestasian asked.

“Is there not something missed out?”

“Where?”

“On this page.”

“No—nothing.”

Hereupon he turned to me and caught my arm quite sharply.

“Sir,” he gasped breathlessly, “look carefully, and tell me is there
not an empty space here?”

“Where?” said I, looking.

“Here.”

“No, I see nothing.”

Then he sat down and laughed—a horrible, shrill laugh.

“I’m mad or dreaming.”

“Perhaps both,” declared Vestasian. “The page is quite complete.”

“Yes, yes,” he broke in eagerly. “It’s all right now. It’s quite clear.
Here, get away and let me go on.”

And he pushed us both back irritably.

He went on again for some time, but at last down went the pen. He
slammed his hand over the leaf and gave an excited whine. Then he
lifted his hand ever so slightly and peered under it, just like a
schoolboy who has caught a fly.

“It’s gone again,” he shouted, jumping up. “And I don’t know what it
is. It keeps going, and when it’s gone it isn’t there. And no one will
take it as it is, nor read it, nor—nor anything.”

“Oh, yes, they will, you’re a good writer,” said Vestasian.

At this he burst out laughing again.

“It’s that flame—that feeble, flickering light,” he cried harshly. “I
believe it blots the sense out. Take it away, take it away.”

“But you would be left in darkness.”

He shivered.

“No—no, leave it. Take it away—leave it. It’s always dark, whether
or not. It’s always night—and I’m always dreaming the same unnatural
dream.”

He crept straight up to me cunningly and quietly.

“Did you say there was nothing left out?” he whispered.

“Yes.”

Then he ran to the table and caught the papers up, and returning thrust
them into my hand.

“Take it, and tell them if they’ll get me out of here—I’ll—I’ll—”

He burst into the most terrible sobs.

“Say it’s there because I know it’s there,” he cried. “Tell them it’s
there because you saw it.”

But the papers were scarcely in my fingers than they were drawn out
invisibly and replaced upon the table, and he himself was drawn towards
it too.

Suddenly, with a terrible effort, he stopped crying.

“When I cry it burns a hole in the paper and spoils the sense—ha! ha!
There it is again! Clean out! ha! ha!”

Again he jumped up and began chasing the light about the room, but it
flickered about unsteadily till suddenly it rose above the altar; and
he, finding it beyond him, knelt down and cried again.

We left him, and when we were outside, and the heavy, inhuman bolts
drawn, Vestasian turned to me.

“Genius,” he said, “why did you speak so thoughtlessly?”

“I spoke from genuine conviction. He said there was part omitted on
each page, and I saw nothing wanting.”

“Did you not?” he asked meditatively.

“No. Whatever was wanting lay with him. You yourself saw nothing amiss.”

“I am privileged to lie—or rather to speak the truth on another
principle.”

“I see. But, if you know, what was this thing of which he spoke?”

My companion did not answer for some time. Then he said,—

“I leave it to you to find out. I like if possible to make people
think—or rather Spirits. Mankind is deeply philosophical without—”

Just then a bell began to toll. It was the most terribly drear sound I
had ever heard.

“Come this way,” Vestasian said. And he led me to a balcony by a short
flight of steps.

From this we looked down through a kind of grating, and saw beneath us
the most gloomy sight I yet had witnessed.

It seemed as if from this particular spot one saw the whole of the
gloomy cells and prisons stretching out and down on either side farther
than the eye could pierce into the darkness. They ranged side by side
in even order, and by the door of each flowed the black river, gurgling
as it passed. Every door had its particular number shining in vivid
red, whilst arches like those which form the crypts of churches spanned
and linked the whole. And from here one saw within the hidden walls
into each secret cell, where the naked soul, bereft of every false
covering, saw itself as it really was and could not understand. But
now the bell had ceased, and, as it were, moved by one impulse every
wretched soul flung itself down upon the floor beside the altar.

“Oh, God! remove the darkness. Give us light! Light! More Light!”

And one general cry ascended, one universal cry of bitterness, which
died down into still more bitter silence.

As they knelt the light came—the lurid glow of hell—rising like
sulphur fumes about the pillars.

Each as they felt its presence rose and turned towards the doors, and
they raised their hands above their heads, and now no sound fell on the
ear.

It was simply the dream-light of unreality, nothing of purity lived in
it.

Presently, as a dark curtain drawn across the scene, came blackness,
blotting them out for ever.

What happened to each, or what his lot, or when his term of prison life
was over, who can tell? Those who keep the books of Hell and Heaven
alone know.

CHAPTER VI

“I shall not trouble you any further,” said Vestasian. “You look tired,
and there is little pleasure in this kind of work except to those who
understand and care for it.”

As we descended the steps he took a path which led us once more out
into the gardens instead of back to the guests.

“Your guests will miss you,” I remarked. “But probably they have a very
charming hostess.”

He shook his head. “They have none,” he answered; “but they can amuse
themselves.”

“Have you no one then besides yourself who reigns over all this
magnificence?” I queried.

I noticed that he smiled.

“I am a solitary monarch,” he replied, “and yet—yes—I have a
wife—a queen if you will.”

“Are you not interested?” he asked at length.

“Yes. I did not want to betray an impertinent curiosity.”

“We understand each other,” he went on easily. “If not, I should never
have cultivated your acquaintance.”

“Then, as you know, it is my greatest pleasure to hear of others,
provided I may do it without prying and without giving offence.”

“Well,” said he, whimsically, “my wife never attends social functions,
neither does she entertain.”

“Indeed,” I interjected, and relapsed into silence.

“She is not quite the same as the spirits who reside here, and
therefore she lives apart, and rarely visits with them.”

I began to wonder had he made a _mésalliance_, and yet he seemed
scarcely the kind to have done so. Moreover, as I knew well, with
spirits there is perfect equality—at least with the class of which he
came.

“We have not been married very long,” he continued. “A few thousand
years only. Before that I was—to use a familiar expression—a
bachelor.”

He waited for a little while and then went on again.

“There was no particular reason why I should marry. I needed no
children, for we are our own children, and what work I had I found was
of such a nature that I could do it better by entering into partnership
with Plucritus than by anything else. He married Vestné, and we make
a strong triple alliance. But once in an idle moment I worked out
a theory of marriage. I wished to try a wife built on a different
principle from myself, so I looked toward heaven. You have never been
there, but it is similar to this place. So similar that it is hard to
tell the difference—it is only felt.”

He smiled. Probably he recognised the “only” was superfluous.

“Once, therefore, as I was passing through the earth I happened to
behold a city. And above it I saw a spirit hovering, a lovely, gentle
creature, scarcely formed, except in tender graces and purity of mind.
As she sailed from point to point I followed her, and noticed the
rosy light that glowed about her—her only protection in that harsh
wilderness. I knew at once the place from which she came. I had heard
it made their boast that they would raise up spirits from the dust of
earth like to themselves, and I had laughed the thought to scorn, for
reasons I shall not tell you now.

“And now I saw before me one of these spirit blossoms, flown wild from
heaven, thoughtless of harm or evil, thinking only of sad humanity
grovelling on the ground. I knew that she herself had come from such,
and yet never a more lightsome flower of beauty breathed in air. I drew
nearer, laughing, yet serious. Thought I, ‘I will catch this little
lost jail-bird of mine and carry her down to the place meant for her,
and then they may pipe for the ransom.’ For no thought of pity or
compassion for her helplessness ever came near me. So I caught her.”

He laughed with a mirth which was almost infectious, even to me.

“And in catching her I was caught myself, for I had never realised they
could do things so extremely well up there.”

“What was the result?”

“I have told you. It chanced just at that time we were flying over
neutral ground. And she mistook me for a friend, having never known
an enemy, and turned to give me the kiss of friendship. And I, being
courteous though I reared myself, returned the kiss, but still retained
my prisoner. However, I could not keep her prisoner long, for, truth to
tell, she had imprisoned me. Accordingly, I brought her here, and when
we came to the heavy gates she cried to go away, being only a child.
But, loving me and trusting me, she came even to this great palace
which I had built in lonely deity. Then there came messengers from
heaven, demanding back this daughter, but I refused to give her up,
till at last her father came and begged for her, saying she was but a
child and only brought up for gentle usage. When she saw him she ran to
him with the same outstretched arms which first had welcomed me, and
said that this was heaven if only he would stay and bring the rest.
He looked away and sighed, as well he might, for he knew well that no
clinging bud, however fair and tender, could convert Hell and Heaven to
friendship. But because he saw that we were truly joined he turned to
leave us sadly, and went away. After that she fretted and grew so pure
and fragile that I feared she would dissolve away, having no strength
within herself. I had no power to strengthen her, because there as here
they build up like with like. So the time passed on for many days. She
grew ever tender and more tender, just like some fading wild blossom
blown from the parent stem by March winds in sunny June. And then at
last she lay like some weak child upon the bed which I had woven from
snowy flakes of lilies for her. And as she lay panting in agony, which
by its wrongful name mortals call Death, she took my hand and whispered
she would be happy if she only left a child to take her place. I did
not understand her, but she looked at me with such strange, wistful
eyes that I, as best I could, settled my mind to fathom what she meant.
Just then the bell had tolled for prayer within the prisons. She raised
herself upon her elbow.

“‘I want a child, a little child to hold within my arms,’ she cried,
and never was child’s voice more plaintive or more sweet. And then she
rose from off the bed, light as the beauty which enveloped her.

“‘Take me to the grating,’ she entreated. ‘I would see them pray.’

“I wondered, for this had ever been the bitterest hour to her. But
because I never failed to please her in what I could, I took her
there. It was just at the time when the sulphur fumes were rising and
they all stood looking in hopeless expectation toward the fast-barred
doors. She leant against the grating like one too weak to stand alone.
But suddenly she broke out into the sweetest song the ear of Spirit
ever heard. I listened in surprise and admiration, as never before
had she sung a note. Then, looking down below, scanning the gloomy
columns, I saw amongst the mass one upturned face. ’Twas that of a man
whose prison term expired that night. Next day he returned to earth
to stand another trial, because with great faults unchecked there yet
was that within his nature which preponderated to make him still unfit
for hell. And he fell like some worn traveller towards the altar, and
the last weary sigh escaped his lips, and fled trembling even till it
touched and kissed those notes of purity that thrilled from her.” Here
Vestasian laughed, more softly than before.

“I found myself a dupe again, for the tired spirit, now reft of
everything, even hell’s punishment, ascended through the bars to her
who called it. And as the half-unconscious fragment lay pressed to her
bosom she turned to me.

“‘You may take me back,’ she said, with the contentment of a little
child. So I took her. And there upon the bed she kissed and fondled
this lost soul, and wrapped it in her own pure robe, and then she
kissed me too, and with eyes shining mistily, still fixed on me, she
passed away, taking it with her.”

He paused, but soon continued:—

“So I lost my wife, and lost my prisoner, whom she carried to the
earth and left there, endowed from birth with every spiritual grace,
even from hell’s portal. And when she had gone I wandered about
disconsolate, missing her everywhere. When I learnt no tidings of her I
followed to the gates of Heaven and entered. My shadow fell across the
threshold, for I think the sun was slanting from the hills, and as I
noticed it I—smiled. ‘They will regard me as a stranger,’ I thought,
but still I strode on. At last I came to where her father lived, and
saw her mother spinning by the door.

“‘I have come to seek my wife,’ I said. At this she rose and led me to
the house and went through it to an upper chamber. It was all bowered
in rosy light, and sweet birds carolled at the open windows, for it
was summer time. There she lay upon a silken couch, sleeping like some
pure flower-bell in hazy sunshine. By her side, upon the pillow, lay a
little withered flower I had given her, the only store she had brought
from my vast palace—and it was dead.

“‘She will stay here for many days, and then needs care and
nourishing,’ her mother observed. ‘When she is strong and well again
she will return to you.’

“With what gratitude I could I thanked her, and kissed my winning wife
and went away. Since then, like Proserpine of old, she has come to me
and gone. And ever as she goes, in that last gasping hour of pain,
I take her to the grating and she sings. Every time some dying soul
responds and she is happy, and will make believe that this one is my
child and her own. And because from her lips these words seem sweet I
never question it, but let her have her way; and if I suffer, I suffer
as best I may, in silence like the rest.”

We had stood still beside the lake, and still continued standing,
watching the rippling moonbeams on the water. After a slight pause he
moved along.

“Come,” said he, “let us be off. There! midnight strikes; and as it
echoes, in the far distance, from the wooden cross above the forest
comes the bitter cry of him who had found his God.”

CHAPTER VII

We returned to the Palace, and still found it the centre of life and
brilliancy. I noticed, on entering the large dining-hall in which
supper was served, that neither Plucritus nor Vestné were there.

“Will you stay?” asked Vestasian.

“I think not,” I answered. “I am tired, and not accustomed to many
people. I will return.”

Almost before the words were spoken I found myself alone in my own
chamber.

In one way this evening had been different from the others. It had
given me interest and food for thought. There was about Vestasian none
of that cold languor and chilliness which nearly always distinguished
Vestné, neither did there seem to be the same sneering cruelty that
characterised Plucritus.

Yet as I thought about it the old, old feeling came back upon me by
leaps and bounds, bringing the same old pain.

Now that I was away from him, from his clear voice, and quiet manner,
and curious conversation, I recognised with horrible distrust the
fascination he had held for me. I remembered how I had followed him as
in a dream, seeing with his eyes, hearing almost with his ears, even
arriving at the same thoughts as himself, listening to his stories with
an interest as real as if I had taken part in them. I remembered too
how he had singled me out for his attention, me, a solitary unknown
guest, almost a prisoner, having neither friend nor rank in this great
land.

When, however, the interest and glamour had gone I saw him as he was,
or what I took him for—a terrible power, silent, strong and swift,
covered with a veneer of lightness like all the rest.

Then came the old cursed sense of unreality. For aught I knew this all
might be a dream; I might be suffering like the poet or the sculptor,
or any of the others I had seen.

Like them I stretched out my arms, trying to push the horrid thing
away, because, dream or no dream, the pain was unmistakable to me.

Upon this there came another hard conviction.

None left this gloomy region except through death. Every tortured
spirit lingered, then passed away back to the earth, or some equivalent.

I thought drearily if this would be my end, and laughed aloud, for the
earth knew me not, neither did heaven, and to my own land, branded with
the breath of hell, I could never come.

I recognised more horribly what would be the end. For death to me was
death in entirety, the pitiable weakness of which Plucritus had spoken,
a total dismemberment and absorption by some—yes, why not?—by some
arch-vampire, even perhaps Vestasian, or one of the others.

The more I thought of him the more clearly I discerned his nature.
He had told me to think. Indeed, I might think safely whilst others
laughed. Through all that night I lay awake, hating the coming day,
yet longing for the night to flee away. Towards morning, as the
darkest hour approached, I happened to look across toward the wall.
There a feeble light was flickering. As I looked it died away, and
soon afterwards the dawn broke red and golden. On that I fell asleep,
wearily forgetful of all things till wakened by the slave who waited on
me.

I remember he pressed me once more with many sighs, and even tears, to
wear apparel he had brought for me, but I refused.

On descending to the lower hall I found Plucritus sitting reading. He
was dressed ready for going out, and by his side Vestné sat perusing
a letter. She looked up as I came to them, and the news was evidently
very pleasing to her, for she was smiling. But when she saw me a slight
frown puckered up her brow.

“Good-morning, Genius,” she greeted me at last. “We feared you were not
well, you are so late.”

Plucritus threw the paper away and jumped up, turning to me. “Good—”
but he never finished the salutation; instead, he ended with a violent
“Idiot!” that lost nothing by the change in his tone.

“Well,” said I, “as long as you send me a servant who cannot speak one
word, what can you expect of me?”

“Common sense,” he answered. “Let us have breakfast.”

The meal was not a pleasant one. Afterwards Vestné left us alone; this
hour of the morning seemed one of her busiest. Plucritus led the way to
the library, and when we were there he closed the door.

“Genius,” he said at last, “it is very easy to see what you mean by
appearing like this.”

“I mean nothing,” I replied, “except that I find my own apparel the
more suitable. For my own part I think it is a very childish thing to
quarrel over.”

For a short time there was silence, till at last he asked,—

“How did you like Vestasian?”

“I found him a very interesting companion.”

“More so than me?”

“In many ways, yes.”

“Should you care to change hosts?”

“In that respect I find you pretty equal.”

“I am going to the city this morning, would you care to come with me?”

For one minute I looked at him, then I answered,—

“I care very little about anything. If I must go, I must. If not I
would rather stay.”

He smiled.

“You are altering,” he said, “altering in mind and spirit. Gradually
you will alter altogether, so that none of your past acquaintances will
know you. But there! I forgot, you have no past acquaintances. It was
you, if I remember rightly, who tried to push your own identity upon
someone else, someone very much outside your own station, who could
only regard you in the light of an impudent beggar fit simply for
spurning aside without remark.”

He laughed. “Like most ignorant people,” he continued, “you have great
conceit and assurance and stubbornness, which you mistake for true
determination. And when all these things fail to assist you, you turn
sullen and think yourself ill-used.”

“This is very interesting,” I retorted. “I am learning facts about
myself hitherto unknown. Is it sullenness from which I suffer just at
present?”

“Undoubtedly. You have found some one more than your match and cannot
give in graciously.”

But being dull I made no answer, till at last, seeing he made no effort
to continue, I asked,—

“And who may my match be?”

He shook his head.

“If I told you it might be such a blow to your conceit that you would
scarce recover from it.”

I did not reply. He rose.

“You are losing your one redeeming quality,” he went on. “You never
have an answer ready. When you die we shall raise you a monument and
it shall say, ‘Here lies one who died silently after talking loudly,’
and all those who go by will shake their heads and say it was a bad
practice. But come, let us be off. I wish you to see the great city;
for though you may not know it, I like you better than you think.”

“I am flattered;” and not even dulness could keep bitterness away.

“Now,” said he, when we were outside, “I propose that instead of taking
our journey slowly we take it with the greatest possible speed. There
is nothing to see on the way but what one may see every day; that is,
of course, if one has the wherewithal to travel. What do you propose?”

“I am, as you know, quite at your service. Quickly or slowly, it is all
the same to me.”

“Well, then, we will go quickly.”

With incredible speed we found ourselves within a large cathedral.
Gloomy it was, yet grand, and as we arrived we heard the organ for the
voluntary was playing.

“Why surely,” I cried, gazing about me, “we are back on earth.”

He shook his head.

“No. It’s a good imitation. Splendid, isn’t it?”

“But, pardon me, I recognise this building—”

“One very like it, that is all. This is part of Vestasian’s town house,
and knowing you were coming he has built people up from stunted souls.
He is considerate.”

“At the expense of others.”

“Oh! we are all that,” Plucritus rejoined. He put his arm through
mine. “Come and stand under the shadow of this monument; we can then
see without being seen. But perhaps you would like to say a prayer. We
will go into the choir stalls, there are stools there and the view is
better.”

We went to the stalls he mentioned unnoticed.

By this time Plucritus had recovered his good temper. I never yet had
known him upset for long, since though by nature he never forgave he
never let this interfere with his good-companionship.

“Now,” said he, “look around, do, and don’t miss anything worth seeing.”

“But what is there to see?”

“A church service. And the church and the theatre are much united, so
that when you go to church you see a play, and when you visit a theatre
you see the other thing. Now, observe.”

When we had entered the church had been empty, but now it began to fill.

The first to enter was a most elegantly-gowned woman accompanied by two
children.

She rustled up the central aisle and took her position, as did the
girl and boy to the further side of her. Next she brought out a silver
smelling-salts bottle, and a bottle of scent with a silver stopper, and
other paraphernalia, and set them by the side of her.

“She has nerves,” Plucritus remarked soothingly to me. “Poor thing!
what it must be to be afflicted like that!”

The children, in the meantime, having stared about, began whispering to
one another. She smiled maternally, but let them be.

“Poor little things,” he observed. “What an affliction for them to be
mewed up here.”

“If you talk so loud,” said I, laughing despite myself, for he took
such evident interest in them, “they will hear you.”

“Not they,” he remarked; “they are blind and deaf or they wouldn’t be
here. When the choir comes in we shall have to move away, but we shall
never be seen nor heard. Vestasian and I once stood at either end of
this large building and shouted to one another as loud as we could on
matters secular.”

“And what followed?”

“Nothing appreciable. They sang the Athanasian Creed from memory, I
believe.”

Next came a rather poor girl, who walked up the aisle in a very
undecided way and turned to the left, to a seat opposite the lady.

She knelt down and prayed for a long time, and when she got up
Plucritus noted the time in a little note-book he carried. Then he said
to me,—

“Would you be kind enough to go and see what is the particular scent
that lady carries—eau-de-Cologne or lavender?”

“It won’t be lavender,” I replied, “that’s for the toilet.”

“But we must make sure.”

When I had discovered I returned to him.

“It is eau-de-Cologne, and there is a smaller bottle of wood violet.”

“Out of fashion, but still....” said he, and made a note of it.

Then entered a very respectable-looking gentleman, who at once gave a
tone of staidness to the whole proceedings. And behind him came his
wife, who was matronly and very richly dressed, and behind her came
four children, three girls and a boy, and they all sat down in the pew
behind the elegant lady. The eldest girl curtsied before she went into
the seat at a big crucifix on which Christ was hanging, but it was
lost, except that Plucritus noted it most carefully. Then there came in
three girls all together, and one of them was giggling, and when she
knelt down to pray she giggled more than ever, and then the next began
to titter, and finally the third was overcome also. And still Plucritus
noted it and passed a sketch of it to me, so that I wondered at his
great ability in drawing. Next entered another very, very elegant
woman, and she walked up to the top pew, and when there she crossed
herself and curtsied, and then went in and knelt down and prayed with
her face covered, so that it must have been very real to her.

Next came two young men, who sat on the seat opposite the girls who
giggled, and that somehow or other made them giggle more.

“What are those two young men doing?” asked Plucritus of me.

“So far as I can make out, nothing.”

“I thought so. Did they say any prayer when they came in?”

“I did not notice.”

“You should be more exact. I don’t think they did. At any rate I have
it down that they did not.”

After that a very pompous gentleman with a gold watch-chain arrived.
All the way up the aisle he breathed heavily. He sat down in his place
with an extra sigh, and nodded to his prayer-book, and passed his hand
over the bald place on his head and leant back.

“No prayer again,” criticised Plucritus. “But he does his share in
almsgiving.”

Presently quite a party of ladies and gentlemen entered. They looked as
if they had just come from dinner; they were very elaborately dressed.

The ladies carried fans and wore big picture hats and much jewellery.
Some of the gentlemen had very small prayer-books, that looked like
toys, and were perhaps meant to testify to their clear sight for small
print.

They made quite a bustle as they came in, and many of the people who
had by this time filled up the hinder pews appeared quite awed.

Most of the ladies curtsied before going in the pews, but the gentlemen
did not; they looked bored instead, so that one really wondered what it
was that brought them.

Finally an elderly lady with silvery hair came up the aisle to where
the poorly-clad girl was sitting. As soon as she caught sight of her
she raised a pair of gold pince-nez and gazed at her to see if she
were really there. When she found out that she was there she stood
very straight and a look of extreme hauteur spread over her patrician
features. Without saying anything she went back and brought the verger,
and he explained somewhat brusquely that those were not the free seats.
So the girl got up and came out, and the lady went in and knelt down
and prayed. The verger conducted the girl to where the two young men
were sitting. It was by now the only available seat, as this service
seemed exceedingly popular. She sat down, and one of the young men
coughed.

The organ had just struck up in a jovial key, but not too loud, as the
congregation didn’t like it, and the choir began to appear.

There was a great number of them, boys and men, and five clergymen
followed. As they came the congregation rose, and when they knelt the
congregation knelt, and then they all sat down and waited for the organ
to finish, which it did in due course.

Then they all rose, and the clergyman said, “Enter not into judgment
with thy servant, O Lord! for in thy sight shall no man living be
justified.”

Plucritus, who by this time had moved into the central aisle and stood
gazing about, now wrote down something in his note-book. I looked to
see what it was. It seemed to be just one word—“Evasion.” I think
there was nothing more.

Next began the exhortation, and he walked slowly back and forwards up
the aisle, with his head bent. He could see better that way; he had
a knack of looking out of the corners of his eyes, which at times is
startling to those who do not expect it.

When the exhortation was over all knelt down, except one man who was
lolling in his seat.

Plucritus went up very slowly and quietly and stood beside him for a
second or two, bending his head till his cheek nearly touched the fair
hair. Then he drew back and wrote something, and his lips curled up
into that curious smile of his.

I looked to see what he had written, but he closed the book with a
sharp click and turned round laughing. No one noticed it.

“That was a private memorandum,” he said.

The whole of the service he walked about, never still, yet always
watching. The smile never left his lips as he glided from pillar to
pulpit, and he joined in every ‘Amen’ and led the Creed, even before
the pastor. As the last blessing was being pronounced he went up into
the pulpit and beckoned me to follow. I went, and we looked down upon
the vast gathering. He leant upon the Bible and studied them. Suddenly
the brilliant lights went out, and in the total darkness a harsh red
light began to rise. Beneath us every form had changed, and hideous
demons were shouting, and gesticulating, and leaping from pew to pew.
At last the whole church crashed down like a well-built pack of cards
which has stood some pretty strong rebuffs, and upon the shattered
ruins stood the Spirit who accompanied me: like some great god, one
foot upon the broken crucifix and one upon the topmost fallen spire.

Every wretched soul fled out into the darkness, and he, remaining,
laughed aloud.

Then he turned to me those deep, inhuman eyes, flashing with brilliant
fire.

“Was I wrong?” Plucritus asked, and laughed again. “I shall not be
judged. The merciful Master who excuses one, excuses all. Take me to
that God above myself, that blind power, who year by year and century
by century allows himself to be befooled, and fools.

“Let me see the four and twenty elders and the beasts with eyes, let
me see the horses dashing o’er the ground, and view that lamb—that
little bleating lamb—that sits beside Him on the throne. Let me hear
the senseless Hallelujahs! and the fanatic cry. Let me see the coarse
and vulgar flatterers who crowd around, more fulsome than the meanest
courtier that ever crawled towards a monarch’s throne. Take me to this
God Almighty, this God all-powerful, this God all-merciful, this God
all-seeing and all-hearing. This God all Truth and God all lies. This
Power omnipotent. This Is and Am and Ever-shall-be from Was eternal.
Take me to Him and let me look at Him, if not from the front, then from
the back, for I have never seen Him.”

I watched him at every line he spoke, and saw the gibe and sneer that
marked each sentence.

“You blame them for that which you yourself have formulated.”

“Not I. I blame them for their tawdriness, their mockery, their
arrogant vulgarity. It is none of me nor mine.”

“Yet it is the result of your work.”

He laughed scornfully, then answered whimsically, “But God made me.
His is the greater sin. For I am like the disrespectful son, who, when
accused of ill, speaks of heredity, and blames his father. For I was
good until I sinned, and when I sinned I looked into the past life of
him who made me, and I found that all was quite respectable and quiet,
and the paternal smile still beamed the milder, hiding the devil’s
frown which feared detection underneath.”

He stood still looking round and laughing.

“Had they but known my power to smash their Church I think they would
have prayed to me instead,” he went on. “I was their God Omnipotent
their Lord most merciful, the author of their being and their king.
Yet they despised and knew me not. They mocked my power, would not
acknowledge me, and prayed to be delivered from my kingdom—licking
the very golden dust about my feet the while. Have I not forgiven them
time on time? have I not overlooked their follies? Led them gently
by the still waters, soothed their stricken consciences, smoothed
their guilty paths? Have I not given them gifts for slander, kindness
for contempt—and what is my reward? They renounce me—me and all
my works—the pomps and vanities of the world I gave them and those
delightful pleasures born from flesh. What a thankless office then is
mine! I who give all and get nothing but renunciation for all that I
have done. Why, even the poorest worm of earth would turn beneath the
treatment, and transforming itself into the snake or serpent take God’s
voice and utter blasphemy. I, Lucifer, son of the Light, son of the
Morning, son of God, an you will, how meek am I become to let mankind
walk over me and pry into hell to see my chains and weakness.”

He spoke in that low, contemptuous voice that had the power to cut like
knives.

“Therefore,” he continued, “because they renounce me, I renounce
them, being but a jealous God, and then I punish them and they say,
‘Nevertheless, not my will but thine,’ and look the other way, so that
I am not even held responsible for that, and may torture and torment
them as I will.”

“And those who do your will,” said I, “those who do it and swear
allegiance to you—what of them?”

For one moment he drew himself up, and pride more strong than I had
ever seen before passed o’er his features. Then suddenly he unbent
again and answered,—

“There is a word, a little word—a long one—with a meaning human
dictionary never yet explained to fulness, and it is ‘ingratitude.’
And yet,” he continued, “they are happy enough under my rule. I am an
indulgent monarch, even merciful; I rarely punish, and I feed them
well, and I allow them individual work. Through the countless ages that
the ball has rolled they have worked well. They carry out my directions
to the utmost letter, so that I rarely need to work on earth myself,
since they swamp it in vulgarity and mediocrity; things generated from
themselves as slaves, having no part in me. They carry out temptation
far better than ever I could do, because they understand the pigmy
minds they govern, and work themselves all round them, whereas I might
pass with a contemptuous smile, heeding and caring not.”

“Yet,” I rejoined, “you paid great attention in this church.”

“’Twas a full-dress rehearsal,” he said. “Now they will go to earth,
and whisper in the minds of church-goers. I came unexpectedly to see if
all was right, and, as you see, it was so.”

As he spoke the red light which until now had spread all about
vanished, and in its place a blue one rose and the scene changed to a
public hall having a crowded audience and orators.

“This is a socialistic meeting,” Plucritus said softly. “A kind of
tribune such as they had in the French Revolution. They believe in
Equality, Fraternity and Liberty. A rotten trinity, as you see, steeped
in truth.”

He laughed.

“Look at that gentleman in the middle,” he continued. “They are trying
to teach him that he is no better than themselves, and because he
is a dull pupil they have got worked up to proving him lower than
themselves, which sends the see-saw up the other way, and again
destroys the theory. For my part, I always find the French Revolution
and movements like it exceedingly amusing. It is pitting devils’ pride
against the pride of gods. But that is very badly expressed, and
things badly put are stupid lies. I must begin again. It is like—let
me see—it is like dark scum rising against fair scum. Both are bad,
both rotten, but the see-saw is uneven. The devils, who really favour
both sides equally, have a funny trick of scampering from side to
side occasionally, but for the most part they sit on the dark area
and let the fair one rise—it makes more envies and dissimulation.
Listen to that man speaking. It is the old cry ‘_A bas!_’ Down
with everything—except himself and those like him. If you let him
he will cry ‘Down! down!’ till only he is up. Then the chorus starts
against him, and the devils sing the Marseillaise as they escort his
soul to hell. He it is who strikes at royalty from the back, or side,
or front, and makes martyrs and heroes of whom he sought to kill. His
reasoning is at fault; he sends the see-saw higher up once more, and
only lands himself in hell. His is a bad policy, a very poor, shriveled
kind of thing, but it suits him. Let every man have perfect liberty,
even to kill. Let every man satisfy his inclinations to the top of his
bent. Let every man worship himself and know none other, and our slaves
will fatten on that they let walk over them whilst it lived.”

I was so intent on hearing him that I paid little heed to the scene
below, and in a little while it changed.

Before us was a magnificent throne-room, draped in gold, and purple,
and scarlet, and everything was ready as for a grand reception.

The tall doors swung open and tall footmen stood aside to let an
innumerable swarm of pigmies enter. Each was striving with his
neighbour and trying to enter first, and so they rushed helter-skelter,
and screaming in wild fury towards the throne. The first to get upon
the lower step was a man, but a woman going by leaps and bounds
outreached him. Then a mad onrush brought many to the third step all
together. They strove, and pushed, and fought, and tore, and the woman
who had done so well got thrust right back. But another woman, seizing
the opportunity, made a sudden dive—and yes, she was seated on the
throne, right in the very centre. On this there was a sudden silence,
and instead of pushing forward they began pushing backward, trying to
push each other off the steps and into line.

“I’m first,” shouted one.

“I’m second,” cried another.

“No. I am.”

But with much arguing and hard blows, in which the weaker always were
pushed back, they came to silent order.

Then she who sat upon the throne turned to the first man on the right
and said, in a very matter-of-fact tone,—

“Now make haste with the ointment. I only want a little on my head. If
you let it run down my back I’ll slap your face.”

So the ointment was brought, and such a threat naturally made him
careful. He certainly let two drops fall on to her shoulder, but she
only wriggled and muttered something about a “clumsy fool.”

Presently they all went out backward, as the tall footman announced
that there was to be a reception later, to which all were invited who
had lived fairly respectable lives in the past, for this was the next
best thing to a sacrament; indeed, much better, for here they saw, and
there they didn’t.

Last of all the queen went out, and the last six people on either side
stayed behind and followed her.

Once more we were left alone, but my attention was attracted by hearing
a whimper near me. On looking round I saw the woman who had just missed
the throne. Plucritus looked as well. And when he saw her he called
out, “What’s the matter?”

“She’s got my place, and it isn’t fair.”

“You should have made more haste.”

“I did. But they pulled me back.”

“Well, never mind. You got there last time, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” And she fell to crying louder.

“Cheer up,” said he, patting her head. “Go and get dressed and you
shall be the prettiest.”

At this she dried her eyes.

“Will the queen be jealous of me?”

“Yes, if you like.”

“Will her husband fall in love with me?”

He laughed. “Much will have more,” he returned.

By his tone she took it for granted that she should have her way, and
skipped about in glee, and kissed his hand just as a little dog might
lick it, and gambolled off.

“You don’t keep up much state,” I remarked to him.

“We don’t need to—we are, what do you call it? Almighty—that’s the
word.”

In an incredibly short time the doors were once again flung open and
powdered footmen walked about the chamber, putting it all in readiness.

At last the queen entered, attended by her chief officers and maids of
honour.

She was most magnificently dressed, and looked herself magnificent from
human standpoint, and all her servants looked the same.

After that the reception began, and it was one of exceeding brilliancy.

Anon great stir was caused by a woman of remarkable beauty entering,
dressed so beautifully and to such advantage that quite a murmur of
comment arose.

The queen, who understood her court well, gazed round, and then she
looked towards the king, who was a mere cypher in all this grandeur,
except for his crown and the place he occupied.

But, try as the poor king would, it was only natural he should look
towards this vision that had entered. It was quite enough to set all
the courtiers looking at one another, and to make the ladies smile
behind their fans. The new-comer, however, received a very gracious
welcome, even from the queen, who remained in conversation with her for
some moments.

“Are they not all very well bred?” remarked Plucritus to me.

“Indeed, I am very much astonished. Are these really they who went out
some time ago?”

“The exact same,” he answered. “Only since then they have put on stays.
And stays are a great restraint, especially to the women. Before they
put them on they are natural, afterwards they become artificial.”

“They have not been long in preparing,” I commented.

“It was all ready before. It is simply another full-dress rehearsal.”
He closed the note-book, and once more the presence chamber vanished
and we were left in darkness.

Soon I beheld a very glorious scene arising of vast size and exquisite
beauty. In the middle a fountain played, and on either side a tree
grew in wild luxuriance, covered with purple fruit which hung in heavy
clusters.

From the fountain a broad stream of crystal ran either way, spreading
out like a sea of glass in the far distance. On either side steps of
gold led up to a crystal throne that shone by reflection like the sun
itself. Upon the throne sat the figure of a man wearing a golden crown,
surrounded by awe and majesty. His face was bright and shining.

* * * * *

_A passage omitted_

* * * * *

His hair, which shone like gold, hung in thick ringlets over his
shoulders, and his beard, of the same golden hue, flowed below his
girdle like those of the patriarchs of old. In one hand he held
the moon, and in the other a reduced facsimile of the sun, whilst
underneath his feet lightnings played, and above his head thunder.

Ranging down on either side were figures garbed in white and wearing
crowns.

* * * * *

_Passage omitted_

* * * * *

Behind these came thousands of spirits, all carrying golden harps and
timbrels, waiting with impatience. Behind the figure on the throne a
white, misty figure stood.

* * * * *

_Passage omitted_

* * * * *

Suddenly, at the signal given by one of those who sat upon the steps, a
perfect flood of music rose.

“Hallelujah! Praise the Lord! Magnify His name—Wonderful, Almighty,
Omnipotent, Eternal, Lords of Lords, God of Gods!

* * * * *

_Passage omitted_

* * * * *

“Praise the Lord! for there is none like him, neither in Heaven nor
earth, Holy! Holy! Holy! Jah! Jehovah! Hallelujah!”

“Is it not deafening?” said Plucritus, laughing.

I could not laugh.

* * * * *

_Passage omitted_

* * * * *

But the Spirit on the throne bore it with high serenity.

* * * * *

_Some passages omitted_

* * * * *

At last he rose, and as he did so fire and smoke went up around him. He
began to speak, and all fell upon the earth, covering their faces.

Thus then he spoke to them:—

“_Sons, children, and co-heirs._

“_Co-heirs with Christ and Sons of God!_

“_Upon the earth much wickedness is sown—And I repent me of my first
intent—With love I sought to raise Man from the dust—to set him high
in heaven above you all. And for that reason I have sent my Son, gotten
of me before the worlds were formed, to suffer pains and penalties
and death. But Man in boldness turned his hand aside, and nailed the
Godhead even to a tree—Forgetful of my promise and my power—I loved
my son, he was my only Son—And yet the earth I must have loved it
more—For when they spat on him I only frowned—nor interfered when
they assailed him sore—I put them in a garden with a tree—Like to
this one you see beside my throne—And this commandment stern I gave
to them—‘Eat not, lest ye be eaten’—Yet they ate. Then up I rose,
amazed thus much to find—that they my word regarded not at all—I told
them not to eat, but they would eat—Oh! What a vile unnatural sin was
theirs!—I gave them a free will as well you know—To do or not to do,
as they thought best—And if I cramped it in with one small ‘but’—who
could presume to judge my sovran will?—And when they fell I pardoned
them again—In mercy thinking on their nature frail—And spared to kill
them in my father’s power. Hoping to mould them into better shape—But
they essayed from badness unto worse, and wrung my heart with pangs
unfelt before—Till this my son, here sitting by my side—Rose and
departed to the manger’s door. Then thought I now that all things were
set square—That man would love me and esteem my son—They turned away
and thought foul scorn of him—And matters turned from badness unto
worse. Yet merciful am I, and all forgive—If they will call upon my
holy name—I will forget about my son for them—And think his death a
victory o’er the grave—Go powers omnipotent on wheels of fire—Ride to
the earth and call aloud my name—Tell them to bow before me, low with
fear—For when I come, I’ll come in a royal flame._”

Hereon he sat down and loud cries of “Hallelujah” rent the air.

“Worthy is he to be praised,” they cried.

“Tis the voice of a God who rules in equity.”

* * * * *

_Some passages omitted_

* * * * *

“Well,” said Plucritus, laughing,

* * * * *

_Passage omitted_

* * * * *

“I must note him down in my book. He is a bad disciplinarian—he gives
them too many chances. It is too relaxing for the morals. If he’d drawn
them up pretty sharp when Adam fell he’d have spared himself a great
deal of—well, pleasure, perhaps.”

And now the scene darkened, and the whole thing began to crumble, and
the nimble demons ran hither and thither the sounds of weird and magic
music from beneath.

CHAPTER VIII

“Now,” said Plucritus, as the scene cleared, “I think it is time for
lunch. Neither of us enjoyed our breakfast, and we shall eat all the
more heartily.”

We were by this time in a large, light, comfortable room, and on
looking through the window I saw it faced on to a wide and handsome
street, so long that I was unable to tell the length of it. On either
side were mansions of great beauty, built in different styles and
material, so that the effect was most strange and interesting.

Many beautiful statues and worked columns ran down the centre, and
arched colonnades, twined with rich creepers, ran nearer to the sides.

Plucritus came and stood beside me. “It is a pity,” he observed.
“You should witness some of our convocations and assemblies. We have
a special roof designed to arch across from side to side. And it is
worked from wealth and loveliness that all the nations of the earth
could never buy. We do not meet again for some considerable time, and
you may miss the sight.”

“You think it probable I may leave you, then.”

He smiled.

“Well,” he said, “I have had a little study in medicines. I think you
are going to die.”

“That is consoling,” I remarked. “What will the transition lead me to?”

“You know best yourself,” he said.

During the repast he did not speak much; but when it was over he took
me to a smaller room, a comfortable and private little place fitted
with every luxury.

There was a fire burning there, for always in the air, despite the
many flowers that grew outside, there was a sharpness which was very
pleasant to those who could appreciate it.

He threw himself down on a sofa and I took an easy chair opposite to
him. I was tired, with that weariness and lassitude which takes the
place of bodily infirmity. After a while he took out a pipe and filled
it with a substance from a cedar box upon the mantelpiece.

“I will not offer you this,” he told me. “You would not appreciate it,
though it is far superior to any earthly thing of the same class.”

He lay back smoking in quiet contentment, and I watched him, a certain
amount of interest keeping my eyes open, otherwise I should have fallen
asleep.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked at length.

“Nothing particular. I was studying you to the best of my poor ability.”

“Do you find me very beautiful?”

“Is not the term misapplied? It would be more applicable to Vestné.”

“And Vestasian?”

“Well, perhaps so. He seemed to me a very curious combination.”

“Yes. That is his chief charm. No matter how ill-tempered I may be (and
you will have perceived I occasionally get that way), he always has
the power to convert me once again to sublimity.”

“Do you appreciate Vestasian’s wife?” I queried.

“Oh! I see. You mean that pretty creature who comes to stay with him
sometimes. Have you met her?”

“No. He simply told me of her.”

“Ah! Yes. I appreciate her very much. If I had my way I’d put her
outside the gates, to go back as best she could, where she could. That
is another peculiarity of his. If anybody else had played the trick on
him that she did he would have followed him like the avenging angel to
the end of time. But because she cries and frets and generally makes a
disturbance every time she comes down here, he invariably gives in to
her, and thinks it’s a laughing matter.”

He looked over to me and smiled.

“You should see her. She is very beautiful after a certain style. You
would like her too, for till she becomes too ill to go about she is as
merry as a bird, and as light.”

“Can she retain that lightness even in hell?” I asked.

“Why, yes. She is very deeply in love with him, so that there is
nothing particularly saintly in it. And beyond that it pays her to be
agreeable to him, because then she gets her own way at the end.”

I laughed.

“You certainly bring it down to a very matter-of-fact level,” I
remarked.

“Well, she was an arch-deceiver, but because she looked the other thing
we were all taken in. However, she did not do much good with all her
manœuvring, and I expected the next time she came down here she would
have passed me by without a word.”

“What had you done?”

“Oh, nothing. But I was mistaken, she was no different from before.
Since then she has come and gone; how much harm she does is not to be
told, but, being a philosopher, I have come to take it quietly.”

“Has she a good influence on you all, then?”

“She has no influence on anyone except Vestasian—and not much on him.
But the same applies to spirits as to mortals. No man should ever allow
himself to be governed by a woman, not in the slightest. If so, she
will drag him over the most perilous path he ever trod, whether to
Heaven or Hell.”

“What about Vestné?”

“She neither drags me back nor pulls me forward. We walk evenly
together, pace for pace.”

“Have you many cities as grand as this?” I questioned, gazing out of
the window and seeing, from where I sat, the turrets of many beautiful
buildings without.

“Oh, yes. Their name is legion, and they are all built on different
principles. It is a pity that you refuse to take medicine. I think you
would enjoy being here after a time.”

“I had as lief pass away,” I asserted. “If I am to be other than myself
I am the more content with a total dissolution.”

“And Deborah?”

“I cannot say,” I answered. “Being powerless, I am speechless.”

“You should have taken my advice and left her long ago. Or you should
have cultivated writing moral stories for young girls; it would have
been amusing.”

“I never appreciated young girls. If they are not moral without reading
moral stories, they never will be.”

“I think,” he said, after a pause, “I will write a biography of myself,
it seems to be the fashion.”

He jumped up and knocked the few ashes from the pipe into the fire.

“Do you wish to walk through the city?” he queried lazily.

“No. I have judged it from these windows.”

“Then we may prepare for home.”

* * * * *

_Several pages are here omitted._

* * * * *

When we returned it was just to be in time for dinner. I remember
Vestasian was there, and a friend of Vestné, a very simple, lovely
woman, who, I heard, had come a long distance to pay a visit.

That the evening passed off brilliantly I was well aware. For the most
part they talked on subjects of which I was entirely ignorant, yet this
was due to myself rather than any lack of kindness on their part.

Afterwards the new guest sang for us, and accompanied herself upon the
harp. She sang with exquisite taste, both in choice and expression.
Later in the evening she sent for some sketches she said she had once
taken when on a visit to earth.

One or two of them I knew. They were exquisitely done, and we all
admired them.

The evening passed quickly, and I remember Plucritus gave us a sketch
of a love scene he had just witnessed on the earth before leaving it.
It was very amusing, or he had a way of making it appear so—I cannot
quite tell which.

Vestasian stayed late, and he and Plucritus walked back through the
grounds together. I went to bed, and as I looked through the open
window I saw them standing on the bridge by the little gate deep in
conversation.

It seemed now and again as if a laugh travelled thence to the palace;
but, tired and, I may confess it, ill, I soon retired to rest.

The experiences of the day had not been happy. However they might have
amused my companion, I had not shared his feeling. It had made me think
with unavailing sorrow on the littleness of life, and I longed, even
as a prisoner cooped in some foul dungeon longs for light and air, for
some ennobling aspect from which humanity might at least be treated as
a subject somewhat higher than a jest. For myself, I had begun to think
and feel less. The sense of unreality and insecurity which had, up till
now, enveloped me was passing. I saw the shadow of Death creeping ever
nearer, and tried to fathom what my sin had been that I should thus die
in hell.

Then I smiled. I was no more a judge of my own actions than anyone
else can be, and I recognised simply that my duty was to bear without
complaint until the end.

Any form of prayer was quite beyond me. Only those who have been in
this iron kingdom have any conception how prayer is crushed in the head
of him who prays. No form of comfort could approach me, nor now did I
feel that I needed any; for life—what one terms life—had been slowly
sapped from me as the long unheeded days had passed.

Thus, half sleeping, half waking, the night went by me, and in the
morning I learnt Plucritus had returned to earth. I was not sorry.
Vestné of late had taken to leaving me alone, and I was grateful for
it. I remember in the days that followed her friend often played and
sang to me. It was the one thing I enjoyed; for the rest, time hung
heavily on my hands.

Vestasian came across every day and spent much time with us.

I can remember his kindness to me now, though I am afraid he could not
think me very thankful at the time. Then for two or three days he did
not come, and when he did I was sitting alone, the others being away.

“I have been preparing for my wife,” he said. “She comes to-morrow.”

I think I must have received this intelligence with something akin to
pleasure, because he looked pleased.

“You must come across to see us,” he suggested, “as she rarely goes
beyond the grounds. I think you will be friends,” and he looked at me
curiously in a way I neither understood nor cared to understand.

I went to bed that night more feeble than before. I dismissed the
attendant on entering the room and lay down in excessive weakness.
I gave a heavy sigh, hoping to find relief, but I found that sigh
followed sigh; it was the gasping pain of which they all complained,
though silently. Then I knew this was going to be my end, and I was
thankful I was alone, since when the pain had passed the rest would
come, by total death or change. Gazing over to the wall I saw an altar
shining, and a crucifix above. I rose from the bed. Must I go too? All
so far had done so in the cells. Each died beside the altar. And there
I went, and in great weakness stumbled forward, dying from weakness by
its crimson side.

A light fell from the crucifix, and on a sudden a wild, clear cry rang
through the stillness.

“Come! Come away—away,” and the last word tingled till it pierced
something, I think it must have been the blackness.

With a strength which could not be my own I rose and moved
unquestioning toward the door. I passed out into the silent corridor,
down the white steps to the door that led into the church. This place
I had not visited since first I came, and now in the clear white light
of night each jewelled throne and golden pillar shone like brilliant
eyes all watching me. Silently down the nave I moved toward the doors,
and through them, out onto the marble steps, away through the wooded
grounds down to the avenue by which I came—along the dark, grand road,
even unto the heavy portal which swung open silently and let me pass.
Then came the wilderness with marsh lights shining in the distance,
faint will-o’-the-wisps, which lead mortals to the awful bogs. On, on,
along the one hard track I journeyed, and the ghost-winds whistled
round me as I flew. The mighty forest flung its shadow o’er me as I
sped into its gloomy shade. But one wide track led onward, and at the
end there shone a light so clear and pure that its rays poured like
softest sunbeams into the darkness round.

END OF PART II

PART III

HEAVEN

CHAPTER I

Who ever yet rising with dawn felt not some disappointment when it died
away and left nothing but Working Day, its one unceasing gift? For
Dawn with all its freshness laughs and leaves us, caring not that it
has come at the wrong side of day, knowing well that its twin-sister,
Sunset, has beauties only for the weary-eyed and sad. We see the sun
depart and turn aside and sigh, since with the sudden twilight the
wraith of Silence rises and wraps us all in quietness and thought. But
what would be our brightness and our joy if at the end of toiling day,
jaded and world-worn, we went out to see the sun set, and behold! it
rose. A little pure surprise—a little rubbing of the eyes—a little
unexpected difference—some trivial exclamation—and our hands would
stretch toward that sun—and night be day, and day but a passing,
short-lived night henceforward. For this sun, rising above inanimate
decrees, would bear us on with it and into it, leaving no scathing
burns to mar the path it travelled, but only clear thrilling light. For
with intensest gladness we should hail this coming change—and each
strung nerve, beating like heart of love upon a heart as pure as ever
dawn of heaven’s childhood gave it, would relax, and glow with the
clearest pleasure that angels ever gave. The faded, failing, feeble
feet, aching in every little joint and bone, would find the brightness
only cooled and eased them, spurring them on, soft as those little baby
feet that pressed the peeping buttercups on a flowery lawn, to a purer
height where buttercups, if buttercups there were, would be sweeter and
more golden. And the tired spirit drooping like a fading butterfly,
crushed by some cruel, thoughtless hand, with wings all turning to
dull earth again, would rise with other strength and wings eternal,
following the healing light. The sick and tired drudge, scarce better
than a pitiable slave, bound down to earth and hardened usage, leading
a grey and lifeless life, each day more leaden than the one before,
feeling the softening rays would melt to happy tears, and leaden bars
would shine like silver, bearing no weight. The pain-bound sufferer,
feeble and sick to death, moaning in silent agony the livelong night,
fretting unnoticed through the livelong day, would for the time forget
all suffering, and in the after days have sweet balm to pour upon the
oft-returning pain, and drive it out with love’s own medicine.

For, could they feel it, all would strive afresh, with strength afresh
and youth afresh to make it theirs. Each would hold out to the other
a brother’s hand, nor mind the soil- or toil-worn palm. Each would be
gentler, firmer; stern against Sin, that gaudy, tarnished, creeping
worm, which leaves nothing but breeding corruption in its path and rots
with wily sting e’en when it appears most harmless.

Oh! that this light, this ever-shining light, this clear warm sunshine
wrought in heaven out of love, might pierce the heavy, leaden
chilliness that ever prevails. But to this grimed and hardened earth
it cannot always come, because alien weapons drive it off, and men
think because it fades away, and out of vision, it is dead.

Rather had the earth die, the sun, humanity itself, all things of
intellect and things of mind, than this sweet radiance melt. For hearts
would harden, intellects grow cold, beauty pass worm-eaten, and weary
sighs change into millstones round the feeble soul, and none would come
to raise, or calm, or cheer, since all would die and wither like a
blighted garden, that once had felt a little yet not all, and then had
faded—saddest of deaths, because it once had known.

Oh, Light! Light! Light! What would the storm-lost traveller be without
you? What lingering death of gloom must he endure! What harsh straining
after the ghastly fire-flies, that flicker and dance and then die out
before his burning eyes! What blackened leaves would be his funeral
bed—that now spring up as silvery flowers about his path—what gloomy
gurgles of the river—and hollow moanings through the tracks of pain!
If only all might feel, and see, and know, how altered would this
dreary world become! transformed to paler shade of the hereafter, no
barren landscape leading but to hell.

Then should we find no idle scoffers, nor those who sneered upon
another’s pain, no wandering disbelievers laughing coldly, nor those
who reckoned only earthly gain. But perhaps this path is hard to find;
brambles and thorns and bushes hide the road. There is no beaten track
that guides us onwards; each step is taken slowly, wearily, uncertainly
it may be, and still the light is hid.

There is a word, a curious word, called “Faith”; there is another
curious word called “Creed.” The latter forces stern belief from
childhood, the former springs by leaps and bounds above the fetters,
and laughs at that which takes its God in hand, and snips and snaps and
pats him into shape, and says to him, as if it were Almighty, “Thus
shalt thou be, thus only—a fish, a man, a calf, or jumbling trio. Bend
to our puny chains and we will worship thee.”

Oh, Creed! harsh jest of harshest Godhead, that wrapped itself
about the human brain—and wrapped in mystery shook its sides with
laughing—knowing full well its vagaries were not seen.

For Creed has soiled itself with blood and murder, with bitter strife
and false solemnity—binding itself to cruel superstition—straining
at gnats and gulping great big camels. And then when pained with
indigestion, it would at times disgorge sedition sore, and growl and
grumble to its inmost region because its ermine robe the vagrants tore.

There is one Creed, one only Creed, a thing so far above a Creed that
Creed grows pale and falters, forgetting its hard dogma learnt by rote;
that little word is “Faith,” the gift of Heaven, the only lasting thing
upon this earth.

The last Apostle spoke of Love—but was he not a little
premature?—since Love is born from Faith, none other, and without
Faith, Love is no better than a blinded God. For Love is tender and
most fragile—the sweetest sensitive plant that ever grew, that needs
care such as earth cannot give it, and when stricken by rude winds
blowing from barren lands, droops down unneeded and unheeded—a silent,
shattered, broken heart, even like Christ’s, whose fragments gathered
by the angels form in that heavenly home the purest, strongest tie.
Love is the last great prize, so sacred and so beautiful that none can
fathom it. Why therefore should we lay sacrilegious fingers on its
outer robe, and seek to drag and form within ourselves that which we
cannot truly understand?

“Love one another,” the great Teacher said, “little children, little
children.” And perhaps if that saying were locked up two hundred years,
and the word sealed in the heart and never on the lip, it would in
silent, restful darkness germinate, and break forth at last to do some
good.

We say it after him like parrots, and prate about the beauty of his
words, loading ourselves with sentiment, devoid of feeling, and then
we go away. Do we love? Do we forgive? Not in the ordinary course of
things. We live barren lives though we may have a dozen children, and
rise no higher than the soil. But let once “Faith” break forth to take
the place of hardened Creed, and the first little seed has been sown
for good, because in the train of Faith Morality will follow—and what
is it but the strong elementary ground of Love?

For, grasping at the highest, we lose the lowest, our surest
stepping-stones to higher things—as if for heaven we needed no
education, but jumped to it as children born with wings. What lie more
fraudulent was e’er invented, braying the word of Love into the infant
mind? As lief begin to teach the classics, and _make_ them learn
it at the age of five.

We teach the babies in our infant standards to pry into the agony of
Christ. What do they understand about it? The hardest lesson we cram in
at the beginning and say, “He suffered that for you and me.”

And one is sucking sweets, and one has got a marble, and some few good
ones think they understand—and little know the error they have made.

Perhaps if we left Christ out of it, and let them find by instinct what
they miss, we should have nobler men and purer women, learning by many
a fall to ask for something higher than themselves and earth.

Were they but taught morality from the cradle, and trained to esteem
their neighbour as themselves, the road to Christ would lead more
purely onward, and He Himself would be the great reward.

But no, no, we are all so wise in our own pet religion; we “hem” and
“haw” at this and that, our babies must be baptized so as they’ll go to
heaven and must be introduced post haste to God for fear they get left
out.

Surely the prayer of the serious mother for pure wisdom for herself
and her child must far outweigh the formal genuflections and harsh
screamings of the afflicted infant.

May we then pray with all true humility, like those poor prisoners
bound in hell, but we with hope, they almost lacking in it, “Give us
light—light—more light.”

CHAPTER II

To this dawn at the close of day I too had come. In weariness and
weakness I had fallen down, unable of myself to reach that which I saw
before me. I had remembrance of nothing more; I fell, and the blank
rest of sleep, or death, sank numbly on the silent path. To sleep—to
rise; to die—to live again, so came this life to me, falling in pain,
in weakness, in dull doubt, inwoven with one silver thread—the joining
link to heaven.

But what a sweet awakening! Never rose skylark in the summer air so
free of care and pain as I—every hanging weight of hell had fallen
like death’s bands, snapped by a living power. Soft, gentle, thrilling
life was round me, busy and free from every worrying thought, and
though I heard no music the very air was filled with hidden sound of
life and love and freedom, true music of the soul and surest balm.

Still, from an adjoining chamber came the dreamy hum of the busy
spinning-wheel, but because I was tired my eyes were closed, and I lay
listening to the soothing sound. I felt no wish to stir, since weakness
was being repaired by strength, which had in it nothing but life and
purity, the strongest framework ever built.

So I lay, half sleeping, half awake, till roused by a voice speaking in
the room without.

“Mother, give me a pearl, I’ve got to the ninth stitch.”

The voice awoke me to the life around. In some ways it was a child’s
voice, yet filled with such sweet wisdom and clear cadence that never
child on earth spoke like it.

The wheel stopped.

“Which is it, pink or white?”

“Pink this time. Look.”

In both voices there was a similarity, but one was fuller, richer, with
a sweetness childhood never yet could give a voice, however pure.

“When you have put it in, go once more and see if our guest has
wakened.”

“And may I take the flowers and fruit?”

I think she must have answered by a nod, for the wheel went on once
more till interrupted by the childish voice again.

“The last time I went in he was quite fast asleep. I put a lily in his
hand, but he never noticed it. Then I climbed upon the bed and kissed
his brow, but it was cold, colder than anything about here. I took
his hand and pressed it in both mine, but it was stiff and fell from
mine as if I never held it. Then I sang one of my songs, one father
taught me when I was very small, and soon I thought he looked as if he
listened; but perhaps it was only thought, because when I stooped and
whispered, ‘Did you hear?’ he answered not at all.”

The other laughed—a laugh so full of mirth and pure delight that,
forgetting, I laughed too, but being intent on their conversation they
heard not.

“Well, we cannot blame you, Sunbeam, you did your best, and failed. But
this time when you go, if he is asleep you may shake him gently, it is
time he was awake.”

Soon after I heard soft footsteps stealing to the door, and my first
notion was to close my eyes and feign sleep once more. But I recognised
that deception was perhaps a thing unknown even in trifles where
children were concerned, so I sat up, feeling no giddiness after the
long rest.

I remember the first glance she gave as she peeped round the door was
one of curiosity to see if I were still asleep, but seeing me awake she
stepped back, and then came forward hesitating, almost shyly.

Here was a miniature vision of loveliness, with a face so fair and
tender, and eyes so true and clear, that it did one good to look at
her. And so I felt, for out of pure light spirits I laughed aloud.

“Why do you laugh?” she asked, looking up with pardonable surprise to
be thus greeted after so long a silence.

“I laugh to think I had almost begun our friendship with a crime.”

“What is that?” she returned.

“I do not know. You have made me forget.”

She looked at me with evident and curious interest for some little
time, holding the flowers in one hand and in the other a dish of fruit,
till at last she observed,—

“Don’t they ever kiss each other where you come from?”

At a hint so broad I had no further excuse for not extending such a
simple salutation. So I stooped and kissed her, and lifted her up with
her various gifts beside me on the bed.

She took some of the fruit in her hand and held it to me.

“Eat this,” she bade me. “It will make you strong.”

So I ate it, and she watched me with as tender a solicitude as any
mother might have done.

“You should eat too,” I urged. But she shook her head.

“I’d rather watch you,” she remarked, “for you need it and I don’t.”

“Do you never eat for the pleasure of eating?” I asked.

“Oh, yes, sometimes. Sometimes when father comes home and we have
just finished a meal, we all begin again. And then I forget I’ve had
anything before and eat just twice as much—at least mother says so,
and she knows everything.”

“And who is your father?” I asked.

“He is my father,” she answered, glancing at me. “He carried you here
on a fearful stormy night just lately. And he was very tired, though
he is very, very strong, and mother made some food for strengthening
him, because he had not been home for a long, long time, and in the
wilderness there is very little to be had. Afterwards they went away
together, and left me here to look after you, and father said I might
sing to you and kiss you, and that would make you well again. Our
friends used to come in to watch you too, and we never left you quite
alone. Then mother came back, and she kissed me and took me on her knee
and cried a little, and I cried also because she did; and then she
kissed me again and laughed, and so did I, and she was happy, very,
very happy, and said that father was coming home soon and would be able
to stay a while.”

As she spoke her eyes shone into mine with a pure radiance.

“I love for him to come home,” she said. “I love for us all to be
together;” and suddenly she put her arms round my neck and nestled
towards me with a sigh from which even childhood could not drive all
the lingering sadness.

“Well, well,” I assured her, “he will be home soon. Think of all the
nice times you will have together.” But this form of solace was cut
short by her mother coming to the door.

She carried in her hand a steaming bowl of something which was like
milk, but this I did not notice till she brought it forward and drew
attention to it.

To behold her was in itself enough for me.

She wore a simple robe of pale soft green with no ornament, but she
needed none. A figure more brilliantly light and beautiful I never
saw, nor a face more perfect in expression and in shape. Yet I do not
think it was her beauty that ever impressed my mind, it was the tender
grace and motherly sweetness which went with her. One could not be ill
nor spiritless where such a being moved, her health and lightness were
infectious.

“Sunbeam will be happy now,” she said as she came forward.
“Chatterboxes always like companions.”

And she sat down beside us and gave the basin into my hand.

“Indeed, yes,” I went on. “In this short time I have become acquainted
with my past history from a certain fall up to the present, and that
was very interesting naturally.”

“You are looking wonderfully well after your long sleep,” she said.

“Perhaps we all need rest occasionally. I feel different. As if I had
thrown off a kind of hanging fever and were strong again.”

“When you have taken that,” she observed, indicating the bowl, “you
will feel stronger still. You will sleep again in a little while, and
after that you will be able to get up.”

Sunbeam clapped her hands.

“Why are you so happy, little mite?” I asked, for she was no higher
than a child of seven and as fragile as she was fair.

“I was thinking we should walk together in the gardens now and then,”
she replied, and this simple pleasure seemed a great delight to her.

“How long am I to be your guest?” I queried.

The mother shook her head and smiled.

“I think we shall keep you always, till you care to leave us,” she
said. “At any rate, I do not think there is any immediate prospect of
your going away.”

“I think I shall thrive better here than in Hell,” I affirmed. “I
cannot tell whether it was rapid or slow consumption I suffered from
when there.”

She gazed at me with eyes which had changed to sad sincerity.

“It was lack of all nourishment,” she declared. “It kills the strongest
and the weakest off in time. After all, death is the greatest mercy
when it comes, though at the time it seems the hardest pain.”

“You know something about it then?” I asked in some surprise. I had
thought such a fair being would have been spared such knowledge.

She laughed.

“Well, I know just a little about most things,” she said, “so perhaps I
am not altogether such a charming creature as I appear to be.”

“On the contrary, I find you much more—” And then I stopped. The word
“charming” did not suit her, and I could find no other.

“You are at a loss for a word already,” she interposed lightly. “Let
us put our heads together, Sunbeam, and think of a word to describe us
both, but it sha’n’t be ‘sympathetic,’ for that would make us pale and
interesting at once.”

“But,” I ventured, “sympathy is reckoned a great thing on the earth
just now.”

“You don’t know,” she rejoined, shaking her head. “You haven’t been
there for some time, and fashions alter quickly. For aught you know,
Tact may be dead, and she is the mother of Sympathy, and orphans rarely
thrive in your world.”

“You speak rather disrespectfully of both of them,” said I.

She looked across at me with a curious mixture of amusement and
seriousness.

“Well, my husband tells me about them sometimes, and I generally go by
what he says, for he states plain facts.”

“He is not prejudiced?”

She shook her head. “It would not do for us to be prejudiced,” she
corrected. “It is a failing of mortals, not of spirits. And, even
reckoned by the world’s standpoint, we should lose more by it than even
you do.”

By this I had given the bowl back to her, and when she had done
speaking she rose and lifted Sunbeam to the ground. “We shall leave you
to rest a little longer,” she said, “then perhaps you will join us
later.”

And they went out together and left me. With a sigh of contentment I
lay back and almost immediately fell asleep once more. When I awoke the
room was darkening, and stars were beginning to shine without.

But a soft, clear light shone from the ceiling, and by this I rose.

“Now,” thought I, as the clear water of life dashed over me, giving
freshness and vigour to every nerve, “I wonder if these people will
remark about my plain apparel as the last did.” And I went back into
the bedroom.

Behold! there upon the sofa, by the window, was a civic robe and outer
mantle of such exquisite beauty, yet so simply made, that I went nearer
to inspect it.

“This, undoubtedly,” thought I, “will just fit me. And were it not
meant for me it would not be here.” Whereupon I took it up and put it
on. It fitted with an ease and nicety which surprised me.

“They must have taken my measurements before,” thought I, and laughed.
“And if for nothing else, I am obliged to wear it out of compliment.”

A large mirror stood in the wall, and chancing to look in it I was
most fully satisfied with my appearance, which might, of course, be
prejudice.

Thus attired I went out along a short corridor which led from my room
into one fitted up with curious spinning-wheels. They were all silent
now, and no one was there, but from the open windows came the sweet,
sad song of even, the birds twittering in the neighbouring trees, and
the stillness that comes with night. The polished floor shone under
the rays of a pale crescent moon which reflected the shadow of a tall
poplar across the room. I stood still and viewed it, and then passed on
to a door at the farther end.

When I opened it a flood of light burst from a wide corridor, having
doors up either side of it and at the farther end a staircase leading
down. To this I went and passed down, much struck with the resemblance
between this and the home of Plucritus, in outward things at least.
But with what change of feeling I walked along these halls! Light
expectancy took the place of dull disinterestedness, and cheerfulness
the place of hard despair.

On the lower step Sunbeam sat, reading a book and I realised with
startling vividness the difference between her and the creature I had
once beheld in the halls of Hell. As I drew near she shut the book and
ran up the few remaining steps to meet me.

“We’re having three extra things for tea,” she murmured confidentially,
“because you are here. And mother has had word that father may be home
in time for it too.” She held my hand and danced down in the best of
good spirits by my side.

She led me to the room where tea was laid, and the greatest things I
noticed were cheerfulness and comfort round about.

A glorious fire was burning, for it was that time of year when the air
was very sharp, and in front of it a noble hound was lying fast asleep.

The table had been laid with the brightness characteristic of all
well-laid tea-tables. Yet never before had I looked forward with such
enjoyment to a meal.

The room was empty when we entered, so Sunbeam took the opportunity to
explain a few facts.

“That is quite extra,” she said, pointing with a decided finger to a
salad. “And so is that,” and she next indicated a fine salmon. “And
this cake is just the same as we have on birthdays—only it’s no one’s
birthday to-day, unless you’d like to call it yours.”

I assented, and looking round saw on a plate a small bun which, to do
it justice, had not quite the elegance which characterised the other
eatables.

I noticed that Sunbeam’s eyes dwelt lovingly in that direction.

“I made that,” she explained. “It’s quite fresh to-day. I’ve made one
ever so long, hoping father would come home. He doesn’t know I can bake
yet, we’ve kept it quite a secret.”

“Is this a special treat for him then?” I asked, scarcely able to keep
back a smile.

“Yes,” she answered, nodding eagerly, and then she went and sat beside
the dog on the floor.

“This is father’s dog,” said she. “Sometimes it goes away with him. It
is very faithful, and once it got caught in a trap and was stolen. But
after a while it got away and came back again. It was so weak that it
could scarcely crawl to the outer gates, and then it fell down, for it
couldn’t come any farther by itself.”

“Who had stolen it?” I inquired.

She shook her head.

“I don’t know. I can’t quite understand. They must have been very
ignorant, mustn’t they?”

“Why?”

“Well, you see, when you steal it means you take something that doesn’t
belong to you by mistake.”

“Oh,” said I, and waited for further instruction.

“Yes, it means you don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Ah!”

“If you only go on thinking, and rub your eyes a bit now and again to
make more sure, you’ll find out.”

“But,” I suggested, filled with a very laudable desire to learn
further, “you might take something that belonged to someone else
knowingly.”

She looked up at me, and presently shook her head seriously.

“Oh, no, you wouldn’t.”

“But why?”

“Well, how could you? Wouldn’t you feel queer inside?”

“I might not. Would you?”

“Of course. Why, at that rate we should be no better than the poor
people living on earth, who are for the most part all born blind.”

She jumped up and came back to me, and those pure eyes of hers were
fixed longingly on mine.

“I should love to go to earth and kiss their eyes all open,” she cried.
“And so would Moonbeam too. But we’re too young yet—far too young.
Sometimes, but only just sometimes, mother has gone, and then she
kisses them, and then they hear the angels sing, and see the lights of
heaven. Mother kissed you before she went away, and it is that which
made you begin to get better again.”

Just then the hound sprang up listening, and bounded towards the door
and out into the hall. Sunbeam, understanding its joyous bark, ran
after it. Next I heard the loving welcome, the nearest link that earth
and heaven have.

“Father!” Such a thrill of pure love ran through the word that in it
one learnt the whole inner secret of heaven. The least vibration of
that tender, passionate voice could have moved anything but hard,
sodden earth, too dull to understand its influence.

Soon afterwards they entered by the open door, he carrying her on his
shoulder, and no queen ever seated on a golden throne looked half so
happy or so proud as she.

There then I saw, or thought I saw, for the first time my rescuer, clad
in strong, linked armour, such as Plucritus wore, that was all ablaze
with light as his had been; not the light that dazzled, but that which
made more clear. Now as I still looked I recognised him with a surprise
as genuine as it was delightful.

“Virginius!”

“Genius!” He came forward extending his hand, with equally genuine
pleasure, though less surprise than I had shown.

“You did not expect to see me?”

“You are so altered I did not know you.”

“In some ways I may say the same of you. Yet one can always trace a
likeness in one’s friends—however much they alter outwardly.”

“You honour me with the name of friend,” I said, for I remembered our
parting in the past had been short and cold.

“Yes,” he confirmed, “I think I am almost willing to take your old
advice and form the alliance, the one of which you spoke.”

I laughed.

“I am afraid at present I am little use, being no better than an
invalid, and in my poverty reduced to borrowed garments, as you see.”

He glanced at me, then shook his head.

“We neither lend nor borrow here,” he said. “What you have is yours by
right—a right stronger than ever money gave.”

Sunbeam then joined in the conversation for the first time.

“Mother made it from the pattern you sent her. I helped her to blend
the coloured silken threads, and those of gold and silver.”

Virginius put Sunbeam down.

“You will excuse me a little while. This is scarcely the attire for a
peaceful meal, but I shall soon be back again.”

Once more we were left again together, but Sunbeam’s face by this time
matched her name.

She went to the table and began pulling the chairs to their right
places. She touched almost every teaspoon and knife with a kind of
loving, restless touch, as if she would fain have put some of her own
feeling into them; lastly, she got up on a chair and cast a critical
eye on the self-made bun.

“Would you leave it?” she inquired of me.

“Why not? Certainly I should.”

“But it’s not quite as pretty as the things mother makes.”

“Well, you could hardly expect that.”

“No. Of course not.”

Then, once having settled that question, she came back to me.

“Have you known father long?” she asked.

“Yes. A very long time in some ways, a very short one in others.”

“You never met anyone quite the same, did you?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Where is your father?” she questioned suddenly.

“I don’t think I ever had one,” I answered.

“Not a father? But whom does your mother live with?”

“I have no mother.”

“No mother? Oh, dear!” and she turned her head away and dashed away a
tear. But I laughed, the sympathy was so unexpected and, I thought,
unnecessary.

“You need not cry about it. Never having known them I have never missed
them.”

“Yes, you have,” she cried, and with a sudden vehemence quite out of
keeping with her looks. “When you have no father nor mother there’s a
big blank, though you may try to think there isn’t.”

“What do you know about it?” said I, still laughing.

“I know,” she replied, looking up, “because I know a lot of things in a
way. But,” she added after a pause, “you may have mine if you like.”

“But,” I went on, “they would scarcely love me as they love you, and
might not want to have such an increase in their family.”

“They would love you,” she asserted, taking my hand in hers, “just as
much as they love me. And I should be your sister, and you would have
no end of friends.”

“Do friends mean happiness?”

“Yes, they mean more love.”

“Not more expense?”

“I never heard the word before, not in connection with a friend,” and
thus our conversation ended.

CHAPTER III

Virginius soon returned, and with him his wife, whose name I learned
soon afterwards was Ursula.

But where had gone that coldness, that almost taciturn manner, and the
sternness that had seemed to me his most especial characteristics when
on earth? Even that silence, which once in a fit of anger I had termed
contemptible, had vanished. Far away from earth and all its unreal
glamour and the false shade thrown on the Power of Goodness, he was a
different spirit.

Like Plucritus he appeared taller and stronger here, lacking only
unnecessary outward show.

And Ursula, like Vestné, was attired in a robe of wondrous loveliness
and grace, but, unlike her, her brightness was infectious.

The meal was the gayest I had ever had, the food the most delicious,
and from it I rose strengthened, lightened and refreshed, to an extent
that hitherto had appeared impossible.

Sunbeam’s tea-cake had disappeared, for all had had a share of it. In
appearance it had been very plain, but I think if any confectioner
on the earth had learnt the recipe he would have made a fortune and
supplied even the most epicurean king.

“Now,” said Virginius, after we had left the table, and gathered round
the fire, “I have two presents, one for Sunbeam, and one for you,
Genius,” and he brought two small packets from a pocket and handed one
to each of us.

“Do you receive nothing, mother?” I asked, for after the first
hesitation the sweetest of words slipped out most naturally.

She shook her head and smiled.

“No,” she replied; “when we are married our husbands give us nothing
but our children. The risk of getting them is hard enough and dangerous
enough to prove to us the strongest love.”

She took Sunbeam on her knee and pressed her cheek against her own.

“This is my present,” she went on, “and it will last me in happiest
contentment until I get another. But let me see these other presents, I
am curious.”

So Sunbeam opened hers first. It was a coral necklace of pale pink, one
of the simplest gifts I had ever seen given to a child. But as soon
as she saw it her eyes beamed and the glow of pleasure flushed on her
cheeks.

She jumped down and ran across to him, and threw her arms round his
neck.

“It’s just like Moonbeam’s. When she sees it she will be as pleased as
I. And you really, really brought it from the earth?”

“Really—really. So it’s very precious. I made it myself in spare
moments from what material I could get.”

“But how is it you’ve made it just like hers? It is exactly like.”

“Well, I met Moonbeam’s father one day, and he told me he had been
making a coral necklace—three plain beads and a rough one—for his
little daughter, so I made one for my little daughter too.”

And she kissed him again without any words, but her evident gratitude
spoke more than words.

By this I had begun to unfasten my packet. I felt more of an amused
pleasure than anything else, as I expected nothing but some trifle,
knowing the barren land on which, for the most part, he had worked.

What was my surprise on finding my own ring—the one thing I had prized
and lost.

I think amazement must at first have overwhelmed all other feelings,
then gratitude, such as I had never felt before.

I glanced over to him. “Thank you,” I murmured, and could find no other
words to give expression to my thoughts.

“You thank me for that which is your own,” he smiled.

“But that which was irrevocably lost,” I rejoined.

“I do not think so. It needed one hard struggle to redeem it.”

“And I, alone, was powerless. The struggle, so far as I was concerned,
ended in total defeat.”

There was a short silence, then he continued,—

“The highest victories spring from defeat. Give me a soldier who stands
on the dead bodies of his failures. When he has conquered failure
by something higher than success he has become invincible, and his
weakness has become his surest strength.”

“You are pleased to see your ring again?” our mother questioned.

“That scarcely expresses it, I think,” and I looked at it, and saw the
many-coloured tints sparkling radiantly, as if appreciating their own
return. The scarlet bloodstones had left my hand as I passed hell’s
threshold, and now I replaced my own ring on the accustomed finger. I
noticed one stone was missing from the centre, but chose rather not to
mention it, feeling such gratitude for the ring itself.

“Is it complete?” our mother asked.

“One stone is missing.”

“Do you grieve for it?”

“How can I grieve?”

“They had disarranged the centre setting,” she replied, “and we were
unacquainted with its previous shape, so we kept the stone apart. Here,
you will do it best yourself.”

She handed over to me the central opal—the missing stone.

“Nay,” said I, “you will please me best by keeping it. It is not much,
but if you will accept it my happiness will be complete.”

She gazed at me with that curious, unfathomable light I had sometimes
seen shining in Vestné’s eyes when in a gentler mood.

“Are you willing to sacrifice so fine a stone?” she queried.

“If you put it in that light, you do me an honour of which I am
unworthy. Take it as a gift, if you will be so kind, and do not mar its
beauty with the shade of sacrifice.”

“But if I take it the after-events may be somewhat awkward,” she
observed curiously.

I shook my head.

“Nothing could be awkward that lay in your possession.”

“I am to have a gift as well then?” she said.

“If you will honour it with the name.”

She laughed softly.

“You have given me simple trust,” she went on. “I will try to repay it
by accepting this, for trust is more to me than admiration, or power,
or wealth, or anything beside.” After a pause she continued: “There is
one point about which I am curious. Your book—do you still wish that
it should succeed?”

“You call it my book, but it is not mine. It belongs entirely to the
writer.”

“The writer has given it up.”

“Burnt it?” said I, and I learnt from my own voice that annoyance is
not an unknown quantity, even in heaven.

She shook her head and laughed.

“By no means. The writer says the book belongs to you, and would never
presume to such an act. It is simply recognised as a failure, as
undoubtedly it is.”

“Then,” said I, “I am afraid I have made you a very worthless present,
since the stone is the emblem of the book.”

“I am fond of worthless presents. I am fond of failures. I am fond of
rejections. You know the old story of the stone which the builders
rejected, and it has always held good from then to now. We are very
clever, we can make so much out of nothing. Sometimes, of course, the
giver has to wait for many years, till the last great failure, death,
has been accomplished, and I have known a man who, when shown his
own worthless gifts in after times, took them to be amongst the most
precious heaven held; and when their history was unfolded to him one
big tear of thankfulness rolled from his glistening eyes, and fell, a
diamond of rare price—another gift in lieu of that which we returned
to him. Whatever is brought to us can never fall fruitlessly. We
accept everything that is given in purity and truth, and set it out to
gain the interest that it merits.”

“Then you accept my gift?”

“Undoubtedly. It has been offered to others before, but they could see
no merit in it. I think even once it was offered as a sacrifice, but
that would have been a very unpleasant thing, for earth has a generous
heart. But we in heaven can afford to be cruel, selfish, jealous of our
power and influence, vindictive when ill-pleased, anything, everything,
so long as in the end we get our way, thus turning the ill-wind into
fair, to please an intellect that cannot comprehend us.”

“You speak in riddles.”

“The language of spirits and of God, who never yet spoke plainly, in
order to have the after-pleasure of upbraiding those dull pupils who
could not understand.”

Whilst we had been speaking Sunbeam and Virginius had been much
engrossed at the further end of the room, for on leaving the tea-table
we had come to one which seemed much generally used.

She was showing him a very dainty pair of slippers, and they were
admiring them together.

“I finished the embroidery this afternoon when Genius fell asleep the
second time. To-night I’m going to put the soles on. They are all
pricked ready for sewing.”

“And when they are finished, what then?”

“Mother said you would take them with you to the earth, to fit on the
tired feet of some poor dancer she had heard about. It’s like this,
you see, father. When you put them on at first they will hurt more and
more, till they get right on, and then they will fit so beautifully
that the pain will be forgotten, and they will bring lightness and joy,
and even happiness, instead of heaviness and sorrow.”

“And my task is to get a certain dancer to wear them?”

She glanced at him and scanned his face earnestly.

“Yes,” she replied.

“And in case I fail?”

“Then they’ll have to come back again, just as all the other things
do. The other day Moonbeam’s father came home for a little while, and
he brought a very wonderful pair of spectacles which he said a friend
of his, an optician who lived in our great city, had given him. He let
both of us look through them, and when you looked through them you
could see on to the earth. At the place where he let us look there
was what they call a Rummage Sale going on, and a great many women
were buying rubbish, real rubbish from other women, who took their
money quite cheerfully and persuaded them to buy still more. And just
outside the building where it was being held there was another stall,
and it was covered with the most precious things, as we esteem them,
that wealth could buy. But no one ever touched it or went near to take
anything, and Moonbeam’s father said perhaps they were too honest, as
they hadn’t the right kind of wealth to purchase with.”

“It was rather a sad scene to show you,” said Virginius, “but still a
very true one.”

“Moonbeam’s father explained it very thoughtfully and kindly to them,”
observed our mother to me. “The Rummage Sale was a large Charity
bazaar, and the honesty he gave them credit for was blindness of heart,
which changes into hardness.”

“Are they not very young to learn the darkness of the world?” I asked.

She shook her head.

“You forget. They have been through all its toil, and littleness,
and hardened drudgery before. Heaven with its greater happiness has
still its greater sorrow. We can employ no sentiment in bringing up
our young. True love springs from no artificial root, and half its
strength is spent in yearning sorrow. I think after that he showed them
some rosy babies lying fast asleep, and one tiny mite being washed and
put to bed, and then the mother knelt beside its cot and prayed, and
Moonbeam threw a rosebud down, and the little baby laughed and held its
hands to catch the pretty flower, and the good mother felt her prayer
was answered.”

“Who is Moonbeam?” I queried.

“She is Sunbeam’s friend. They play and work together. To-morrow you
will see her. When on earth hers was a sad and uncongenial life, yet
she was uncomplaining. And finding heaven while still on earth she
gained sweetness where bitterness might else have fallen. But whilst
those two are talking and planning for the welfare of everyone except
themselves, shall you and I go and view my lumber-room, or store-room I
had rather call it, where I keep my useless gifts?”

Most willingly I went with her, passing from the lower storey to one
higher, to a more distant part of the house, filled with the quietness
and rest of sleep.

The misty light of night swept through the open windows, and its cool
refreshing breath played round us as we went. She stood before a door
and opened it, and beckoned me to follow.

We had come to a vestibule covered with pure crystal glass; the view
without was beautiful, for on one side sloped the grand scenes of
Heaven, and on the other those of Hell. Who would have thought such
dissimilar things could seem so much alike?

“What is the difference between these two kingdoms?” I asked.

“A very simple one,” she answered. “There is no difference, they are
both alike.”

I shook my head.

“Surely not,” I said.

“Then we will say the principle is different and for the present let
it rest. Now tell me, if you can, what the first sensation following
failure is?”

“I should say darkness.”

She smiled and opened the inner door, and we were greeted with a flood
of light.

She passed in and I followed, and the door closed behind us.

Light and music greeted us on every side, coming from some invisible
source. Divided off in glass cases and partitions by themselves were
the works of the poor creatures who had failed, not of one class only,
but of all.

“These are only the outward crusts and shells,” she said. “We make more
use of the inner essences. Those we appropriate within ourselves to
bring in future time to full perfection. But these are undergoing here
a perfect change from dark to light. Here is something brought to me
the other day, the outward husk of marriage, that seeming bright like
some pure brilliant flower at outset turned to soft dust and black
decay, slipping from out the hopeful grasp. It is at present very dull
and dark, with no shape and quite devoid of beauty, but with time,
and the treatment we shall give it, it will alter, and when the owner
sees it once again it will be a thing of rare beauty, a priceless
jewel above mortal worth. Here is another that has almost come to the
true length of time. You will perceive how the golden rays have become
worked into it till its dull hue has changed to brilliancy. So do they
all alter.”

“And this music—from whence does it spring?”

“It is the lonely sighing of poor prisoners—the weakening sobs, the
painful gasps—yes, and those bitter cries that only spirits ever hear
aright.”

“Then,” said I, “you accept all failures.”

“Yes,” she asserted, “but there is one great point to be
remembered—they must come to us, we cannot go to them. Till they have
stretched out the first weak hand in supplication, till that weak cry
for heavenly help has reached our ears, we are powerless—powerless as
they.”

“This place contains nothing but material failures,” I continued.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that failure with regard to temptation is not included amongst
these.”

“They are all here. When anybody having entered on the heavenly path
slips down from weariness or weakness, or maybe from dejection, but
with the pilgrim’s steadfastness of purpose struggles up again, we
take the failures and count them to their after-glory though they must
suffer at the time. Few men have ever yet reached heaven without hard
falls; they are their strong experiences. On the other hand, that does
not include those who are always down; the man who slips each time
temptation is presented is no use to us. His vain repetitions and idle
sighs affect neither himself nor us. He, as it were, would buy heaven
with dross, and hire another soldier to do the fighting for him.”

“I heard you speak of the heavenly, not the narrow path just now. The
expression, I think, is much more suitable.”

“Yes, indeed. Could they but see, it is the narrow path that ofttimes
leads to hell—the narrow path of self that hides all breadth and
height. Our path is not narrow, though at times it may be steep—very
steep, and perhaps obscure.”

We looked round for some time, learning the histories of men and women,
those dark skeletons in the cupboard that sap away life and youth. Yet
of all cheerful places I had ever visited this was the most so; and
well it might be, such things of precious beauty were being wrought
from dull wreck and despair.

“Where is my gift destined to be placed?” I asked, as we moved once
more toward the door.

She took it from the folds of her dress and looked at it.

“It is not dark,” she said. “It shines as usual. Are you quite sure it
is a failure? You may have given me a gift that still had worth. How
terrible that would be!”

I laughed.

“I am afraid it would never have met with much approval. I can
quite see myself that, judged from some points, it might be called
extravagant.”

“Now,” she cried, putting her hand upon my arm, “I’ll give you a little
piece of advice, a real piece of worldly wisdom.”

“What is it?”

“Never admit yourself to be in the wrong.”

“But—” I began.

“No ‘buts.’ Never admit yourself to be in the wrong. I’ll give you
another piece of advice too. If anyone says anything to you about your
book, tell them they must be terribly dull of comprehension. It was
simply written as a caricature of everything but goodness.”

“You know more about it than I do myself.”

“No, I don’t. But you forget. You’ve had so much of the cramping pain
of failure since, that you forget the pleasant hours you spent when it
was being written. I remember one night, after the little house was
quiet, and you had gone away, Plucritus took one of those books and
turned the leaves up to a certain page.

“‘Look here, Virginius,’ he exclaimed, ‘is this meant for me?’

“Now my husband, though most serious as a rule when down on earth,
could not repress a smile, and I, in heaven, listening, laughed aloud
in pure amusement, unmindful of the darkening future.

“‘I don’t know,’ he answered. ‘But I think there is a resemblance
somewhere.’

“‘Then,’ said Plucritus, ‘if this fool understands me no better than
this it’s time her eyes were opened.’

“I ceased to laugh, for I had known him many centuries, and though at
times generous enough and noble enough when dealing with us, I have
never known him relent one atom in his dealing with humanity.

“‘You should blame Genius,’ urged my husband.

“‘Oh! I will blame as many as you wish. The more the merrier. Will you
give me his address?’

“‘I do not know it,’ Virginius replied.

“‘Perhaps when this comes out he will take refuge with you.’

“‘We are not a Camp of Refuge,’ Virginius rejoined coldly. ‘Simply a
haven of comparative rest.’

“‘You are lying,’ retorted Plucritus, abruptly. ‘You know more about
him than you will confess.’

“‘I know nothing more than you yourself.’

“But dear me!” she broke off suddenly, “there I am wandering away
from my subject, and talking about muddling identities, instead
of proceeding with my own advice. What was I saying? That you had
forgotten the moral of your story. But you have given the book to me,
and I shall preserve the moral at any cost; and at the same time I
shall remember my duty towards my neighbour and compose an eleventh
commandment to suit my own requirements.”

“And what will that be?”

“Well, it will run something after this line: ‘Thou shalt not step upon
thy neighbour’s boots, nor his toes, nor his corns. Thou shalt not take
to thyself thy neighbour’s likeness, nor his voice, nor his mannerisms,
nor anything that is his. Thou shalt not take the words any more than
the bread out of thy neighbour’s mouth.’”

“Thank you,” said I, “that will do. Your eleventh commandment seems
rather comprehensive and one long hit against me.”

“I’m glad you see it at last,” she went on. “You were trying to pluck
the mote out of your brother’s eye without perceiving the beam in your
own.”

“Well, it’s a common enough failing. But what about your advice? Am I
still to maintain that I was in the right?”

She put her head very gravely on one side.

“Well, no. You must never stick to a hard-and-fast line. If I were you
I should go to my brother and I should say, ‘Look here. The beam has
clean gone out of my eye, let me proceed to gently eradicate the mote
from yours.’”

“He would be very pliable, I don’t doubt.”

“Yes. But if he seemed unconvinced I should continue thus: ‘Brother,
the beam which filled my eye was composed chiefly of ignorance and
selfishness, though, being blind, I could not see it, and the mote in
yours is composed chiefly of vanity and conceit, though, being blind,
you cannot see it either.’”

I opened my eyes.

“Did you say I was to call him ‘Brother’?” I asked.

“Undoubtedly.”

“The result of that speech would be anything but brotherly.”

“Why not? Is he then so irreproachable that he is above criticism?”

“I know nothing about him,” I replied. “I can only apologise for coming
in his way and promise the offence shall never be repeated.”

“But how do you know you ever did come in his way?”

“I do not know. I imagined it for the most part. That needs another
apology.”

“And once you said that no apology was needed.”

“I believe I did. But I was speaking on the side of prejudice.”

For some minutes she was silent, then moved along.

“Perhaps you are wisest,” she said. “We will let the matter be.”

We rejoined the others. Sunbeam was now engaged on hemming a
handkerchief.

“It’s for someone who is suffering,” she explained to me as supper was
being prepared. “Father will take it with him when he goes and wipes
the tears from their eyes. Every stitch is made of Love, and the fabric
is of Peace.”

CHAPTER IV

The next morning I was up with the light. I went downstairs and through
the open door into the cheerful gardens.

Freshness and beauty reigned on all things. The early morning scent
of flowers, the bright singing of the birds, the glorious sunlight
responded like youth’s freshest friends to my clear spirits.

I walked amongst the beds of springing flowers and by the shade of
noble trees till suddenly I saw Sunbeam coming dancing lightly down the
shining lawn. Her hands were waving in the air, her simple, graceful
garments floated like her hair upon the breeze, and round her, like a
cloud of beauty, butterflies were wheeling, dancing as she danced, as
if she were their sun.

She was a gentle, lovely child, free from sin and pangs of earthly
sorrow, yet feeling to her inmost being the tenderest love for all
things.

“Good-morning,” she greeted, and held her face up for the kiss which
she evidently thought so much of.

“Good-morning. Are these your friends?”

“Yes. We have come to dance for you. Every morning in the early
sunlight we do the same. We call it the ‘Butterfly’s Dance’; I sing and
they make the music with their wings.”

“Where did they come from?” I asked, for they were brilliant, lovely
creatures, larger than ordinary, and with colours clear as light.

“Well, they came from earth for the most part. They had pins stuck
through them by people who wanted to find out what they were like, and
some were caught, and crushed, or starved by school boys and girls.
When they died they came to us, and now they’re happy.”

The dance began. And the singing and the music and the dancing
were infectious. I began to whistle, and continued from sheer
light-heartedness. When it ended the butterflies flew about across the
gardens seeking their breakfast from the flowers and golden fruits, and
she and I together walked towards the house.

We were met at the door by Virginius.

“This afternoon we are going to the city. Mother says you may come,
Sunbeam, if you care to.”

“Is she going?”

“Yes.”

“And Moonbeam, may she come?”

“I don’t know. What will her people do without her?”

“Oh! they won’t mind just for a little while.”

“Then you’d better run across after breakfast and ask.”

I noticed that in the breakfast-room there were all the daily papers
of all lands, as there had been in Hell. Also that there were numerous
letters, and one for me.

It was unexpected, but most pleasant. When one has not received a
letter for a long time it is appreciated, even when the handwriting is
unrecognisable. On opening and reading it I found a simple invitation
enclosed to the city of which Virginius had spoken.

“We always accept invitations,” remarked our mother. “That letter means
you will be welcome to any house throughout the length and breadth of
it. We are going amongst friends, so that though there may be none of
the excitement of seeing one’s enemies, the pleasure fully compensates
for it.”

“May I ask you a serious question?” I said, as the meal continued.

“Certainly.”

“Have you any title? Are you known on earth at all by the name of
Saint?”

She shook her head.

“No, I don’t think so. I rarely go there. I should have been a saint,
I think, but I missed it by one solitary laugh. You see, I am so very
old that when I was young we had to educate ourselves. Now I, being
very foolish, thought it was only wrong to laugh at age, or weakness,
or pain, or infirmity of some sort. And one day I laughed at the High
Priest; he looked so different in his robes from what he did without
them. No one ever forgave me, not even the great absolver himself. So
I walked through life quite solitary, and was not sorry when I came to
die.”

“But in heaven they received you?”

“Yes. The next thing I remember was, I was running about gardens
similar to ours, quite young again. When I was old enough to marry my
husband said he was pleased I escaped the Saintship, as it made me more
pliable in disposition. I thought he meant to imply I had no stamina,
and so we quarrelled. It was our first and most delightful quarrel; I
can remember every word of it to this day, though I believe it is quite
three thousand years ago.”

“You acknowledge quarrelling to be legitimate?”

“Of course, provided it is carried on on a right principle, but
otherwise it becomes a very deadly and terrible thing. We have had one
such quarrel in heaven, and its results have been such as to cause
widespread grief; if possible we would avoid another.”

When breakfast was over Virginius left us, as he said, to write
letters. I, having no such thing to do, asked Sunbeam to show me the
gardens. But this was evidently contrary to the general arrangements
for the day.

“I can’t go out to play till the work is done,” she said.

“But there is no work to do.”

“Mother! mother! he says there’s no work to do.”

“Well, we must always allow for ignorance in visitors,” and touching a
spring in the wall the top of the table suddenly glided away with all
its contents.

“Now,” she remarked, turning to me, “would you like to go and see our
kitchens, or would you rather stay and amuse yourself alone till the
work is done?”

“I will come,” I assented.

So together we went.

The work here—the manual work—was very quickly and simply done. But
cookery in their hands became a fine art. The room in which this branch
of the daily industry was carried on was built of a kind of transparent
alabaster. The stoves were constructed of a substance like silver; and
the bowls, rolling-pins, spoons and knives were in themselves works
of art. The walls were lined with cupboards or safes, and it was from
these that our mother took all the ingredients that she needed.

I watched the process of preparation with interest. She evidently
understood the mysteries of celestial cookery to perfection, for in an
incredibly short time she had prepared an excellent lunch. She also
had a very wonderful creative power, as I noticed that all the dishes
were made out of pure essences or elements crushed to fine powder like
crystal salt.

One dish I watched with special interest. She had taken a fine white
powder and put it in a silver bowl. This she mixed with some other
ingredients in less quantities. Then over the whole there was sprinkled
a pure liquid which turned the whole mass to the palest shade of pink.
Then, with a few dexterous turns of a special knife, the mixture began
to fall in light flakes. To this some drops of oil that fell like
crystal were added. It was left to stand in a refrigerator, whilst she
prepared, on a polished framework, a shape of silver scales, tinted in
parts with bluish grey. This done she returned to the hardened mass and
moulded it with marvellous exactness to the form which she required.
Over this, as a dainty covering, she folded the shining scales, and
with the insertion of two softened jewels there appeared a fish so fine
and real that not the most expert could ever have told it had not been
caught in pure river water. She then took it to a stove and placed it
where it was held in position by silver spikes. On touching a spring
the stove was filled with light heat. “We never use fire,” she said,
smiling. “I leave this here now, and it remains till wanted. The light
gradually works its way through the whole, and then it has become
what you call cooked to a nicety. Next, by a very exact mathematical
process, this screw turns again, and the unnecessary light is cut off.
But the light which has entered, and the heat, still remains within the
body. Thus when required it is in perfect readiness, so that everything
being properly cooked—that is, full of light—we never have heavy
food, and so are spared the pangs of indigestion.”

“You have a wonderful cookery-book,” said I.

She laughed.

“A good cook is a born artist, who can put the spirit of taste into his
work,” she declared. “You little thought last night when you partook of
that fair salmon that you were not partaker in the murderer’s spoil.”

“Indeed, I remarked upon the delicacy of flavour.”

“I know.”

Thus was every dish prepared with a quickness and perfection very
marvellous, so that as I watched I began to feel an appetite for
dinner, though breakfast was just over.

“There is not much to be done in this line to-day,” she observed, “for
this afternoon we go to the city. According to our time, I generally
spend one hour a day upon it, unless I am trying some new recipe or
making an experiment.”

And it seemed that in a marvellously short time there had appeared some
of the daintiest dishes imaginable, savoury and sweet.

Sunbeam, in the meantime, had been busy rearranging the table which had
passed here from yesterday’s dining-room, so she told me. She and I
together went to gather flowers and fruit, whilst our mother went to
make the beds. I remembered that Vestné had performed these offices
every morning and alone. I found myself wondering vaguely had she
loved her work as much as these, and then I recollected that she must
have done, because often from the open windows I had heard her singing
gaily, though the songs had brought no happiness to me.

“Which is your favourite flower?” asked Sunbeam.

“Lily of the valley.”

“Then we’ll gather that.”

“Which is your favourite?”

“Red roses,” she replied. “Moonbeam likes white ones, and
chrysanthemums.”

“You have not been to see her yet?”

“No. But I’m going when the work is done.”

So we gathered red roses and white, and lily of the valley, and
chrysanthemums, and green foliage, and carried them back to the house.

We arranged the flowers between us, she and I, and were so absorbed
that neither of us spoke.

After a while we were joined by Virginius.

“What kind of fruit are we going to have for dinner, Sunbeam?” he asked.

“Gooseberries,” she answered, and laughed. “You had better come to help
us to gather them, and then we shall be sooner done.”

“If it is to be gooseberries,” he went on, “we will come out to
gather and eat them. Strawberries are best on a plate with cream, but
gooseberries are best when picked from a tree.”

Just then our mother entered.

“There,” she cried, “I knew there would be little work done when I
was away. Where is the fruit, Sunbeam? You have brought nothing but
flowers.”

“It’s gooseberries,” she said, looking up from a bowl of dark roses.
“Father says he’s going to eat his out in the garden after.”

“And are we all to do so?”

“Yes, unless you want something else. I’ll go and gather it if you want
something else.”

“Oh, no. I think you had better run over and see Moonbeam now; and
listen, Sunbeam, give them my love and say I should be very pleased if
Moonbeam might be allowed to come and spend a little time in the city
with us.”

“Genius is going with me, and we’ll wait and bring her back with us if
she can come.”

So together we went, and as we crossed the gardens and the park many
gentle animals bounded over our path. Tall deer that had been hunted
in the chase, squirrels and timid rabbits, birds of all kinds and
countries, horses and cattle grazing on rich slopes, and young lambs
frisking over golden lawns, forgetful of the sacrifice of their young
lives for man.

How joyous and how free from fear their lives were here! The squirrels
bounded along the track in front of us; the deer stared at us lazily as
we passed; the birds flew from branch to branch, following our steps
with music.

“You are never quite alone then, even when you walk,” I began at last.

“Not unless I want to be. We have to be alone sometimes, you know; if
we weren’t we should never grow.”

“And you like being alone?”

“Yes. Up to a certain point it is the best thing for all of us, mother
says.”

“Do you go to school, Sunbeam?”

“No. We never go till we are old enough.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“We never go till we are about fifteen.”

“And your boys, when do they go?”

“At the same age.”

“Don’t they get out of bounds and management by that time?” I asked.

“Oh, no—why should they?”

“I don’t know. I imagined it was best for a boy to go to school when he
was seven, and stay there, generally speaking, till he was past twenty.”

Sunbeam laughed. “He’ll be very wise when he comes out of school,” she
said. “We take a five years’ course, boys and girls alike.”

“Do you attend the same schools?”

“Oh, no. We don’t even learn the same lessons. But you’ll have to ask
mother or father about school. They know more about it than I do,
because they’ve been.”

“Is your education finished when you are twenty?” I continued.

“Oh, no! Mother says it’s only just begun.”

“Still,” said I, “don’t your boys get rather spoilt staying at home
till that age? There is so little for them to do.”

“They help with the housework,” she rejoined.

“And do they like it?”

“Of course. It’s their duty. If you cannot work in the house you’ll
never work out of it—not in a proper spirit.”

“What is their work in the house?”

“Well, it’s the usual work that you’ve seen going on this morning, and
anything else that may occur. Then, of course, we have lessons with our
mothers, and they take up the afternoons, and the evenings from tea to
bed-time we have entirely to ourselves.”

“And which part of the day do you like best?”

“I don’t know. I like them all.”

“You have no sisters or brothers?” I questioned.

She shook her head thoughtfully.

“I have one sister,” she answered. “But at times she goes away and
leaves us, and we are lonely till she comes again. Moonbeam used to
have a brother, but he went away to school a long time ago. He used to
be very good at making beds.”

“Making beds!” I repeated.

“Why not?” she inquired.

“Nothing, nothing. I thought it rather a curious occupation.”

“We don’t know him very well,” she continued, scarcely noticing my last
remark. “He went away to school in the city long before Moonbeam was
born, and she is older than I even. He used always to make the beds at
home before he went, and when he went they missed him so much that his
mother wrote to tell him she hadn’t slept for two nights, everything
seemed so strange, and not near so comfortable. Well, when he got that
letter he was sitting at breakfast with the rest, and suddenly he just
put his head down on the table and cried.”

“But why?”

“Well, don’t you see, it had been his secret. When he had the time to
himself at night he’d been thinking and thinking about it all, and
he’d tried one thing and then he’d tried another.”

“Do you mean he had concentrated all his energies on bed-making?”

“Yes, and he never knew it had had the least effect, because no one had
ever said a word to him.”

“Not even his mother?”

Sunbeam laughed.

“Oh, no. Why should she? She pretended she knew nothing about it till
he had gone. Well, when they all saw him crying they thought he was
putting it on, as he was given to a great many antics, but the master,
who was sitting at the top of the table, was cleverer than the boys,
and when the meal was over he sent for him and he asked him why he
cried. Then he showed him the letter, and he read it through, and then
he said to him, ‘You may make my bed as well as your own if you care
to.’

“For he knew it is the best to do things for others. It is how we reach
perfection, when we have learnt by simplicity to trust ourselves. And
that was just what he had been longing for, yet had never liked to ask,
for he had never had anything else to make but his own bed since coming
from home.”

“Well, what is the end of this long story?” I asked.

“Well, the end of it is,” she answered very seriously, “he’s the best
bed-maker in this particular kingdom of Heaven.”

I sat down on the trunk of a tree to laugh and stare at her.

But nothing ever seriously disturbed Sunbeam; instead, she sat on the
grass and laughed too.

“Do you think it funny?” she asked.

“Why, yes,” I said.

“Tell me why,” she enjoined, half laughing, half serious. “Mother says
we’re none the worse for seeing the funny side of things, but sometimes
I can’t find it, and she says we ought not to strain after anything.”

“Well—” I began.

“Go on.”

“Well—” I began again.

“Well what?”

“Well, really, I think I must have fallen into the absurdity of
laughing at nothing.”

“You can’t,” flashed Sunbeam with some heat.

“I can account for my amusement in no other way,” I returned.

“If you won’t tell me,” she cried with more warmth than before, “I
won’t kiss you again for a week, and that will be just as disagreeable
for you as for me.”

Then she jumped up and came to me coaxingly.

“Come along, Genius,” she urged, “just do tell me what you were
laughing at. You wouldn’t laugh at nothing. Nobody ever does.”

“Well,” I began, heroically casting about for an explanation, “you see
you said he was the best bed-maker as proudly as if you had said he
was the best general, or the best cricketer, or the finest sportsman,
or—or—the truth is, Sunbeam, you were thinking of one thing and I was
thinking of another.”

“Is that why you laughed?”

“I am afraid there was no other reason.”

“What’s a general?” she inquired presently.

“A soldier,” I answered, walking on again.

“Like father?”

“In some respects.”

“I remember,” she said at last. “I was trying to recollect the word
and now I have done so. No, he isn’t a general. I don’t think he has
ever led an army. When we go to the city father will take you to see
him, for he is at home now.”

“Has he a house there?”

“He shares one with some friends, for he is not married yet. Sometimes
when people are dying on the earth he goes there and makes their
death-bed. He makes them very gently, so that the spiritual pain is
eased. But those hideous demons that gather round such scenes fasten
themselves upon his arms and hands, and hinder him by bites and
clinging hard, so that he oftentimes can scarcely do his work.”

“But where is the guardian angel of the dying man?”

“He has none,” she answered sadly. “He may have driven him off, or
turned from him as they so often do. And those are the kind of cases
Philemon goes to help, because he has studied them. It is no good
trying to help them whilst they live, but our people are bound to keep
the record of their works just as they do in hell, and it is from this
record that he studies. Then when he has made the bed so miraculously
that no slavish hand can touch it he waits alone, unguarded, for by
this the demons have fled away in terror. At last the great enemy
comes.”

“Is that death?”

“It is that great enemy who has led them all their lives by narrow
zig-zag paths, placing bright bubbles and magic music in their path
till the night falls.”

“And what of Philemon, then?”

“He still stands still, and when the other finds he has not gone he
turns to look at him, and asks him why he stays. Then he shows him
the sign by which he has a right to stay there to the end; and in the
presence of the Angel of Death he draws up his prescription.”

“But what is the use of a prescription for a man about to die?”

“Well, it means he is not incurable. They carry the prescription out in
hell and he is remedied.”

“And is he the only such spirit you have in heaven?”

“No. But the gift is rare, and only those who have the power can make
or use the prescription. If you make the least mistake they won’t carry
out your prescription, but tear it up and laugh at it and then there is
no help for the dying.”

“And does this gift of making prescriptions spring from making beds?”

“Yes. To make the bed of a dead man is better than to make a golden
coffin. It means that he will rise again.”

For some time we strolled on quietly, till down the avenue we saw
Moonbeam coming towards us.

She was walking slowly and did not notice us in the distance.

“Let us hide,” suggested Sunbeam.

“No,” said I. “Remember my advancing years. Moreover, I am thinking if
we do not make haste and deliver your message we shall be late back.”

So we walked a little quicker till we came up to her.

She was taller than Sunbeam, with a face whose greatest beauty was its
sweetness. Yet with this there was mingled a sadness and seriousness I
had never seen in Sunbeam, who was all lightness and love and tender
feeling and little else, though that was heaven’s best.

Moonbeam shook hands with a quiet dignity and made no attempt to ask
for or offer kisses, yet there was something very winning and frank
about her, which made the contrast all the more delightful, because
of a certain similarity. I thought on meeting they would have had so
much to say that I should have become an unnecessary accompaniment to
Sunbeam’s walk, but that was not so.

They walked along one on each side of me, as quietly and demurely as
possible, till at last I asked Sunbeam why she was so silent.

“It’s my advancing years,” she said. “I feel as if the exertion to talk
would be as tiring as to hide.”

“Why are you talking in such an old-fashioned way?” demanded Moonbeam,
laughing.

“It’s my company manners. Mother says I must always accommodate myself
to the society I’m in.”

And after that there was no more quietness.

CHAPTER V

That afternoon we went to the city and Moonbeam with us.

There is no doubt we made a very happy party, and the journey, though
long as regards distance, was very quickly accomplished in a light
and comfortable vehicle borne by six horses swift as the wind, and
beautiful as perfect strength and freedom make them.

Mountains and valleys, level roads and shining rivers, we crossed and
passed. In itself this drive was exhilarating, and the beauty of the
scenes through which we journeyed was unrivalled.

When we first came in sight of the city it was from the brow of a steep
hill our horses had climbed with perfect ease and freshness. The sun
was setting as we came there, and what is sunset but the beauty of
variety to those whose sun can never set?

How magnificent it was only the eye of pure thought can ever truly see,
yet with almost marvellous exactness it resembled hell.

When we came to the city twilight had fallen, and cheerful lights shone
from each curtained window.

A few of their more intimate friends were there to greet us at the
door, and among the number Philemon, Moonbeam’s brother.

Now, had Philemon lived on this earth he would have been called a
little shrivel of a fellow, for he was no higher than five feet, and
extremely thin. But there was about him the nameless strength and
beauty which marked them all.

“That’s Philemon,” said Sunbeam to me as Moonbeam was kissing him, and
to see their apparent delight at thus unexpectedly meeting was very
pleasing. “Come along, let us go to them.” So we went.

“Hullo, Sunbeam, you’re not an inch taller since I saw you last. Follow
my advice and keep little, and when you’re old enough I’ll marry you.”

“You see,” he explained, turning to me, “it’s hard on a fellow when his
wife is taller than he is himself. Now, my ambition is to marry someone
exactly six inches smaller than myself, but so far I have found nobody.”

“Your ambition is a very lofty one,” I put in.

“And like all such, impossible of accomplishment,” he sighed.

“This is my brother Philemon,” said Moonbeam.

“This is my brother Genius,” said Sunbeam.

“I’ve been telling him all about you,” she went on confidentially. “How
good you are at making beds.”

“Making beds!” he cried. “Why don’t you use longer words? You should
call me a celebrated physician, then people would respect me.”

“Well, I was only repeating what mother said.”

“She told you that a long time ago. It’s time you were advancing.
Making beds! Well, I never thought you would have given me away like
that, Sunbeam.”

She only laughed, as did Moonbeam, and they stood with their arms round
each other lovingly.

“Well, now, tell me something of Genius that is plebeian and paltry. I
feel such an undeniable jealousy rising within me that I shall not be
able to battle with it long,” observed Philemon.

“I’ve only known him since yesterday, so I can’t tell you anything,”
returned Sunbeam.

“You said he was your brother.”

“He’s my brother-in-law.”

“Vestasian?” said Philemon, and stepped back so quickly, and cast
such a sharp, piercing eye on me, that I wondered, and then felt some
explanation might be needed.

“It is a purely imaginary relationship,” I remarked. “I am neither
Sunbeam’s brother nor her brother-in-law, neither am I Vestasian.”

“I did not catch your name,” he hinted.

“They call me Genius.”

“But what do you call yourself?”

“I don’t know that I ever gave two serious thoughts to it.”

“Indeed!” he exclaimed, and then moved away, taking Sunbeam and
Moonbeam along with him. The antics of youth had evidently developed
into the peculiarity of years, because during the remainder of the
evening he watched me most attentively and persistently.

A little later I found him in earnest conversation with Virginius, in
which he seemed to be trying to insist upon Virginius seeing things
in the same light as himself, but the latter was listening with
incredulous amusement, and left him laughing.

That night after dinner, when he and I were alone together, he began,—

“Philemon notices a strong resemblance between you and Vestasian—so
strong that he persists in saying you are he.”

“Oh, Lord!” I groaned.

“What did you say?”

“I said ‘Oh, Lord!’ But by that I meant to convey the impression that
it is very distasteful to be so mistaken. Surely in heaven there is
peace from muddle.”

“I don’t know. You began it, so doubtless it may continue.”

“But I never let my ambition soar so high as to touch him. Moreover,
till very recently I had never seen him.”

“Well,” said Virginius, “I don’t know, now that it has been mentioned
to me, but that I can detect a likeness.”

“So can I detect one between you and Plucritus.”

He laughed. “Have a smoke,” he suggested, “You will find that pleasure
counteracts irritation.”

After a pause he continued,—

“Did you see much of Vestasian whilst in hell?”

“Very little, till near the end.”

“And what was your opinion of him?”

“At the time I distrusted, yet liked him. Looking backward I regret I
saw so little of him.”

“He took the trouble to be agreeable, then?”

“I don’t know that he put himself to any trouble. But he was so very
fascinating that for once I forgot my own individuality in listening to
his experience of life.”

“He spoke of himself?”

“Oh, yes, always. I never knew him refer much to any other—except his
wife. He rarely mentioned the earth; he told me he did not find it
interesting and rarely went there.”

“He found it interesting enough to go there and stir up feud sufficient
for centuries, and having done that, tired of the game and tired of the
plaything, he retired to hell.”

“Do you know him well?”

“In the long ages back, before the earth was peopled, we were friends.
Since then,” and Virginius smiled, “he has become my son-in-law.”

“Yet now you are no longer friends.”

“On all points but one we would be friendly. Our bone of contention is
the earth and planets peopled like it.”

“I did not know that his wife was one of your daughters.”

“She is my eldest daughter—Purity—the loveliest flower that even
heaven ever grew. The gentlest and most innocent child that ever
gladdened parents’ heart.”

He spoke of her with love and quiet pride, with no trace of the
bitterness and sadness I had expected.

I looked at him.

“Could this capture not have been prevented? Was it not a very
dangerous risk to let so young a creature out alone?”

He shook his head.

“Vestasian did not tell you all the story then? My daughter went by
design and counsel of all in Heaven. She alone was free from anxiety or
care, for she was innocent. But,” he continued, “I will tell you more
of this another time. Let us walk out on the terrace and view the city.”

The beauty of a perfect night had invested all things. Clustering
roses with delicious scent twined in rich trailing loveliness round
the marble balustrade; and where the steps wound down about a pillar,
lilies sprang up from base to cornice, pure and beautiful and large.

We came into the street. It was scarcely such a one as we know. From
open windows floated the sound of music soft and far away. Fountains
were still playing, and the water swayed slightly in the passing
breeze. Here and there among the wild luxuriant flowers, where no weeds
grew, a swift form was moving, surrounded by that faint, pure light
that needs no sun to show the path they tread. Overhead, arches like
faint rainbows, tingling with silvery light, spanned each street across
the whole vast city.

Virginius led me on through many streets till we came to a simple
bridge that crossed the river. In the middle of the bridge we stood and
looked both down and up the river.

Its waters sparkled, and the cheerful ripple of the tiny waves, as they
dashed against the pillars below, made such merry music that one almost
thought to hear the fairy voices burst into some articulate song. There
was no gurgle here, no deep, alluring blackness, no sad and heavy
silence that drew the sad and heavy spirit down to its sadder depths.

“You need no wine-cellars here,” said I. “This water would intoxicate
the strongest spirit, and give such happiness and delight that those on
earth, once having and then missing it, would pine and die for lack of
it.”

“I think not,” Virginius dissented. “It is the great medicine, the
simple, harmless cure, whose effect is so sure that it lasts through
life, even though it be but in the memory.”

* * * * *

_Passage omitted_

* * * * *

“One does not need to taste it once a week or once a month, as the case
may be, its effects on the earth will last a lifetime. And here in
heaven it becomes a pleasant, invigorating, everyday drink, surrounded
by no false evaporation of mystery.”

“I have often wondered what Christ’s object was in instituting the Last
Supper.”

“Christ or Jesus?”

“You recognise them as separate?”

“Yes,” he answered. “But the stronger power enveloped the lesser, so
that the frailty of the simple man was hidden by the working of an
untamable spirit, though they mingled.”

Then he took up the thread of our previous conversation.

“You asked as to His object in instituting His Last Supper. I think
it was because He did not want to be forgotten. He simply wished to
be remembered at His disciples’ meal times, not as a damper at the
feast but as a loving friend, who had often sat with them before and
shared the simple meal. He was hospitable and sociable, and even in
His last meal showed His extreme simplicity. He said ‘Remember Me at
meal times,’ and for my own part I think many tired folk get more of
His spirit out of a cup of tea or milk or other refreshment that will
invigorate them than ever they get from a formal cup of wine passed
automatically from hand to hand.”

Virginius spoke softly, with a kind of sympathetic love, as if he
understood the man of whom he spoke.

“But,” he continued, “on the other hand, was Christ, the Master Spirit
of that age and others, showing the Spiritual Sacrifice by the bodily
death this poor unerring carpenter underwent?”

Virginius stretched his arms over the wooden rail and leant against the
bridge.

“Jesus, the Man, was the illustration in the object lesson of Christ
the Teacher, and His Life was the picture that explained.”

“But very little of His life is known.”

Virginius laughed.

“The teacher became so worked up on His pet subject that He forgot
His illustrations and pictures till too late. But He was a marvellous
teacher for all that, and when He was gone the pupils turned to look
at the pictures and the illustrations He had left, and they made a
few slight mistakes in following them out, and some few pages He had
carried along with Him into Silence.”

“Then you give two distinct spirits to the one man.”

“I will explain it later. What do you think of Heaven?”

“I cannot say. I thought once it was possible to express happiness and
appreciation in words, but words fail me. I would have all feel what I
myself have here experienced, for I could never explain it to the full,
words are but idle repetition.”

“If you were put to it, do you not think you could write some
explanation?”

I shook my head.

“I don’t think so. The task would be too difficult and delicate. Every
note would fall flat, I can imagine nothing more hopeless.”

He laughed.

“Could you describe hell?”

“No. That would be as hopeless.”

“And you seem to have no power to describe the earth.”

“I am very profitless. Had you not had compassion I cannot tell what
would have become of me.”

After that we went back again to the house. Our mother met us on the
terrace, where she was walking slowly back and forwards waiting. Soon
after we all retired for the night, but as we passed the room where
Sunbeam and Moonbeam were sleeping she opened the door and went in.

They were fast asleep, and Sunbeam’s head was resting sweetly on the
other’s shoulder. They looked most lovely lying thus, yet as our mother
stopped to kiss them she was by far the loveliest of the three. The
purest, rosiest light of love shone round her, giving her a radiant,
heavenly loveliness full of wisdom and purity and strength. They looked
like beautiful, delicate-tinted shadows of a future substance; she like
a glorious reality radiating youth and freshness with every breath and
movement.

With eyes shining in an ecstasy of love she turned to Virginius and put
a hand on either shoulder, and drew him towards her, and kissed him too.

That night I slept, happy and peaceful. But one night was only as the
others were, for never here did one lie down to sleep when the joyous
day was over but one felt tired without being weary, sleepy without
fatigue.

CHAPTER VI

The next morning I awoke with the busy sounds of life all round me.
Through the open window penetrated the sound of eager voices, and
of people hurrying to and fro. Already the sun was shining. A group
of school boys was passing, carrying books, laughing and talking
incessantly as they went. There went a soldier in bright, dazzling
armour, here a civilian, simply clad, yet no athlete ever walked with a
freer, easier step than he.

There went Philemon, his head bent in deep thought, his hands clasped
behind him holding a pocket-book.

From another direction came a group of maidens. No need to say that
they were lovely, nothing lived here unless it was so, yet it must
have been the beauty of goodness, as apart from this something which
transfigured them they were by no means built up from any regularity of
mould.

A little later a band of musicians appeared below the windows and
began to play. Their music was as bright as the morning sun, and I saw
Sunbeam and Moonbeam on the terrace dancing gaily to it.

Thus to be left out of everything suited me no more than it would most
people. Heaven is a place that makes one feel sociable, so I made what
haste I could to get downstairs.

There I found our mother very busy preparing breakfast; but she
was never busy long, she had the knack of preparing things quickly.
Virginius was helping her with what little help she needed, and when
all was in readiness he went to the window and called the children.

“Genius,” said he at breakfast, “I am going to pay a few calls this
morning. Will you come with me?”

“Most willingly.”

“If I take you to see Jesus of Nazareth, you will not be too grieved if
you find Him in simple dress and minus a throne.”

“No,” I rejoined. “The grandeur of a throne has long ceased to interest
me. If I may be allowed to see Him in the simplicity which marked Him
when on earth I shall count myself honoured indeed.”

“Are we to go too?” asked Sunbeam.

“No. We will go later in the day,” replied our mother.

“We are going for afternoon tea,” said Moonbeam. “That’s better than
going in the morning when all the work is being done.”

“Yes, of course,” agreed Sunbeam, wisely. “I don’t like paying morning
calls, except to the butterflies and birds. It looks as if you’ve
mistaken the time.”

When breakfast was over Virginius and I went through the city.
Occasionally we met someone with whom my companion was well acquainted,
and with these we stayed some little time. But not for long, for the
general air of the place was work and business, such as left little
time for anything beside.

At last we came to a street somewhat quieter than those down which
we had been walking, and into this Virginius turned. It was cool
and shaded, and on the ground shadows and golden light played from
the trees and sun. A low, long house built in white stone lay in a
brilliant, flowery garden. Behind rose the hills clothed with dark
trees, and stretching away into the distance till their white peaks
seemed to shine and touch the sun rays that glinted down to them.
Opposite the house, divided from it by the road down which we passed,
was another. It was built like some old chateau, but it had wide-open
windows. In front stretched a lake on which birds were swimming, and
the croak of an occasional frog was heard.

“You keep those animals here?” I queried.

Virginius smiled.

“Yes,” he answered. “We keep everything that has a mind to come to us.
Most of those have been under the vivisectionist’s knife. We are more
merciful than he, and we count the suffering and death as a sacrifice
for humanity.

“I don’t think anyone would grudge them their happiness, and they are
very grateful for this new home.”

“Heaven is a wonderful place,” I said.

“Yes, it is about as wonderful as Hell.”

* * * * *

_Several pages here omitted_

* * * * *

[EDITOR’S NOTE.—Genius is supposed to visit the abode of
Jesus, whom he finds on a bed of sickness, lying wounded after a
recent conflict with the Powers of Darkness. He is being tended by
Philemon, the Heavenly Physician. Mary, whom the author depicts as the
spiritual wife of Jesus, is also giving loving care to her Husband. It
should be here noted that the author, in a letter to her publisher,
states that the wife of Jesus is symbolical of the Church. To quote
her own words, “They say the Bride of Jesus is the Church.” But Miss
Allonby preferred to use the word “wife” instead of “bride,” for the
wife “has gone through all the trials of true love, and wives should
be loyal helpers.”]

* * * * *

The day was spent in sweet simplicity and pleasure, with the merriest,
gayest party one might wish to have.

Philemon, who at first had subjected me to great scrutiny and guarded
conversation, became more friendly as the day advanced. It was
impossible not to like and yet admire him. The peculiarity of his face
and manner were as attractive as beauty and grace would have been. It
is one of the grand perfections of Heaven that mere beauty of symmetry
is accounted nothing; such sameness would breed nothing but dulness, a
thing unknown either to intellect or feeling.

Our hostess remained with us till lunch was over, and then she left us
to be with her husband when he woke.

Virginius, with Sunbeam and Moonbeam, wandered off, and later I saw
them climbing up the zig-zag path that led from the garden behind
toward the forest. That forest was a marvellous place, for since then I
have been in it. It contains the pictures of marvellous adventures and
mysterious scenes painted from the world’s pale fairyland. Glistening
jewels shine upon its grass blades and rich fruits hang from its
shading boughs. They say that as one penetrates further into it the
scenes of earth all vanish, and there appear those of other spheres,
and sounds from outer space. To this depth I have never pierced; one
must be led by a master spirit, and it comes in the course of the
higher education. It is explored shortly before the Long Journey
begins, and till then would be nothing but useless and inquisitive
sightseeing.

Saint Ursula (I know not why I call her Saint, but that it be that
someone on the earth be led to misconstrue my meaning, and fail to
understand the silent, pure respect that lives when titles all are
turned to dust and ashes in the heart) went with Philemon to examine
the properties of a curious element he had detected in the atmosphere
of a far-distant sphere of hell.

I, left alone, sat down in the porch of that lovely home, thinking of
the past events of Hell and Heaven, comparing them and finding them
alike in everything but their effects upon myself. From this I fell
to thinking of those in whose house I now was sitting. Upstairs lay
One whom the world persisted in placing on a throne with an imperial
crown: With a feeling of discomfort, which at another time would have
amused me by its intensity, I began to wonder if the world would again
reject Him if it saw Him lying here, one among many, and having that
greatest of all weaknesses, a wife. I determined that this was a secret
which should never cross my lips, were I ever free to repeat it, and
then I laughed; deception and smuggling up of truth were alike here
impossible. From that my mind passed on to this pure spirit woman,
whose glorious crown of hair and tender eyes, lit up at times with
mirth and overflowing spirits, set my mind wondering as to her past.

There was such unaffected good-will in her that skipped at times beyond
restraint and left tears in her eyes and laughter on her lips, that one
tried to fathom the soul beneath the spirit and was stopped by the pure
thin robe of simplicity that covered all.

So for long I sat and thought, with no interruption, but amid a golden
silence prevailing, and then a soft rustle stirred behind me, and a
hand was placed on either shoulder.

“You have done just as I wished; I wanted you to stay behind. No, do
not rise, I will sit here.”

So saying she came forward and sat on the side seat of the porch, with
the flowers twining in soft clusters from above. She clasped her knees
with her hands.

“My husband is up,” she said. “He has some business to attend to, and
then will join us.”

“Has He been ill long?”

“Yes. But He had only been home very shortly. No matter how great the
suffering may be, there is no home-coming till the final blow has been
struck.”

She was silent, till at last, plucking a rosebud from the bower, she
added,—

“He has suffered defeat, you know.”

Now were we both silent; I could find no answer. Yet my mind went back
to Him as I had first seen Him in strongest admiration. At last I said,
half to myself,—

“Yet we on earth esteem defeat despicable and chafe under its hard
restrictions.”

“Earth is not Heaven,” she murmured softly. “And He has had the
pleasure of hearing of Virginius’s victory. It has beguiled the hours
of weariness, for I will not attempt to hide from you that in enduring
most we suffer most.”

“And the victory of another has eased His failure,” I concluded.

“Why, yes,” she answered, laughing. “We are all in the same brotherhood
in battle. All working to the same end, all striving to attain the same
result.”

“May I ask your name?” I said at last.

She touched her lips with the rose.

“My name is Mary,” she answered simply.

“There are so many of the name,” I urged, sitting up. “Tell me which
you are.”

Behind the flower her lips had parted in a smile half tremulous, half
sad.

“Memory is sweet to me,” she said. “Yet some would call it bitter. Here
in heaven I am beloved, respected and esteemed, happy and free. On
earth they still remember me as the sinful woman turned to Christ, and
whilst extolling His boundless mercy in receiving such as I they ignore
me altogether.”

A half-malicious merriment shone into her eyes.

“I died of a broken heart. I could not live without Him. It was very
wrong, I know, and showed what poor stuff I was made of, but wherever
I went after that early morning in the garden I saw Him calling
me—always calling. I wasn’t the one that could preach or teach, I
could only feel things, and often in the middle of the night I would
wake and go through all the agony of those dumb dark hours upon the
Cross. It didn’t make much difference to my outward life—no one quite
understood me. They pitied me and wondered at me, just as the people do
to-day; they thought Jesus very wonderful and merciful because He had
made a friend of such as I, and for the most part they were all stern
men and pure women, who loved me simply because they had been taught by
Him. There was no one to lavish things upon, nothing to look forward
to when grey dawn swept the night away, nothing to look back to but
shame and contempt and pain and tragedy of cross and scourging, which
was laughed at and mocked even by those who understood it best. And
I had looked forward so to a glorious earthly kingdom. I had dreamt
each night of the crown and purple robes He was to wear, regardless
of His own sad, warning words. And on that gay entry into Jerusalem
the week before His death my heart had leapt with joy. It seemed as
if the prophecies were coming true. I went home to my own dark room
and laughed and danced for happiness, and on the way I bought some
stones—some imitation jewels—for what I had had gone long since. And
there in my own little room I put them on, and a fine robe which, out
of weakness, I had never parted with, and then I stood and saw the dim
reflection of myself.

“‘When the people crown Him king I shall be there,’ I whispered. ‘I
shall wear my hair loose and decked with jewels, and all will say how
beautiful I am though I have sinned.’ For in that moment of delirious
joy I had forgotten that such as I are better absent. Nay—for the
world gained deeper hold—I saw myself raised to a higher level than
the women who looked down on me—no more stared at and laughed at by
men—respecting and respected, loving and loved in turn. In happiness I
felt a queen, yet He my king was so far removed above me that to call
Him lord were title too small.

“I dreamt—the delirious dream—the burning ball, the shining
will-o’-the-wisp, and it lasted with me—not quite through the week.

“Then the light went out, and it never properly lit again.

“It was a strange week, with a great shadow hanging on the air which no
one noticed. The gay scenes and the excitement of the city attracted
me, a wild longing to mingle once more with the crowd and laugh with
it. I listened to the sermons in the Temple, and then went away alone
and walked through the teeming streets. I heard some speaking in open
admiration of Him, some in more whispered tones; others stood in dark
groups, with scowling faces hidden by sinister smiles. I passed by
these unheeding, for who ever yet with mind pre-occupied noticed word
or look of utter strangers? At night I wandered away to the village
to see our Master. When supper was over it was His custom to go forth
alone. I think the hard life and the strain were beginning to tell on
Him, though His face was more quiet and peaceful even than it used to
be. And then something prompted me to tell Him all that was going on in
the city. I was gay and light-hearted, trying to crush down something
which I could not understand. He listened and was interested, and some
instinct within me made me laugh and talk more gaily than ever before.

“So each night of that last week we walked and talked together, and the
terrible blindness that hung on all was hanging over me. I knew that He
was silent, but I put it down to the silence of fatigue, not gathering
Death. And then on the Thursday I came again, and the time was short,
but only at our parting did I recognize anything about to come. For
then, as if by a sudden impulse, He took my hands and looked at me.
Such a face I had never seen. It seemed as if in one swift lightning
flash it was transformed from peace to agony. I had never seen such
eyes, such look of utter ruin on a face, such haggard, drooping lines.
Every feature was pinched with fearful pain—a child’s face—a man’s
soul—the spirit of a God. They strove together in horrible working
contrast, and that childish weakness which I had never seen before
seemed to me most terrible of all. It seemed as if I saw through the
strength to the utter weakness.

“And then every spark of feeling within me was drawn out to Him. I
don’t know whether as a mother or a woman, since surely both are one.
I felt as if I had it within me to take His weary, racking pain upon
my shoulders, to ease Him of this hellish chain that never kills. And
so, in what to some may seem a terrible presumption, I stretched out
my arms to draw Him to me, for I was young and strong, with a power
born of love. And then, with a cry in which weakness and pain, and
tenderness, and love, were all intermingled, He spoke my name, ‘Mary,’
and came forward with arms outstretched to meet my own. And suddenly
the weakness died from His face, and left only a purity and strength
so deep that I felt that I had been unconsciously a tempter. And with
a voice so kind and grave and clear that it seemed to convey a hidden
meaning which I could not understand, He said, ‘Touch me not. I have
not yet ascended to my Father.’

“Then I went home, but not to sleep. The veil was torn aside. I felt
that something terrible was going to happen, and far on to midnight I
tossed or walked about. They said afterwards that this had been the
hour of His agony, that cruel fight of God with God, in which human
soul is pierced and spirit torn in pain that may well bring sweat
drops to the brow. They had not watched, heavy with sleep, whilst I
within the city sat with eyes like burning coal staring at darkness.
Then in the morning I heard that He was taken, that Judas had betrayed
Him. I don’t think I ever understood the danger, except for one chill
fear that came and went. He was so strong, so sure, so loved of all
the people; but a week ago they had gone out to welcome Him, now they
would rescue Him, their friend and teacher whom they loved. I felt
somehow that this was going to be the climax, the great crisis that
would begin and end the struggle that was to make Him king. And so with
a beating heart and flying step I made to where the crowd was gathered
outside the high priest’s house. There was a silence which I could not
understand, one of those fatal, ominous silences that a spark can send
crashing like a thunder-storm.

“When, later, He came out to go to Pilate I expected to hear the cheers
and cry that still were ringing in my ears. But no sound came save
the dull murmur of disappointment—at nothing, perhaps. I strained
my eyes to catch a sight of His beloved face. It was the same with
a difference—and with the sight of it my empty dream of kingdoms
vanished like air. The agony of the garden made the difference; this
was a dying animal brought to bay—a broken heart holding itself
together with the firmness of heaven to stand the last sad onslaught.

“I saw the proud Pharisees and priests pass by in the procession.

“How I hated them!

“With a hate so black it poisoned all my blood.

“I longed to cry out and raise the crowd against them, that crowd
which, though it laughed, loved me in its own coarse way and hated
them. An iron hand with fingers strong as death clenched at my throat
and strangled every sound. That cry would have altered the day. The
crowd longed for excitement and it found none. It grew sulky, ready to
follow the first leader who came forward on either side, for good or
bad.

“I followed with the stream to Pilate’s house, and after that I
remember nothing but one long, unnatural dream. I couldn’t understand
a thing that happened; the crowd, which I thought would weep and fight
for Him, was suddenly one great howling mass of laughter, ready for any
jest or foolery that might present itself. And a crowd that laughs when
a man is on trial for death is a fearful thing—it can be roused to
any cruelty. Poor things! They were disappointed in Him. And those who
hated Him, and wished to see Him dead, worked on this disappointment by
laughter and derision.

* * * * *

_Passage here omitted_

* * * * *

“But I never saw His face in life after that first strained glance.
I could not have raised my eyes to look upon His weakness and
humiliation. I followed on to Calvary without seeing or hearing
anything, and I kept out of sight as best I could. But when, in the
darkest hour of desolation, He gave that terrible broken-hearted cry I
struggled to my feet from my place behind the Cross and stretched out
my arms toward it. Oh, God! Only those who have been utterly powerless
know its sinking misery. I only fell back again, I was of no use. And
after that what matter? Wherever I went, whatever I did, I saw that
haggard face and heard those words, ‘Mary!’ It rang through the city in
the deadest night, through my veins the whole day long, and then in
accents grave and full of strongest meaning, ‘Touch me not. I am not
yet ascended to my Father.’ In the garden, on the morning that they
call the Resurrection, it came to me again. The sepulchre was empty.
The dead body was stolen by the Jews; but from that world invisible I
heard the song of angels wafting the words again to me, ‘Mary! Touch
me not. I am not yet ascended to my Father.’ It is only a simple story
this of mine, and it is short enough.

“One, too, that has been often told, so perhaps I may have wearied you
with telling it again.”

“And afterwards?”

“Well, afterwards the days grew into one another like one continuous
night. I think I was a coward, because I had no wish to live. When at
last the sun of life was set and the dawn of Heaven broke I left earth
with a happy and contented sigh to enter on the spiritual childhood.
I had lived just long enough to learn to stand alone—for before His
death I had always leant on Him. After that I was as happy as happy
could be, and have been ever since.”

Then for some time there was silence, till at last I said,—

“When I was in Hell I noticed some of the finest workmanship portrayed
the Crucifixion and Agony of Christ. Since coming here I have seen none
of that. It surprised me greatly to see it there.”

She looked at me with a mixture of sadness and wonder.

“Ah!” she explained, “that is one of their jests. The finest comedy I
ever witnessed in Hell was one based upon that human tragedy. I laughed
and cried at the same time, especially when I saw myself there, hoping
against hope, yet most strongly and most innocently, that at the last
minute He would come down from the Cross and stop all the jeering and
the mockery, and drive away the darkness and the cloud.”

“But surely when you saw the Figure hanging there you restrained your
mirth?”

She only laughed.

“You couldn’t see anybody hanging there. Vestasian, who wrote the play,
has too nice perceptions for that. There was a cross there certainly, a
monstrous one, but against it was leaning a brother of his, to signify
that the atom of humanity was hidden by the Godhead. But because it
was very dark the people could not see him, and it was excusable,
because their eyes were not made that way. He was writing notes and
taking what on earth corresponds to snap-shots. He was so silent that
no one understood his presence, though they felt it. When they laughed
they were laughing at him, and he laughed with them all the time,
luring, tempting, spreading his terrible shadow over them and on the
sufferer. In fact, throughout the whole great drama one never saw the
central human figure because of him. It was he who stood on trial at
the sham judgment before Annas and Caiaphas and Pilate and Herod. And
upon these occasions, as a little aside appreciated only by those of
the same understanding as himself, he appeared with crown and sceptre
and robes and jewels of such kingly splendour that the whole court
was more blinded than when under the cross’s shadow. And when Pilate,
tempted by the little mouthing demon on his shoulder, turned with a
half-irritable sneer to ask, ‘What is truth?’ he only shook his head
and smiled so whimsically that one was compelled to laugh, the farce
had reached to such a pitch.”

After a pause I continued:—

“Moreover, I notice you have no churches. I have heard no prayers, seen
neither pulpit nor altar; all these were very evident in the vaults of
Hell.”

She rose and came over to me.

“You try to show a wonder that you do not feel,” she said. “We need
none of these, they are a part of Hell’s bondage and its slavery. To
have the kingdom of Heaven within one is to need no more. It builds its
own temple in sacred silence, and sends the life blood beating into
every vein. It is only on earth, where the real thing is so rarely
found, that the outward show is needed.”

A great silence followed, till at last she drew away the folds of her
white robe and showed me to the inner depths of her pure spirit. There
in the centre of the heart, composed of light and love, I saw the
Figure and the Cross. I could ask no further, and in silence she drew
the soft folds back again.

“It is the link that joins the earth to us, us to the earth,” she
observed at last. “It is born in our children, none yet have come to
us without it. If you care to examine into the structure of your own
spirit you will find it too.”

“Oh, yes. I was fully aware of what was in myself. But I thought I was
somewhat unique.”

She burst out laughing.

“There now, that’s another touch of Nature that makes the whole world
kin. It’s surprising the amount of people who think they are ‘the only
ones.’”

She was still laughing when Jesus joined us. She ran to meet Him,
happy, light-hearted, and beautiful as summer sunlight. Together they
truly made a most wonderful picture of beauty and perfection, though
she was slightly the taller of the two.

He took the seat I offered Him and she arranged it most comfortably
with cushions, still laughing at what she termed my “very common
conceit.”

* * * * *

_A page of MS. here omitted_

* * * * *

Tea being over, we prepared to go; but before going our hostess
conducted all of us upstairs to a room leading from her own. It was
filled with pink and white roses, and a carpet made of silken rose
petals covered the floor. The windows were closed, but inside the room
pure lights of many lovely colours interwoven were playing from wall to
wall, from ceiling to floor. These made sweet music as they touched and
intermingled like harp-strings played by a passing breeze, and around
the bed, made from one giant hollowed pearl, such as the world ne’er
saw nor dreamt of, garlands of roses fell, and lily petals formed the
counterpane. In the centre of all this pure loveliness lay the infant
spirit, with a beauty words cannot paint. The smile of death is frozen
and cold, but here was its facsimile in life and warmth. One hand
lay resting on the counterpane and one upon the pillow, resting the
sleepy head. The soft glow of health flushed either cheek, and dyed the
parting lips; yet over all there was a nameless majesty and rest, a
sleeping spirit begotten of the hard seeds of earth.

Suddenly Saint Ursula moved to where Jesus stood beside the bed and put
her arm through His.

“Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for
of such is the kingdom of Heaven,” she said softly.

“Was this a little child?” I asked at length.

“Oh, no,” replied the mother, kneeling down and pressing the soft arm
to her lips. “This was a full-grown man, whose life had been spent in
one long battle with sin and self. This is not a little human child,
but a spirit child born from the fruit seeds of a lifetime. Soon the
happy childhood of the spirit will begin, for on earth there is no
such thing. It is for the most part nothing but striving there to get
together the essential seeds to form a spirit.”

“You do not devote much time to these young children,” I observed as we
came out together later.

She smiled.

“Not outwardly,” she corrected. “But after they are born they need a
long, long rest, and occasionally at fixed intervals such spiritual
nourishment as we give them from ourselves. And spiritual food is very
delicious,” she added, laughing. “It has nothing to do with the Ten
Commandments nor any of those kinds of things, though they form part
of the soil in which it is grown. But then one doesn’t eat the soil,
though one enjoys the fruit; yet some people on the earth are very
stupid and can’t understand the difference between the two. But the
soil needs a deal of work before it is fit for cultivation, and the
toiler does not reap the food till he is dead.”

So saying, she left me to think, and all the way home I heard
indistinctly Sunbeam’s and Moonbeam’s accents of joy over this new
addition to their friends’ family.

* * * * *

_A chapter here omitted_

* * * * *

CHAPTER VII

The days flew away, all happy and free from care.

One evening, after dinner, Virginius asked me to take a walk with him.
We strolled into the clear night, and through the grounds that lay
behind the house. This brought us to the outskirts of the city, and the
road led up a gentle hillside toward the forest, that bounded this side
of the city for many miles.

He led me into it, and its wonderful soft beauty descended on the
spirit, and brought a feeling half of sadness unmixed with pain.
Indeed, to be sad in heaven is a luxury—one of the most delicate
pleasures it can give.

Along the winding paths and mossy banks the faintest glow of light was
shining. It now touched the sleeping flower-bells and the blades of
grass, whitened the dark barks of trees, and lit upon the forest brooks
that rippled and clattered in the silence with an _abandon_ all
their own.

We walked on, each occupied by thoughts, sweet perhaps as sad, till at
last, throwing himself down on a bank that sloped towards a branching
rivulet, he spoke.

“Genius, I am going to tell you something. Perhaps the world will
laugh—it has ever laughed when truth was spoken—but, be that as it
may, you can but repeat with truthfulness and pure simplicity what
you have heard me say. I have fought many years for the earth, have
undergone great hardships for it, been true to it through thick and
thin, pitied it, striven for it, respected its suffering. I do not say
this in order to extol my own hard labours. Why should I? Others like
myself are working and have worked—it is our duty. But now I am going
to tell you a little of its history. I force it upon no one. I tell it
you, you will repeat it to others; whether they think about it or laugh
at it, it is not for me to say. But if they think, they will not laugh,
of that you may rest assured.

“Long ago, in the ages long before man was ever known upon the earth,
the spirit world moved and lived. From eternity into eternity, so the
great wave ran, just as it ever has and will do. Man cannot grasp it,
no more than a lifeless seed can understand the flower it brings to
light and life. We were happy, in that half-unconscious youth that
clings through eternity. Springing into life and form and power by
our own strength and guiding intellect, glorious and true in every
conception, with other life springing up around us, giving and taking,
now one thing, now another, a mist, a wraith, unconsciousness of
feeling or of form, then again resplendent, hard or brilliant, full
of consciousness or life. And so the ages rolled in this corner of
space in which we lived. Sometimes we would roam abroad as now into
the far, far fields of space, ever with that courteous interchange of
hospitality which is the birthright of all our race. We were friends,
friends as only those born as gods can ever be. To live with us was to
love and to respect. But this has nothing to do with humanity, I must
advance.

“The blind forces of Nature were our servants—I have shown you how.
Pure intellect and inanimate material produced by it mixed together,
devoid of feeling and the higher life. Then because experiment and
movement are a part of our being we designed the worlds. Some gave
one thing, some another, and at last the mighty cast was ready. Then
came the great convocation, and the question, whom to put upon these
spheres. Those ours previously we retained, but those thrown off from
us were a prize for the highest intellect to settle.

“I remember well the great assembly seated on thrones which were no
thrones of preparation, but the outcome of that dazzling light which
draws round all of us.

“Then Vestasian rose—you know him—Fairest of the Fair—Lightest of
Light—the best-beloved of all. He was more beautiful than the sun, and
stronger, with what seemed to be all the soft graces that combine in
woman, all the clear intellect and strength of man. I doubt that this
soft grace was but the flimsy covering that hid the great difference
betwixt such as he and me. Till then he had been my best-beloved
brother next to Plucritus, who, once having sprung into birth with me,
was like myself.

“But to return.

“In the clear silence that accompanied his rising Vestasian spoke,—

“‘It is our nature to be kind and courteous. Nature, our humble
servant, needs some reward for all these ages of untiring work. We can
but repay her labours with a crown made in our own image, built on our
lines, endued with all our intellect and reason, called by the simple
name of Man.’

“You know his voice, as sweet as any woman’s, yet with the deep note
ringing in it that compels a hearing, even from those who would not
hear.

“Ringing applause followed these words, for his simplicity and courtesy
were wonderful; he had given voice to the thoughts of all, yet with
such sweet humility that never had my love for him before reached such
limits.

“Then from near at hand Plucritus spoke, leaning back half indolently,
a faint smile hovering on his lips.

“‘Are we to raise gods from soil?’ he asked. ‘Nature will groan beneath
the burden and cast it on to us.’

“Silence followed, till a brother of Vestasian, he who stood before the
Cross and appeared in the hall of Pilate, said, ‘Let Nature provide the
flesh and blood, we will supply the rest.’

“Next Gabriel rose.

“‘First let us hear Vestasian through,’ he suggested. ‘This is a
project of which I for one would hear still more.’

“Vestasian rose and made that speech which in the annals of Heaven is
so famous. I will give it briefly, leaving out much that he put in.

“‘I advise that we raise from the dust of earth beings like ourselves,
inferior only in power, eternity, and infinite conception of wisdom.
They should be the greatest living ornament of Nature, exceeding
everything. Their lives should be a span of golden happiness and
pleasure, as like our own as possible. But being frail, and merely the
experimental plaything of the Godhead, I would withhold from them the
knowledge of the higher state of good and evil, and I would bind them
in to a phase of life having a gentle end.’

“Thus much Vestasian in simple words and few, a mixture of kindness and
pride, and an indulgence which lacked wisdom, having nothing higher for
its aim than a semblance of what was not.

“Next, Michael rose—he is held to be among the wisest of the wise.
You must know that in the spirit world there are two great powers or
principles—good and evil. Every higher Spirit is built up of either
of these two, yet not the most keen-sighted can tell which is which
till a difference arises, for in reality both are just alike, and only
external and the weaker things can ever feel the different effects.
Take for example Plucritus and myself; we are the same in everything
except principle—that unreal thing which looks like a shadow but can
alter everything. Yet he and I were the greatest friends together,
following the same pursuits, interested by the same things, till the
great argument arose. One might have thought this mutual fellow-feeling
that pervaded all of us would have broken down all obstacles. But
not so. It has always been the case in every constellation. The two
powers, so similar at first, break apart at last, each understanding
but not being the other. Yet each is necessary to the other, the two
great principles that sway back and forwards and keep the balance even.
For evil, as you think of evil on the earth, is but a relative and
comparative thing, and not understanding it the earth looks down on it,
which is another jest. For evil is as pure as good, as simple as good,
as true as good, as beautiful and equal, the only difference being
that its influence on things weaker than itself is to lower instead of
raise.

“When Michael rose there was as deep a silence as for Vestasian, and he
argued thus.

“He said that in the main he agreed with what had just been stated, but
pointed out what an aimless existence man must lead, being born but for
a short life of pleasure and beauty, and given enough spirit to enjoy
and then to lose. He pointed out the great spiritual waste it would
necessitate, since no result of any magnitude would be obtained from it.

“‘Not so,’ argued Vestasian. ‘Whatever effort they are able in
themselves to accomplish successfully will return to us for our use, to
make what we like out of this new experiment, which could not fail to
produce some fruits worthy our gathering.’

“‘Ignorance never yet produced anything but—’ began the other.

“‘But Sin,’ Plucritus put in, so quietly that but for the intense
silence it would have been lost even on those who sat beside him.

“Then all eyes were turned to him.

“I am ignorant, he said, looking at Michael. ‘I would hear more.’

“Thus asked, Michael unfolded his project.

“‘I hold with Vestasian,’ he declared, ‘that man’s life should be as
happy as our own. But I would give him that wisdom which Vestasian
would take away. I would give him the power to obtain the knowledge of
good and evil, by patient striving to raise himself from the inanimate
laws of nature to the pure rays that have their central light in us.
That surely would be our greatest recompense to Nature, to quicken
into spirit what has been raised from earth and dust and material
substance.’

“This was the wisest and the greatest plan—or seemed to be—to
let mankind learn by effort and endeavour to reach with purity the
Highest—to withhold nothing from man, yet to grant nothing till he had
found it.

“Then asked Plucritus:—

“‘And in this striving after wisdom, which side must the choice fall?’

“‘It may fall either—he is given a free will.’

“‘Is this race of men then to rival and outshine ourselves, that it may
pick and choose betwixt us?’

“You will understand there was nothing but truth and purity and beauty
in his words. He spoke as God despising propositions, not as man
striving against his brother man.

“‘When man has once discovered good and evil he will be as God,’
Michael replied.

“For some space of time there was silence, till at last Plucritus rose.

“‘I would not willingly detain you, but this project seems to me
absurd. To build up with Nature’s aid beings like ourselves! Nature,
who never saw us, but followed blindly on the guiding principles that
we laid down! Can anything exist that has not built itself? What is
our strength and beauty but that we raised ourselves and now maintain
ourselves as becomes true spirits? What weaklings would you introduce
and draw towards us? What do we need with outside sycophants? Are
we dull and life grows wearisome, we can change, as often in the past.
But you are not dull. You are striving to break the bond of friendship,
as it has been broken in so many spheres before mere trifle, an
introduction of an alien element. Vestasian seeks to give pleasure to
an inferior race. Give it and make them happy. Let them be thankful.
Spare them the pain that runs in other orbits, for history repeats
itself, and as in other places _choose evil they shall not_, and
who can then choose good?’

“‘Why not?’ asked Vestasian, who had listened earnestly.

“‘It does away with the Free Will,’ Plucritus answered, and laughed.

“After that there was much argument, and gradually the rift began to
grow and widen, and we discovered too late, or not too late, that it
had been caused among us by the little biped—Man.

“So often do little things produce great strife and suffering.

“Thus it grew to a point of great dispute whether humanity was to have
a free will or no, whether it was to receive gifts without striving
and return them or to strive for wisdom, and in acquiring it gain
everything. And after all, like all really little things, it was a
great one. It affects us more nearly than even the wisest foresaw. It
meant giving up so much, even of our own bodies, and entailed suffering
and concentration of thought and purpose which happily by our nature
adds to our strength and beauty and never takes away.

“Presently the conversation ended with courtesy as deep as that which
started it. Yet we were no longer quite the same. Friends to ourselves,
yet differing on one point, which, being Nature’s pinnacle, was an
important one, needing consideration. War had been declared, that
difference of opinion which always ends in it, and they were first in
the field.

“For, rising up from sleep one morning, we beheld a difference in the
spheres, visible only to the spirits’ eye. Not all were changed, but
many; and one, your little earth, I will describe. Round it shone a
mist, so delicately wrapped that it gave it quite a beauty of its
own. This was the wreath of Mystery. We knew it well, and because its
mystery was mysterious we approached and floated through its wide
expanse to reach the earth—when suddenly we came upon a chain that
bound the whole sphere round and stopped our passage. It was like an
iron network, yet very fine and pliable like a fisherman’s. I, for one,
cut the net and descended. It was very easy work, though it closed over
our heads when we were through. Earth was no different from what it had
ever seemed. No life was yet apparent on it. That followed.

“There was nothing there to be discovered; beyond the mist and chain
things were as usual. At our next convocation this change was mentioned.

“They had seized the earth and other spheres, which henceforth belonged
to them until such time as they cared to give them up.

“I had scarcely seen Vestasian in more excellent humour than on that
day.

“‘We have considered your plans well,’ said he, ‘and have decided
that after all a free will is the best thing for man. He shall choose
betwixt Good and Evil, and shall receive whate’er his choice may fall
to. If Evil, then he shall reap the fruits of Evil. If Good, then
you must see to it. We have decided to make Man in our own image;
allowing, of course for some slight divergences of Nature, who, not
comprehending us to the full, cannot draw us altogether truthfully,
yet the likeness shall be such that all can tell it. We intend to
make them also male and female, so that they will be blessed even as
ourselves and rank themselves our equals. Moreover, we invite you to
behold and criticise our labours, which, though poor, are the nearest
reflection of your own that we could find. Our system is comprehensive,
it includes everything.’

“‘Therefore,’ remarked Plucritus, looking towards me, ‘you will, of
course, expect to find it very muddled.’

“‘Let me ask one question,’ I broke in. ‘Does your system embrace
physical decay and death?’

“‘Why, yes,’ Vestasian answered. ‘Of course. It is necessary in order
to prevent overcrowding. Moreover, we have tried to combine your system
with our own, and death would have been a phase in any case.’

“‘Yes,’ I argued. ‘But there is death and death.’

“‘What matter?’ said he. ‘You will soon find the pathway glutted, for
all will crowd towards it, choosing by Free Will Good rather than Evil.’

“Then Vestasian, still laughing, rose to leave the Assembly.

“‘I am still a single spirit,’ he observed. ‘More lonely than most, yet
still quite content. When from Earth a female Spirit is raised pure
enough and wise enough to aspire unto the Godhead, I will marry her and
admit that a Free Will is not a bad thing—even in Woman.’

“And with that he went away, and all remaining laughed.

“From that time forward the jest rolled onward, for to Vestasian and
those like him it was nothing better than a jest, nor ever has been.
They have fought and been obliged to suffer, even as we, because the
spiritual warfare is incessant.

“We were in a perfect mystery about the earth. Beyond its shape and
natural organism we knew nothing further of it.

“Gradually as the ages went by we discovered signs of life there. From
this, in time, insects sprang, and hideous monsters and huge animals,
and on all this we were obliged to keep incessant and untiring watch to
discover when man first made his entry. This, as you know, was not for
long, long ages. We touched first here and there on every animal, but
found none sensitive: none responded in any way, and the rays slipped
blunted aside.”

“But could you not tell from his appearance?” I asked, interrupting for
the first time.

“No. There was no Garden of Eden as the Bible has it. That Garden of
Eden might have been, and was not. It was Vestasian’s dream. Man was
no different from the other animals when we found him; the mysterious
jewel was hidden underneath unknown to us.

“One day one of our number had sent a shaft of light on to an animal
more hideous than most, or so it seemed to us. There was no response,
but as the shaft glanced aside it struck another of the same class
lying near. The effect was very unexpected, though slight and
momentary; the creature trembled. Having notified this much, another
ray was directed full on this, a cry of pain followed. That was a
surprise, a very sad one, because this was healing light. Here then we
had found the first little clue to the great secret of humanity. The
powers of hell laughed when they heard that cry, laughed when they saw
our pained surprise. They had understood and waited for it. This that
the ray had pierced was a woman. Well might Vestasian’s words call up a
smile, for it was a thing devoid of beauty or intellect or grace. And
that from which the ray had glinted aside was her husband—Man.

“But the first ray had struck home at last—the battle had at last
begun. Each side had to prepare for the long fight, in which the atom
of humanity turned the scale of equal-balanced powers. And so because
woman was the first to receive what man could not understand it came
about that he looked down on her, and treated her with contempt as a
household drudge and worse. It was but another little jest of the great
powers of Evil, turning all good to their own account, and instead of
woman becoming the acknowledged influence to lead man to higher things,
she sank under the stronger power of Evil for the most part, and
delivered up the tiny ray of light to him—second-hand as it were, like
the Apple in the Garden. It was but natural. The strongest gained and
the weak went to the wall.

“But gradually, as century followed century in endless routine, the
change began to show itself. True, every weapon of ours was met by a
counter weapon from our brother spirits, yet slowly, inch by inch, the
great fight was fought, the mystery unfolded.

“And at last intellect broke on cunning. Intellect is not a gift of
ours. It comes from the other side. It was forced on them by us,
though, since they did not give it till it could act as a slur to
our teaching. Wisdom they have never given; it comes from us alone.
Still for all that our progress was slow and uncertain. In the first
place, we could not tell what had attracted humanity to us, because in
structure they were but little different from the other animals—at one
time not at all. It took long ages to solve the riddle, and it occupied
the undivided attention of some of our wisest spirits.

“At last we discovered that the nucleus of each was a spiritual jewel
set like a skeleton of empty cells. These cells, in the early ages,
must always have remained empty, for otherwise they would have become
noticeable, which they were not. But as the ages passed away we began
to find that in some cases some of these cells at least were filling.
It was a very wonderful structure, though simple. Every cell was
bound to be filled with one of two things (if it filled at all)—Good
or Evil. This was the soul—the thing that man has talked about so
greatly, the thing for which we fight and which is so precious to us,
forming our brightest jewels, and the seeds from which the after life
is sown. When the soul is pure and free from every stain we receive
it into our own spiritual bodies when death steals on the flesh. And
as the Father of the Spirit we form those seeds within ourselves to
our own natures. Then from us they pass into the essence of spiritual
love and light, the purest element of spirit; such as my wife. And
these are those gracious, loving mothers, without whose sweet care
and love and wisdom in building up such tender life our labours would
be lost. Since at the best the soul is but a crude thing, even when
purest, as compared with things of heaven, and of itself would die
and never germinate, having no strength to form itself. Indeed, who
ever yet, however free from sin, felt themselves fit to step from
earth to heaven even by death? For the long rest must come—the pure
cleansing, the healing strength, the quickening spirit—to drive away
the harshness and the shadow.

“But I have made a digression to explain. I must return to the earth’s
history. I said our progress was slow and uncertain; but in eternity
the time goes by without respect to feeling, it neither drags nor
quickens. Hundreds, nay, thousands of years elapsed before we could
make our power felt at all. The earth could not understand us. It was
wrapped in the veil of mystery and the chain of slavery, and was blind
and deaf to all influence from without. We were alien to it—strangers,
ignorant, and, by the law of conquest, weak, for the world was not
our own. Moreover, as you will perceive if you care to look into its
history, the whole thing reads more or less as a farce, a jest of the
Godhead, as indeed it was.

“Whenever good rose up it was rejected, scorned, despised and mocked
till it grew old, and then respectability being born with age it was
received and converted into evil. Good men died, egged on by screeching
multitudes to death, themselves egged on by devils of inferior order,
who had chosen evil rather than good. And there the farce and tragedy
were again repeated. They rewarded evil with the effects of evil—as
they said—bringing about all that torture and disrupture of the
spirit, which, like the undying worm the Saviour spoke of, must writhe
and twine until its appointed day. Moreover, this suffering and this
great curse are due to us, they say. For had we been content to let man
live his length of days without knowledge of good or evil, he would
never have known pain, and passed away in happiness like summer mist.

“At last we made an agreement at another conference, and it was this.

“We had known that as years rolled by and the empty cells became
capable of being filled they had on death descended to hell, there to
be emptied or built into hideous shape according to their fulness. Now
we demanded that each soul not completely given up to evil (or almost
so) might, when emptied, return again to earth, for on some our light
had shone, and it meant that this last ray went to swell the enemy’s
spoils and weakened us, since it was giving up part of our being. They
agreed to this, and then the after suffering began. Hell, previously,
had been but the dark shadow, except to those trained to its menial
service, who had wilfully steeped themselves in sin and shame.

“It was a bold, it may seem a cruel stroke, as it had taken us long
to fathom this little riddle of growing evolution. Heaven is often
depicted as a land of endless hallelujahs, but some of us have no taste
that way. It needs an absorbing genius of wisdom (which is simplicity)
even to understand it. And presently, after these years of failure
and disappointment, another little step to success was reached. In
hell they give devil’s medicine and devil’s punishment. And it is an
excellent cure of its kind. They never punish lightly. If a thing is
worth punishing they punish, if not they let it pass, to the winds,
perhaps, if it is no use. And so those souls which had to be reclaimed,
redeemed if you like it better, suffered their punishment and then
returned for the second time to earth. But the cloud of mystery again
surrounded them. They remembered, yet remembered not. They were, and
are, those more sensitive and higher natures for which the world can
often not account. They have had a forgotten experience, whose effects
in part remain.

“And it was with these that our best work was done; unless when they
dispatched them from their prison they wrought in them a gift. And
then the task was well-nigh hopeless. For they felt the presence of
the Godhead in themselves and were blinded by the mist. They longed
for something higher to respond to themselves, and on the dull cramped
earth could find nothing, because the gift had not come from us. But if
they sought and strove to find the light we ne’er withheld from any,
then they became our truest servants, and the gift given in hell came
to heaven and distinguished good from evil as it were, and dwelt with
us.

“The first souls that came to heaven capable of bearing life-forming
seeds had undergone this pre-experience. They were few, very few, as
you will understand, and not often those which the world would think
would arrive there. They were the weak and helpless, the suffering and
the patient, who had learnt from the past and present to stand what
others could never tamely undergo. They needed above all the spirit
of endurance, and all these things are wonderfully well learnt in
hell—they are remembered even when forgotten, in the hour of need.
My wife Ursula was one these. A noble spirit with great faults tamed
in hell and sent again on to earth to suffer in the hour of need. She
was one of our first children. I remember the great rejoicing when
she was born, and how all gathered round to see a result which all
had striven for from time scarce countable. And as I stooped to kiss
the baby fingers I felt them clasp unconsciously around my own, and
ever afterwards I stood by her through the great weakness and the
after-strength that ends the long journey.

“But our progress on the earth was very slow. We had no bribes to
offer, nothing to give but a purity and simplicity they could not
understand. For, as you know, the earth is tawdry and gaudy, and the
devils who tempted it understood its littleness and mediocrity well.
And here you will understand that those tempting devils are not the
great powers of Evil. I do not know that those great powers have ever
once put temptation in the way of man. They punish and give pain, but
for the rest, knowing well man’s nature, they leave things to his
weakness and ignorance and the slave spirits that work to ruin him for
their own ends. And man, left to himself, understands the powers of
Evil no better than those of Good. By a remarkably whimsical reasoning,
which is his chief characteristic, he put Evil one lower than Good,
because somehow, by a very muddled yet ironically truthful process, he
has come blindly to understand that Good will help and Evil hinder him.
And as, with natural conceit, he imagined all things were made for him
to pick and choose, he lauded his benefactor, and spoke of the Rival
Power as inferior, and grovelling under a fairly long and loose chain
of thraldom. But God is God, whether of Evil or of Good—like action
and re-action—equal and opposite.

“I have said that we had nothing to offer humanity. The world did not
belong to us, and therefore no pleasure nor greatness that it could
give could come from us. But nobility and purity and strength of
character had grown up even in this poor soil, as I have shown.

“And then at last the greatest riddle of all was solved—the riddle
of human nature. You will perhaps think it was a ridiculously long
time to have spent upon so simple a thing. The length of time and the
simplicity are equal. We discovered if we were to act with humanity we
must suffer with it, feel with it, be of it—in fact, take its nature
upon ourselves. It was, or seemed to be, a step of utter humiliation
and shame. I remember the time when the discovery was made—the silence
that came after it. Before, we had always felt a certain amount of joy
and triumph, but now that had gone. But because we had given the word
of God to uplift humanity, it could not be broken, nor would we have
wished to if we could. We wished to save and raise the many, not the
few; and the word ‘impossible’ was unknown to us. The powers of Evil
laughed, as well they might. This was the most exquisite jest of all.
If we would drag humanity up to us we must first descend to it, not
in condescension and superiority but in equality—not even that. But
there could be no dallying nor shirking by delay. Our plan was now to
see how the great work could be accomplished. It must be done secretly,
the introduction of pure light and Godhead on to earth, or otherwise it
would meet with ineffectual defeat, and the chance once lost would pass
for ever. About this time there was born to me a daughter. She was our
first-born child, and it seemed to my fond eyes I had never yet beheld
anything so fair and lovely. I used to watch her as she played about
the house, and she it was who drew me nearer to the earth—since she
had sprung from it by much trial and tribulation.

“But as she grew the question grew, How to descend unknown to touch the
nature of humanity.

“Then each spirit of heaven brought some pure essence of his own
body, and the whole was compressed to a seed so small as to be near
invisible. And it was this one seed that, coming from us and returning
to us, made us at one, or seemingly at one, with man.

“The greatest of our sages then were gathered to see how this fine seed
could be translated to the earth effectively and secretly, for its
presence was traceable but to the blind. At last Michael counselled
thus:—

“‘If we send it by one who is as innocent of its presence as of sin or
harm we may expect success. None act so well as those free from all
taint of deception and pre-arranged thought.’

“And the lot fell upon my daughter.

“She was but a tender spirit, not half formed in strength—never having
taken the long journey that completes and perfects the strength to that
of highest God. She had nothing but her own sweet graces and winning
perfection of beauty; not a fit thing to be left alone in any place
of danger. Moreover, she had had no experience of anything beyond our
home, and all her days had been spent in singing about the house, and
working, and studying such things as were suitable to her age and
understanding.

“With no ostentation we saw her leave heaven and hover into space.

“As she had slept the night before we had placed the seed within her
bosom, and she, unconscious, smiled and clasped my fingers in her hand
as once her mother did when quite a child. We saw her go, and all
heaven watched in silence, and she went smiling, not understanding why
she went, but as some passing pleasure of the hour.

“Then there happened one of those unforeseen things that alter
everything. By utter chance it happened that that day Vestasian had
visited the earth, and as he flew up above the chain and mist he saw
this lovely vision hovering there.

“He was surprised, no doubt, to see anything so weak and defenceless
near that great battlefield. And she, not knowing friend from enemy,
and feeling lonely in the great waste, drew towards him.

“And then began that which I told you of the other day. It was a case
of hardness and strength trying to absorb softness and no strength—for
that was what our daughter lacked. The only lasting and eternal
strength within her was that which I had given, won from the earth.
But at times, most curiously, there is strength in utter weakness, for
Vestasian, acting on the impulse of the moment, despising and laughing
at this weakness, caught her—and then was caught. For she had no
strength to resist his all-absorbing strength; he no weakness with
which to resist weakness. Almost within the instant they were joined—a
union so perfect that it became imperfect, seeing it lacked one great
element to keep the balance even. And so, in innocence, she went
with him to hell; and at last the marriage had taken place, the one
of which he spoke long since in jest. But as time went on, having on
earth chosen Good and not Evil, and finding no principle of Good among
these strangers she sickened, and at last died. All but those seeds of
life and a frail skeleton of grace and beauty left her and passed to
Vestasian, the only dowry she took to him—her life. Yet one thing she
had hidden until the end—which only parted from her with her life—and
that was our great secret, the seed of God to be imparted to humanity.

“And on the night she died and passed away from hell, drawn by the
power of God again to heaven, she went with him to see the lost souls
pray, and sang a song so sweet, so full of love and purity and light,
that one would have thought the very walls might have melted into tears
and gentleness. But not so those poor prisoners bound in darkness.
They heard, yet could not hear, except for one tired, weary, worn-out
soul whose term of prison life was over. He heard and soared with the
last flicker of life towards the dying angel, and she, with that sweet
thankfulness for trifles which always went with her, received this one
as a gift most precious and clasped it to her bosom. The act was just
in time, the mighty, hidden light she carried in her had passed beyond
her feeble strength. From her it passed into the innermost cell of that
soul cleansed by the fire of hell to an apparent newness.

“And Vestasian, blind with love, and blind with grief at the sad
parting, which even he could scarcely understand, never noticed
anything amiss, and let her return to me, who waited to carry her back
to life and light. Then, as we passed the earth, we laid this soul,
with its unconscious burden, within the lowly manger. Vestasian saw,
yet saw not—neither did any of them at the time. And this pure Virgin
Mother came back to heaven, and slept again the long, long sleep, and
when she rose, refreshed and strengthened, stayed with us till she went
again to him. And in the meantime, as the Saviour’s life advanced,
they saw that we had solved their riddle, and recognised the part my
daughter, Purity, had played in it.

“You remember well his life, of utter strength and utter weakness, the
finest tragedy that e’er was played upon the earth.

“Surely then you yourself can read the rest. We, who had so humbled
ourselves to send of our inmost being to the earth, were met with
scoffs and laughter, misunderstood, and the outward sign of our
presence, the body of Jesus, spat at and humbled to the very dust.

* * * * *

_Several passages omitted_

* * * * *

“When Jesus of Nazareth died, the Christ Spirit which was in him
returned to us from whom it passed. It entered into us and brought
us more in sympathy with Man, to understand him better, feel his
suffering and temptation, a thing before almost unknown to us except
in the abstract theory. But his soul was a thing as other souls, the
seed properly sown from which mankind may rise to heaven. So his soul
entered into the body of the spiritual father who had ever stood by
him in silence, waiting the last sad gasp of pain. And now you see
him, the heavenly likeness of that earthly substance, glorified and
beautified and turned to God.

“And she, the Virgin Mother, still returns to hell, and when she
carries souls away with her endows them with what graces lie in her
power, which then is very feeble. And now they can no more suspect her,
for the great seed has gone forth and returned, whatever its effects
have been and are upon the earth.

“And now I have told you the story of the earth’s evolution as
truthfully and as shortly as I can. To show you how it sprang from
evil and not from good, to show how it was born in blind mystery and
chains, the sport and cruel pastime of the Godhead, a mixture of jest
and warfare, an intertwining of truth and error, so interlaced that
each was truth and no truth, error and no error at a time. I could tell
you more, but time is quickly gone and we must go. You have listened
patiently. Would that others would do so too.” And here he ceased.

I had listened as one in an enchanted forest. Round us as he spoke the
soft faint light had drawn as in a circle, its outer rims spreading
in varied colours far out among the trees. From the deep lake near by
came the legend song of the dying swan, filling the air with sadness.
At times the nightingale warbled rich and full and then was silent, and
the owl ever sent its eerie cry down the glades, sad and lonely, yet
with no harsh note to break the saddened charm.

And so we went away, back through the forest to the silent city, and
though it was night, and Nature’s darkness closed around it, I had
never seen a more dazzling sight.

CHAPTER VIII

Next day I went to visit a painter, Adrian, and he took me to an inner
studio where he kept some of his favourite works, and at last he stayed
before a white curtain, soft as velvet and as pure as mountain mist,
and drew it gently backward.

“This is my masterpiece,” said he, and stepped back smiling gravely.

I looked and saw a face unseen before that had haunted me all my life
though till this day unknown.

He drew the curtain back long before I had had my fill of gazing at it.

“Silence is better than applause,” he said, and put his hand upon my
arm and moved away.

“Who is it?” I asked at last.

“That is Purity, Vestasian’s wife, the Virgin Mother of the God in Man.”

“She is more beautiful than all in heaven.”

He stopped and looked at me and shook his head and smiled.

“Not more beautiful, a little different, that is all. A little
tenderer, a little weaker, a little quieter, at times a little gayer,
at others a little more afraid of pain, and that is all.”

I stayed with him all the morning, and in the afternoon went to see
Philemon.

He dwelt on the other side of the river, and lived there very happily,
and Sunbeam and Moonbeam, who often used to go to have tea with him,
always came back with wonderful accounts of what they had seen and
heard and done. This afternoon I found him busy preparing medicines
and consulting every now and then a large book, which he had compiled
himself from his own investigations. But for all that he was willing
enough that I should join him, though he still continued his work at
odd intervals. I sat in the large open window and looked down on the
river. It was very bright and full of life down there. Pleasure barges
and swift canoes glided up and down the water, others walked upon its
shining ripples, and every now and then a form would rise from it and
shake the dashing spray far off in every direction.

At last Philemon threw aside his work and joined me there.

“You were up late last night,” he said.

“Yes. I went with Virginius to the forest and he gave me an historical
outline of the earth.”

“Did it interest you?”

“Very much. It accounts for a great deal which I did not understand
before.”

He looked at me.

“I thought your experience was a large one,” he remarked.

“I used to think so myself,” I admitted, laughing. “But lately I have
come to the conclusion I know very little of what I thought I knew, so
have altered my opinion.”

“You have been in hell?”

“Undoubtedly. That was another surprise for me. It was so different
from what I thought.”

“Are you quite sure you have never been there before?” he asked
suddenly, and turned upon me a pair of eyes so scrutinising that,
despite myself, I smiled.

“I’m sure of nothing, but I have no recollection of it.”

“I mean, you have never been there and found it as enjoyable as heaven.”

It was my turn now to return the stare.

“What do you mean?” I queried.

“I wish to know where you came from.”

“I am perfectly ignorant. If you wished me to find the way back to the
place from whence I came I could not do so. I lived in a world at the
other side of the magic mirror, and one day the mirror cracked and
shivered from side to side and I alighted without premeditation on the
earth, not even in my own habiliments but some which I borrowed for
a masquerade. And being caught and taken seriously as a thief, and
meeting with no intelligent person sharp enough to understand my case,
I was branded forthwith and dispatched post haste to hell.”

“You are sure this world you spoke of was not given you by Vestasian?”

“Pardon me, I was not even king there.”

He laughed.

“Did you enjoy life?”

“Why, yes. It was surprising the amount of evil one could bring about
in a day and yet be entirely innocent oneself.”

He looked at me.

“Ah! be careful, Genius. You are giving yourself away. That is
Vestasian’s peculiarity. Were you at all well acquainted with
Plucritus?”

“Why, yes. Before I was dropped willy-nilly in the little farm he and
I were very friendly. He was such excellent company.”

“And Virginius—had you known him?”

“Yes, but I never understood him. He had a way of looking which was
very puzzling, almost annoying. Moreover, he persisted in acting as if
I had lived for ever, a phase of existence I do not remember at all.”

“And Vestasian?”

“I never saw him till I went to hell.”

“Never saw him?”

“Never.”

“But you are very like him.”

“I can account for that. I took to staring at him on a bridge at
midnight; the likeness must have grown from that.”

“You are not speaking seriously.”

“Indeed I am.”

“Tell me of your father and mother.”

But I shook my head.

“Indeed, I would rather not. I am not at all fond of speaking of
myself, though by a strange irony it never may appear so.”

“What may not appear so?”

The words caused us to look towards the door, and there, just within
it, stood Vestasian—the subject of Philemon’s doubts and fears.

We were neither of us surprised. Vestasian never did surprise people
because he surprised them so completely. And I for one was pleased to
see him because he had always interested me, and because he was the
only one for whom I had entertained any fear.

As I went to greet him I noticed again the sweetness of his face and
the hardness; one seemed to cover the other like a mask. His was a face
which some, to pride themselves on far-seeing, would say they could not
trust, but then I don’t think he ever had any ambition to be trusted.

“You are pleased to see me, Genius,” he said, coming forward. “We
did not take an affectionate leave of one another—it was rather too
unexpected and too hasty. Who would have thought the last time I saw
you you were bound that night for heaven?”

“No, indeed. I had expected perfect annihilation or a second phase of
hell.”

He looked at me.

“You are looking much stronger than when I saw you last,” he observed.

“I find the society of heaven more congenial.”

Without answering he went to a sofa, the only thing of luxury in the
room, and threw himself down among the cushions and clasped his hands
above his head.

All this time Philemon had been watching him from the window. He had
not risen from his seat there, but apparently had not objected to the
interruption.

Vestasian lying there looked the very picture of luxurious ease.
Beautiful he was without a doubt, the kind of beauty that grows on one
the more one sees it.

“Which of us have you come to see?” asked Philemon at length, seeing
the conversation had suddenly come to a standstill.

“Both of you. You have no objection, Philemon?”

“None. Why have you come?”

“I have come for no particular reason. Time was dragging on my hands,
which is a new experience for me, or perhaps my wife is growing ill and
longs for the edelweiss of heaven.”

“I never saw her after all,” I said.

“No. Philemon, why do you look at me with such a disagreeable
minuteness?”

“I am trying to solve what relationship Genius bears to you.”

“You had best put it under a microscope.”

“Is it so small then?”

“Undoubtedly. What relationship should he bear to me? He has come from
earth, a place I never visit.”

“I noticed such a strong likeness I imagined there must be some
relationship.”

“A strong likeness,” cried Vestasian in a voice as hard and cold as his
face had suddenly grown, and he gazed over at me probably to discover
the resemblance.

“You need not think the distaste is all one-sided,” I observed. “You
are the last person in the universe I have the least ambition to be
like.”

“Then it gives me the greatest pleasure in the universe to believe in
the resemblance. Why do you object to me? But rather let us change the
conversation, it is personal and therefore unpleasant. Do you deal much
in cocaine, Philemon?”

“No, I have no such thing in my laboratory.”

“Come, come, I have known you administer a dose.”

“Indeed not. I never give any strong medicine in more than one
dose—and the effect is lasting. The effects of cocaine, as you know,
pass away.”

Vestasian smiled.

“Yes. All too truly. But do you really mean to say you never give more
than one dose of a strong medicine? Surely the effects cannot last for
ever.”

“They last a pretty sure length anyway. That’s the difference, you
know, between the real thing and a sham.”

“Plucritus is at home ill, suffering from a wound,” Vestasian went on,
turning to me.

“Indeed. That will be a new experience for him,” I suggested.

“Oh, no. Not at all. He and Virginius, as a rule, manage to keep fairly
even.”

“I should think as an invalid he would be rather unmanageable.”

“Not at all. Only, he has one peculiarity. When he is ill he will have
no physician, however experienced and wise. He will have no one but
Vestné to wait on him.”

“And is she a good nurse?”

“Oh! capital. Almost as good as I am.”

“Have you a gift that way?”

“Of course. With a wife as ailing as mine it is necessary I know
something about such things.”

“Yet you are not clever enough to keep her alive.” I repented the words
as soon as said, there was such a clumsy want of feeling about them.

He looked at me and passed his hand before his mouth.

“No, I am not clever enough for that,” he remarked quietly.

“Which way did you come?” Philemon asked.

“I came direct from hell and caught a glimpse of earth as I passed. You
may be thankful you are out of it, Genius; those who dispatched you did
the greatest kindness. I find earth depressing, I never wish to stay
there.”

“If it depresses you, why do you not tear away the chain and the mist?”

He shook his head, then smiled.

“We have given humanity a free will, which is gift enough of its kind.
If they wish to tear away the chain and grope through the mist to the
light, all well and good, but we will raise neither hand nor foot to
help them. Because, after all, if heaven is worth winning it is worth
fighting for and struggling for. We have little sympathy with those who
would walk in in respectable dignity and comfort. Man, by a perfect
irony, has been born to walk upright, but if he arrives at heaven it is
generally by crawling on all fours.”

“You do not grudge them heaven, then, if they attain it?”

“Not at all. Though we often maintain the contest to the last hour.
Look at Philemon here. On the earth he was a little shoemaker who died
in consumption. He had a nagging wife and two children to support. I
think if I remember rightly he was only in bed three days before he
died, and the smell of leather is not pleasant. Now that is what I
call a hero, for he never complained, and was so humble as to imagine
himself no better than those around him; indeed, if anything, he
imagined himself inferior by his lack of physical strength.”

Philemon took this sketch of himself as unconcernedly as if he had been
an outsider.

“And what has become of her—his wife?” I asked, grieving that he
should have been thus long a spiritual bachelor.

“Well, you see, she was put there as a thorn in the flesh to aggravate
and hinder him. There was a time when she did do so, but he got the
better of it, though not of her. She had no real soul, you see; the
cells were empty—it was a sham one. A little structure of nature that
the flesh had grown over, and which a narrow intellect, or rather
understanding, had killed at the birth.”

“What became of her?”

“I don’t know. She wasn’t bad enough for hell, I think. Oh, no. She
died out.”

The most curious part about this discovery was to see Philemon sitting
there listening with a face extremely serious, but not sad.

“You do not grieve for the loss of your wife?” said I.

Here Vestasian laughed outright.

“Oh, no. He was not among the converted nor those who came to the Lord.
At least, he is not now, whatever he may have been then. You see, no
one in heaven grieves over the loss of sham souls. They are the coarse,
low, cramped natures that never probably show it on the outside, that
are put into the world to act as stumbling-blocks to others. It is
only on the earth that sentimental grief and prayer are attached to
them. They are all so wishful to make converts and draw sinners to
Christ. Why it would be hard to say. They forget that people like Mary
Magdalene, whom they are so fond of quoting, went to him of herself and
needed no external urging. No. Neither in heaven nor hell do we grieve
over the loss of sham souls; they are simply useful in their effects on
other people.”

“Then surely they should not be tolerated.”

Vestasian smiled.

“Your schools are conducted on a wrong principle, as are so many of
your homes. Your punishments are not strong enough, your prisons are
too full. But if I talk thus I will help to drive the cloud away, which
will almost make of me a traitor.”

“Not it,” cried Philemon, laughing. “You put it there between you, but
it sticks by the law of gravity, which has not yet learned to smile
without becoming irreverent.”

“I suppose then you would teach pure morality and leave out religion,”
I said.

“It would be best,” Philemon declared.

“Ssh! Ssh! Don’t rouse the clergy,” Vestasian exclaimed.

“Why not? I could say the project came from hell.”

“Certainly.”

* * * * *

_Passage omitted_

* * * * *

“You see,” said Philemon, after a pause, “faith springs from true
morality, but it does not spring up with it. If a man is moral simply
because he is religious he is but a weakling, needing a crutch to lean
against. He should be moral out of respect for his brother man, a pure
feeling to lead a clean life, because it is right, without hope of
reward or glamour of future glorification. And as long as the Church
tries to force the two into the same channel it is but a failure,
whatever it may appear on the outside.”

“Well, of course,” affirmed Vestasian, indulgently. “But what can you
expect on the earth? They muddle things so. For one thing, they are
always trying to confound flesh and the spirit, pretty much as they
confound their religion and morality. But flesh is flesh, and spirit
will be spirit, if they howl and pray over it from now till Domesday.
What could be more amusing than to listen to the man who says grace
at meal-times? He returns thanks to my side of the Godhead for giving
him the fruits of our little serfdom, earth. He knows the world and
all upon it belongs to us; the Bible tells him so if he will read it,
and the Catechism too. But though he reads he’s stubborn and won’t
understand. He returns thanks for his food, whereas we don’t care a jot
whether its well cooked or ill. Now, if he would simply take it with
contentment and enjoyment, and be ready for poorer fare next day if it
came his way, he’d show some sense. And if by saying grace he thinks he
pleases such as Virginius and the rest, how far from the mark is he!
They are as callous about his appetite as we ourselves, and only drop
an unavailing tear when he eats or drinks too much.

“Then again there is the marriage service, and the baptismal service,
and all the rest, except the burial service. Forever trying to put
the spirit first and the flesh second, and gradually to draw a pretty
tight slip o’er them both, with spirit uppermost so that the flesh is
comfortably hidden underneath. All this for respectability, which is
the devil’s sham ermine cloak, as civilisation is his sham gold crown.”

“Yes, but you know if the world loses respectability it takes on the
other thing,” Philemon remarked.

“I know. Thereby testifying to its own depravity. Now for my part, the
people on earth I most admire are those who have lost respectability
and found something truer and deeper.”

“Vestasian,” said Philemon, “you must cease, or you will be becoming,
as you said—a traitor.”

He threw his head back on the pillow.

“I am excusable. When I am in heaven I feel for the time as those in
heaven. And after all, it is not my fault that the earth is as it is.
I came almost to the level of neutrality but was bound to take a side,
and got pushed by an unforeseen event to the apex.”

“Tell me further of Philemon,” said I.

“What of him? There is nothing further to tell, except that he has done
his little toward keeping others out of heaven.”

“How so?”

“Well, the people who patronised him and had their shoes charitably
repaired at his little shed naturally would not care to associate with
him here any more than on the earth. They would say he smelled of
leather and begged to be excused. They might join the elements with
his wife, or come to the exclusive cells of hell. But to get there one
needs a rather higher order of character. It isn’t every duffer who
gets to us any more than to heaven.”

“I agree with you.”

“You see,” he went on dreamily, his voice having sunk to a sweet
monotone, “every man worth calling a man, or woman for that matter,
has his little back parlour. Some call it their conscience. It’s a
little empty dark place at first with no real light in it, for the
backyard wall is very high. And after a time furniture begins to appear
in it. An armchair grows—a kind of dentist arrangement, which brings
no comfort when he sits in it. And then a table, which holds just the
little things he doesn’t want to see. The carpet is nothing but a
worn-out mat that shews strange stains upon the floor. And then there
is the cupboard. He keeps the door shut if he can. The shelves are
so dusty, the smell so musty, the skeleton so real. And the fire is
a very funny fire. In winter the flames are icy cold and freeze the
marrow of his bones, and in summer the fire is still there, raging hot
and strong. It’s a very shabby little back parlour, even though it
is built in the centre of a king’s palace. And the owner isn’t fond
of going into it—because there’s nothing there of which he can be
proud. Moreover, he can never take anyone in with him, not even his
wife—there’s only room for one. Besides, if he could get his wife in
it wouldn’t be a back parlour any longer. It would be a little homely
kitchen—the sweetest of all things. Besides, she has her little back
parlour too, and perhaps all her time is spent in trying to sweep away
the cobwebs that will not go. And all through life the little parlour
remains, and as much as possible they keep out of it and try to think
it isn’t there. And then one of two things will happen. One day he will
go into this little cell and pat all in order and dust it to the best
of his poor ability, and then he will sit down and wait, and the pure
light will shine and the back parlour will become a shadow—a memory of
the past instead of a reality. Or otherwise he will go there and find,
alas! that the door is closed upon him and he cannot get out. And no
light has entered, nor ever will enter, as far as he can see. He won’t
know where he is. He’ll imagine it’s a long dream of endless night, for
after awhile he will forget where the door is and lose the power to
want to get out. And he will have nothing to look at but the cupboard
and the table—nothing to feel but the fire, nothing to rest on but
the chair. And then in the long, long end, when it’s all over, he’ll
come back on the earth if his soul has been bargained for. And if he
was a prince before he may now be a beggar; and if a beggar formerly,
now a prince. Nature will give his flesh the Hapsburg lip or Bourbon
nose—it will not alter his soul. And then the next battle begins with
different flesh in other surroundings, and he stands his chance again.
And some people are not conscious of any back parlours, and they are
those curious people born with the sham soul. And many who would like
to be without the little shabby chamber are all too conscious that it’s
there.”

We had listened to the musical rhythm of his voice throughout, and I
for one had felt its truth, and Philemon was more deeply moved than I.

“Vestasian,” he said, “why do you come here to tell us such things? You
have almost made me feel myself on earth again.”

But Vestasian rose, laughing.

“It’s a queer knack I have of getting low-spirited at times—it is
natural to me—and is never more than a passing whim—no weakness, as
in mortals. Come with me to see Jesus.”

* * * * *

_Two pages of MS. omitted_

* * * * *

Then for some distance we walked on in silence.

The sun was setting behind the high peaked hills with a glorious
speaking silence. I had never seen such purple clouds—such red and
pink and gold embodied in a sky. They cast their reflection on the
spot we walked on and dyed Vestasian’s garments and my own. It was the
stilly point of eve, and none but ourselves walked toward the great
gates that bound the city. And suddenly he stopped, and turning,
looked at me.

“The sun is setting. Nature’s wearying repetition never wearies. Would
by the Godhead that encircles us that I were never weary too. I have
lived the long hard life that fills eternity, and to me there comes a
never-ending circle of unavailing pain. I have stood it time on time
and never wearied, and because I have not murmured they have imagined
I bore well with it and cared not, felt not. What! Can anyone have the
life nerves torn from him and have no pain nor feeling in the process?
I have loved to that strong ecstasy to which only spirits come—and
that love has filled my being. And then when life should be begun and
our true nuptials celebrated, gradually the unseen shadow has crept
in and dragged the vital strength away—inch by inch. For what am I
without this lovely spirit that twines and intermingles with my own?
What am I, or what shall be? Without her I am nothing—inanimate laws
and intellect and beauty intermingled without the quickening grace to
make a perfect whole. I cannot bear to see her die. It sickens me even
to the death to let her go. While she is there my whole heart lives in
her; when gone its throbs beat on a hardened bark that has no softness
such as it had when she was there to charm away the pain. At times it
comes to me to offer the great sacrifice—to give up all and let her go
for ever—to transform myself to Nature’s laws and passing beauty—even
to be part of such sunsets as you see o’er there against the hills.
Then comes the whole absorbing passion. I cannot let her go—I will
not—and the ensuing weakness. For as the dark hour deepens she must
pass torn from my side as never flesh and blood were torn from mortal.
They never know the depth of half my love, and think because I only
realise the half I only feel it. Ah! Genius, you will recognise my
weakness—born from a jest which has enveloped me.”

In silence he led me on towards the gate.

There outside, on the wild, glorious moorland, sat a figure robed in
white.

Seeing us she rose and came toward us.

This was the shadowy, heavenly beauty I had dreamt of. A face more
perfect I had never seen, nor eyes more sweet and star-like, nor lips
more sweetly parted in that tender smile, half mirth, half pathos.
Round her slight waist a belt of shimmering jewels shone, and one great
jewel at her breast. The straying pink of roses played upon her cheek
and faded into white, shaded by eyes so deeply and so softly blue that
one forgot their colour in their depths and longed to live in them. Her
smooth brow was shaded by soft hair, each in itself a tendril of pure
gold having the red glint out of it; but faintly here and there, to
make a perfect colouring.

I could no longer doubt her.

On my knees I took her hands within my own and kissed them, and tears
fell from my eyes, the first in all my life.

But then she drew me up to her and kissed me, even as a mother kisses
some lost, erring child, and held me in her arms, and laughed with
tears in her own eyes, and looked at me with such a long, last look
that ever afterwards I marvelled not at this great grief.

And then she turned to him and took his hand in hers and drew him to
me. He took both my hands within his own and looked into my eyes as she
had done, and kissed my lips and turned away.

And then together, she pressed close to him, and his all-seeming
powerful arm clasped round her, they sailed away together into space.

And I stood still without the gate and watched them.

In the distance they looked like one bright, glorious spirit, moving,
brilliantly white. But as they neared the earth, which they must pass,
the whiteness turned to brilliant red.

He gave one glance across towards the planet, scarce lasting out the
instant, but she raised her head and looked above his shoulder eagerly,
to catch the passing sight. And her fair, fragile face shone there,
looking wistfully, till they had neared the gates of hell.

And then I turned and remembered they had passed in silence. I had
never heard her speak.

And the sun set.

THE END

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