Front matter (continued 5)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"'Can you keep a secret?'

"'I fancy so.'

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

"'I promise.'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XV

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Certainly," he replied. "Without repentance there can be no upward progress, no hope of salvation; and the Father's forgiveness waits only on our ability to receive it and become conscious of His love. But though the moment we receive our Saviour's lesson and accept the fatherhood of God we know that we are cleansed from all sin, it will not alter the inevitable law of retribution; we must suffer, either now or hereafter. For every sin that we commit, we shall have to give account when the Day of Judgment comes--it may be to-day, or after many years. Of all the detestable doctrines that were ever taught, the creed that a man can sin and by repentance do away with the painful consequences of that act is the most degrading and the most dangerous. It is the outcome of a low animal instinct, which recognizes forgiveness as a purely material quality. As soon as man is brought to understand that by every deed of cruelty, by every mean action, he is raising a lash for his own back, and that as surely as it is raised so shall it fall--not because God wishes to hurt him, but because he is wilfully going out of God's light--then, and not till then, will he learn to love order and strive to follow its rule. The intention which many persons cherish of a future repentance is simply a contemptible form of selfish cowardice, and what is called repentance itself is often little or no better. I have more respect and hope for the man who dies cursing God as he has lived to curse Him, than for the blubbering, repentant sinner who, having by his selfishness fought all through life against his Maker, and having been the damnation of those who crossed his path, thinks to propitiate an angry deity by saying he is sorry. Yes, he is sorry--sorry that he can sin no more, and that the whip is waiting--sorry even, perhaps, that he ever sinned, for he has found out that even in this life it did not pay. But would he take the trouble to repent if he knew that it made no difference to his future happiness or sorrow? If this is so, he is no better than the dog which grovels on its back at the sight of an uplifted cane. Which is the better animal, the one which stands up to take the blow, or the one that lies at your feet? Does the wise master spare the coward and thrash the braver animal? No; if he hits at all he will hit both for their own good; and the one on his back will probably get the worst of it; and so will the repentant sinner.

"But come, we have wandered far enough out of the way, and I have by far the pleasantest part of my story yet to tell. I will go back to the truly repentant sinner whom we left weeping, not for herself or for her own pain, but because she had harmed the man she loved, and God, as she thought, had punished him by death.

"I will pass over some months, during which little of importance happened. Mr. Soudin, always a weak man, and having now little to occupy his time, fell more and more into the habit of drinking. He had for years taken more than was good for him, but not in a way to cause remark, his head suffering less than his body. But now, being much alone, he frequently overstepped the line of orthodox sobriety--a line which society draws in this case, as in all others, where its own convenience is affected.

"Fortunately for Vera she had at last found a companion who was in every way worthy of her affection. Agnes Thomson was at this time about thirty, and had little physical beauty, though her eyes and expression redeemed her from plainness. She possessed one of those natures which seem created from birth to minister to others, and are never so happy as when occupied in relieving distress, or in making the lives of those around them brighter. When in the presence of such we are unconscious of effort, see no strain of renunciation; they minister to those around them, as the bird feeds its young--because they want to. Such persons, though often imposed on, are seldom appreciated at their true worth, on account of the high quality of their natures. I have even heard it said, 'Oh, there is no merit in such unselfishness--she cannot help it.' But what an unconscious tribute to the soul is this! And what has such a spirit passed through before it so perfectly reflects its Maker!

"It was chiefly owing to my action that this girl went to Somerville. She had broken down while looking after an orphanage in Manchester, and the doctor had said that it was absolutely imperative that she should give up all work for some time. She dreaded the idea of parting from the little children, and struggled as long as possible; but the body at last gave in, and I was then able, by indirect influence, to bring her and Vera together. As soon as Agnes came to live with the beautiful young girl, she loved her as she had loved her orphan children, and indeed as she would have loved any man, woman, or child, good or bad, fair or ugly. She saw that her companion was suffering, and had little difficulty in drawing from her the story of her life; and Agnes wept with her, feeling all the time as if she had been in the young girl's place. When she came to think over it afterwards, what she called her conscience reproved her for not having even remonstrated. How wrong it all was! And she felt that she ought to have given reproof. Fortunately she never acted down to her conscience, which being an illuminated reflection from the creed of lesser minds, would only have retarded her influence. She taught her lessons, without knowing it, by the example of her own life.

"Two months after she came, Mr. Soudin was taken dangerously ill, and as his body had of late exhausted all its power in trying to digest four times as much food as it required, and had also been drenched with alcohol, he sank rapidly from weakness, dying the common death of starvation through excess of nourishment which so often takes the form of either diabetes, gout, or dropsy. As the death of each man is felt through loss of sympathy, he was but little regretted, and even his daughter, after the shock, was unwillingly conscious of relief.

"Thus Vera was left alone with her companion, whose bright influence day by day made itself felt, and revealed to her the lesson which is so hard to learn, that happiness on earth comes but by reflection. Pour out joy on others, and it shall overwhelm you. Forget yourself in others, and the tormentor strives in vain to harm you. See good in all things, and hell cannot hold you.

"But it is time that I told you something of Vancome. I had made him a fairly liberal allowance on condition that he did not try to interfere with his wife's freedom. As soon as he returned to England and the conditions were explained to him, he consulted his solicitor with the hope of being able to get hold of Vera and her fortune, but his adviser gave him little prospect of success, and he decided, at any rate for a time, to accept the offer. He was the more willing to do this owing to his superstitious dread of some fiendish power which he believed me to possess. It is a curious fact that evil natures always regard an exhibition of force incomprehensible to them as some eccentric trick of the devil. The most superstitious men will be found among those who profess atheism. They scoff at the idea of God, while trembling at the shadow of Satan; and dread a dinner party of thirteen while denying the Last Supper.

"For a year Vancome followed much the same dissipated life as he had done previously to his marriage. He gambled, at first with caution, for he was no longer desperate, and for a time was successful, being thus enabled to indulge all his other extravagant tastes. But about the time of Mr. Soudin's death his luck turned, and he began to lose heavily. One night while playing piquet at the W---- Club he was caught cheating. He had been suspected for some time, and a trap was laid into which he fell. As there was no room for doubt he was expelled from the Club, and no longer dared to show himself in society. His future, all the future that he cared for, was ruined, while his title only assisted to advertise his shame. For days the papers increased their circulation at his expense, and the scandal in high life was placarded on every station and shouted through every town. His wife was commended for her forethought in having refused to live with him, while the more scurrilous papers exhausted their energy in raking up as many past scandals in his life as they could discover, feeling that there was little danger of an action for libel.

"It was during this outburst that I decided to see him. I had no longer any bitter feelings towards this man, and though while feeling certain that he would think at first I had come to gloat over his misery, I hoped to show that this was not the case, and that my desire was to help him. I found him sitting alone in his chambers; he had been drinking heavily for some time to drown his misery, and as I came in he looked up with dull glazed eyes which at first showed no sign of recognition. But suddenly they changed; his face became livid with anger.

"'Fiend!' he cried. 'It is your doing--and so you have come to see the end of your work! But you are mistaken--we will go down to hell together--you shall not escape me this time!'

"He took up a revolver which I had noticed lying on the table, and pointed it at me.

"'There are five chambers,' he said, 'and one is enough for me--I can spare you the other four!'

"I looked him in the face for a moment, and then said, 'Vancome, you cannot kill me, and for the present you shall not kill yourself, for at the moment you are not responsible for your actions.'

"'I will kill you!' he cried. 'Damn you! I will!' And he strove with all his might to pull the trigger, but was powerless. His right hand sank slowly down till it lay by his side, and his revolver dropped between his fingers on to the rug at his feet. He staggered back to his chair, and I went up to him, and placing my hand on his burning forehead made him sleep.

"At this moment the door opened, and a young, showily-dressed girl entered.

"'Oh!' she cried. 'Goodness, what is the matter?'

"'Lord Vancome is ill,' I said, 'and will have to be carefully watched. Is there any one here who could look after him?'

"'Ill,' she laughed, and her laugh, as her speech, told her origin and life. 'D. T. ay? Well, I was a-thinking of cutting it just now--that settles the business!'

"'Wait a moment. Lord Vancome is not suffering from delirium tremens.'

"I said this, not because I wished for her services, but because there were enough reports about already without her adding a false one.

"'Who are you?' I asked.

"'My!' she said. 'Well, you are a beauty! Where do you hang out not to know Totsey Ben of the ---- Theatre?'

"I was not previously aware of Totsey Ben's existence, but though she did not give me the details in words, I now knew that she took a very minor part in a comic opera being played at that rather disreputable theatre. I could see also the vile and filthy slum in which she had passed her childhood, and many of the coarse and revolting experiences connected with her early life before she blossomed out into a ballet-girl. Nor were the visions connected with this transformation scene much more entrancing.

"This girl, and such as she, without refinement, possessing only the coarse animal attractiveness, had been the chosen associates of Vera's husband, a man who had been brought up surrounded with all the delicate associations of noble birth and culture. It takes many centuries to create a gentleman and refined taste; but sometimes only a few years to revert to the lowest order of civilized brutishness.

"'Well,' I said to the girl, 'I do not fancy you would be of much use as a nurse, so perhaps you might as well pack your things and go.'

"'I reckon you're about right," she answered. 'But before I clear out, I will have my money or know why.'

"She went up to Vancome and shook him.

"'Leave him alone,' I said. 'Can you not see that he is ill?'

"'Ill!' she cried. 'I knows that there sort of illness! Ain't a bad sort neither till you wakes up with a splitter!' She took hold of a half empty whisky-decanter that was on the table, and putting the bottle to her mouth, took a draught of the raw spirit.

"'Girl,' I said, 'you shall have your money; it is dearly enough earned.' And I laid some notes on the table. Her manner immediately changed.

"'Oh! you're a swell, are you?' she asked; and I was surprised at the extraordinary difference the new expression made in her face. She looked now what some men would call pretty, and her manner of speaking became less offensively vulgar. 'Sorry I made a row, but my temper's been tried simply awful these last few days. I know how to behave, I do!' And she curtseyed to me with her cheek resting on her hand, which was evidently part of the accomplishment taught her at the theatre.

"'Go and look in the glass,' I said.

"She took up the notes, and going to a long mirror, looked, expecting to see the simpering expression called up for the occasion; but though there is little hope of rousing such a one even by fear, I thought it better to give her one chance before she left.

"What she saw it is unnecessary to tell you. I called up before her mind pictures of what her future life would probably be, as she sank lower and yet lower on the downward path. She stood there motionless with horror as the pictures changed from bad to worse, till at last she saw the well-nigh unrecognizable image of herself as she lay in one of the hospital wards: then with a shriek of fear she turned, looked at me for one moment with terror-stricken eyes, and fled from the room.

"I sent for a trained nurse, and, with her assistance, watched over Vancome till he recovered. Before many days his dislike wore off, and in the depth of his misery and loneliness, he turned to me as a friend, the only one now left to him. When he had sufficiently recovered, I persuaded him to go abroad and travel.

"I saw him off. When we parted he said to me--'I am very sorry to lose you, and still more sorry for the way in which from the first I have acted. It is no use going into the matter. You are a strange being, Sydney; it is hard to know what to make of you. I used to think you were the devil, and now am half inclined to fancy you are an angel. But angel or devil, you are certainly not a man, for no man would have done all you have for nothing. You never make use of an opportunity even if it is thrown in your way. Now why did you not let me die? You could then have married Vera, and, as the books put it, lived happy ever after.'

"'I will tell you why,' I said. 'There is no such thing as the happiness you speak of. You have tried to find it in one way; others try to find it by other means, but they all fail. No one who seeks for happiness ever gains it. It is the same with all. One man seeks fame; for years he struggles through pain and weariness, till at last, maybe, it comes, and he finds the desired angel but a poor, thin, unsatisfactory phantom, pointing with one finger at death; and he laughs that he could have wasted his youth and health in search of such a miserable, mocking spectre. The idea that wealth gives happiness is about the most comical delusion that man suffers from. There is one plane of enjoyment which is determined by the man himself; one delusion that this plane can be altered by climbing the treadmill of prosperity. A man puts his foot on the step, and immediately descends to the same position; and many continue to climb after happiness in this foolish manner all their lives. Unknowingly they may perhaps turn the mill of invention and progress, and this is most likely the object of the delusion. No, Vancome,' I concluded, for the boat was starting, 'try a new way, and you shall yet turn cursing to blessing. Good-bye.'

"This is the last time that he ever saw me; but I know that he remembered these parting words, and did not altogether live the rest of his life in vain. Two years after this, whilst shooting in Africa, he was attacked by cholera, and died. During his short illness I never left him. When I came to his bedside he was insensible through the pain of the first attack. The case was quite hopeless; but I was able to save him further suffering, and he never regained consciousness. His body was embalmed, sent to England, and buried in the family grave at Somerville.

"I had spent the greater part of these two years at Aphar. Vera no longer needed my help. She was learning from her friend the joy of living for others. Agnes still yearned after the little orphan children she had left, and so contagious is true enthusiasm, that unconsciously she infected Vera with the desire to help her in this work. One day a sad case came under her notice. One of the Canons of L---- Cathedral was lunching at Somerville, and the conversation drifted to 'Workhouse Management,' a pet subject of the Canon, who was on the Board of Guardians.

"'It is very fortunate,' Agnes said to him, 'that you who take a real interest in the poor are on the Board; so often these matters are left in the hands of those who care for little but their own interest.'

"'I hope,' he replied, 'that I have been able to do something, but under the present system the work is enough to make any man's heart bleed. For the old people we can do something, but for the little children it is terrible. Once let them get into the workhouse, and seven out of ten are ruined for life.'

"'I know,' said Agnes, tears coming into her eyes. 'It is terrible! Herded as they are together, without love, or personal sympathy, the evil which is always surrounding them works like leaven. Do you know, Vera,' she continued, turning to her friend, 'that the little things when they came to me at the Orphanage often did not know how to kiss. Oh! it made my heart ache, trying to teach a little girl of seven to kiss me.'

"'Yet these are not the most painful cases, to my mind,' the Canon said. 'Only last week two children, such dear little things, were brought in by the relieving officer. Their mother, a widow, had for four years struggled hard to support them, but work for which she was unfitted, at last brought on consumption. When she died there was nothing for it but to bring them to the pauper school. They will now have to be separated from each other. The boy, who is a plucky little fellow of nine, has always looked after his younger sister, and when he heard that she must be taken from him I never saw such abject misery on a child's face. "She sha'n't go," he said. "I promised mother to look after her--she sha'n't go!" And the two poor little lonely things clung together and had to be separated when they fell asleep. I would not let the officer tear them apart.'

"'It's shameful!' Vera said. 'Why do people let such things be?'

"'God only knows!' the clergyman answered. 'Because they are, I suppose, too selfish to care. If they could only be made to see for themselves the misery, it would not be tolerated; but they pay the poor-rate and think no more about it. Would that some voice could make them hear; the evil could so easily be remedied.'

"'It sha'n't happen in the case you have mentioned, any way,' Vera said; 'shall it, Agnes? We will have them here and look after them, poor little things.' And Agnes, whose heart was too full for words, could only answer by getting up and kissing her friend.

"Thus it came to pass that the work began, but no one with a heart can begin such a work of love and stop. I have known women fairly well off start such an undertaking, and nearly starve themselves to death for the sake of the little ones. There is always one more that must be saved; the home is full, the money running out, but the sorrowful face pleads too strongly, and room must be found. And so it was with Vera and Agnes. Somerville could soon not contain its inmates. A new home was built in the park; fresh hands had to be employed.

"There was no danger for Vera now; in such work there is no time for weariness or sin. Little hands drag the selfishness out of those who tend them; tiny lips satisfy the aching want of love. Happiness that has so long evaded pursuit, comes unsought and overwhelms the givers. Faith, never learned through doctrine, is discovered by the evidence of a love-awakened heart when it first realizes that such as these little ones are the angels who behold the Father's face; and that inasmuch as we have done it unto one of the least of these, we have done it to our Saviour; and through Him found salvation."

PART V

CHAPTER XVI

When I next went over to spend the evening with Sydney I reminded him that there was a room in his house which he had promised some day to show me.

"Be patient," he answered, "you will see it before very long."

My companion was in more than usually good spirits. He was in one of his bright, amusing, and kindly satirical moods, and for some time he kept me in a state of nearly continual laughter by recounting his early experiences with the sixth sense before he properly understood how to regulate this new power.

"During the next two hundred years," he said, "the earth will be a lively place for those who are fond of observation. If I am not much mistaken there will be great progress in the growth of spiritual science, and as its professors will probably possess a very imperfect knowledge there may be some little confusion. Fancy how unpleasant it will be to many people when their thoughts become common property, and their actions can no longer be done in secret. When a cad, however polished, will appear as a cad; and children will be sent to school to undergo heart-training and not to learn deportment; when the future members of Parliament will have to study the art, not of elocution and subterfuge, but of caring more for their constituents than for their own interests; when the wife will no longer ask her husband why he returned so late, because she will know as well as he does; when the detective will be banished into the region of history, and the judge require neither witness nor jury; when curiosity, the cause of so much vice, shall be exercised only in spiritual things, and men and women walk naked yet unashamed both in body and spirit.

"Of course all this will come gradually, and future generations will find no more inconvenience than would young children if the change took place to-morrow. All our so-called modesty and our deceit are unknown to them, being merely the outcome of training. The child is open enough until by mental or physical smacks he learns to cover his body with garments, and his thoughts with words most suitable to concealing them. When such clothing is transparent the man will become in this respect as a little child.

"This will be the time of which Emerson speaks, when he says--'Every man takes care that his neighbour shall not cheat him, but a day comes when he begins to care that he do not cheat his neighbour. Then all goes well; he has changed his market-cart into a chariot of the sun. What a day dawns when we have taken to heart the doctrine of faith! To prefer as a better investment being to doing, being to seeming, logic to rhythm and to display; the year to the day, the life to the year, character to performance.'

"The desire to perform is the one great hindrance to progress. So many wish to do, so few to be. If we are great we cannot help doing great things, and if we are small-minded no effort shall magnify our output. It is for this reason that I give a limit of two hundred years for even this partial development of a sense which is already latent in many. In the present rush of action growth is retarded, discovery thrown into the melting-pot for gain, whereby its most valuable component parts escape in the form of invisible gases. But come with me, and I will show you the secret which is hidden behind that third door."

We passed as usual into the laboratory.

"Sit down, and while we smoke I will tell you a few things which it is as well you should know before we go further.

"I think," he continued, when we had settled ourselves comfortably, "I have already explained to you that, contrary to the general belief, Wordsworth was quite right when he said--

'Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting;

The soul that rises with us, our life's Star,

Hath had elsewhere its setting,

And cometh from afar.'

"There are very many cases where it is necessary for certain reasons that the spirit should be re-incarnated on this earth many times before the earth-lesson is learned, and before it is able to unite with the feminine element and thereby rise to more perfect existence. Life, like matter, is indestructible, but as atoms unite and reunite to form what we call elements, and these again unite and reunite to form chemical compounds, so life or spirit, which is one and the same thing, is ever being drawn together by attraction.

"Thus, for the sake of argument, we will say that the life of a flower unites with that of another flower, and rises thus to the animal kingdom where free existence is possible. I use this expression only for convenience, as no arbitrary line can be drawn between the two kingdoms. Then again, the lower animal life unites with its female element to form the higher; and so on up to man. This explains why the lower we go down in the scale the greater is the number of lives to be found on each level, for it requires millions to blend together before the higher orders are reached. This is why also in animals you see certain sides of characters which are all noticeable in man. They are, as it were, the bricks making ready for the future temple. So the spirit of man is also imperfect and one-sided lacking the feminine qualities to be found in woman. A time comes, however, when two suitable natures meet, and after death their spirits blend together even as Swedenborg has written, and they form what he calls one angel; that is to say, a still more perfect being. And this joining together does not cease even then, but angel unites with angel and archangel with archangel up to God. Thus none can harm his neighbour without injuring part of his future self, for all at last shall be one.

"This view is repellent to the carnal mind, as it destroys what he is pleased to term his individuality; but this is only owing to the fact that his mind at present is unable to comprehend unity with personality. An interesting example of the confusion arising from this difficulty will be obvious if you hear a deist and a trinitarian argue together."

"But," I said, "I do not like the idea myself. I wish to retain my own consciousness, and have no desire to be merged in others."

"Do you not retain your own consciousness now?" he asked.

"Undoubtedly."

"And yet," he continued, "millions of lives have united to form that consciousness."

"But I don't care about the past," I said, "it is the future. According to you, in my next existence I shall unite with some other spirit and lose half my own individuality."

"I do not think you will," he replied laughing, "because you do not love as yet, and love only is the attraction which draws kindred spirits together. When they desire to unite, they will. Till then they must remain incomplete. But those who are thus joined together are conscious not of loss, but of the most exquisite gain; and this union is foreshadowed by the joining together in marriage of man and woman here."

"But it cannot always be the spirits of husband and wife who are thus united."

Sydney laughed.

"Hardly," he said. "Marriage is but a material convenience, and there are not many who have reached that state when the unity of souls becomes desirable; but nevertheless there are those living whose marriage is a foretaste of a union which shall be made perfect through death. But often the complement of a spirit is not on this earth, though they have met in some previous existence."

"Do you know," I asked, "to whose spirit yours will be united?"

"I do," he answered; and the accent on the words drew my attention to his face: there I read such depth of love and hope as I have never seen light up the features of man or woman. "It was," he said, "while in the spirit-world that I learnt much of what I have now told you. But I learnt more than this, for I was able to look into the past, and to see the why and wherefore of many things that had previously puzzled me here. It was something that I had thus discovered which induced me to buy the land and build this present house. Beyond that panel, through which we are going, lies one of the secrets of my past. But I must explain one more thing to you before we go.

"The higher the form of spirit life, the longer it usually takes for souls to unite. In the lower orders these changes may occur every few minutes; in the higher, centuries may intervene."

Sydney now got up, and motioning me to follow, went to a sliding panel, touched a spring, and we passed together into a narrow passage. After descending some winding steps, which must have brought us to about twenty-five feet below the level of the house, we passed through another door into a large covered courtyard which, except for its domed roof and polygonal shape, reminded me of one of the Pompeian houses.

"This," said my companion, "is, as far as I know, the only perfect Roman house in Britain, and the history of its preservation is very interesting. The stone roofing of the courtyard is also curious, resembling as it does more the covering of one of the Roman tombs to be found in St. Helena and Sta Costanza than the usual domestic style of architecture. It was in this very court that centuries ago I first met the girl I love, and have in many forms loved ever since. It was in that room beyond"--he pointed to one of the smaller apartments which could be seen through an open archway--"that a scene took place the effects of which have been felt to the present time."

After taking me over the building, which was in perfect preservation, and showing me the bath, kitchen and various rooms, he drew my attention to the mosaic floor and to various frescoes on the walls. The workmanship was very beautiful, but the scenes depicted were coarse and sensual.

"Now," he said, "that I have shown you one of the scenes of my life, we may as well go up to the room above. This place is cold, and if you wish to hear the story we shall find it more comfortable in our usual place."

As soon as we had returned to the laboratory my companion began his story of the past.

"It is unnecessary for me to give you a full picture of this district during the close of the fourth century. At this time, as you will remember, the Romans had not been recalled, and many of the nobles had settled down at various places in the southern counties, having built for themselves houses more or less after the type then common in Italy. Some of these Roman villas have been discovered in recent years, though none so well preserved as the specimen we have just examined. This house was built by Valerius Marius, a celebrated warrior and huntsman. He selected this spot when the times became more peaceful on account of the abundance of game in the neighbouring forest. The soldiers and slaves under him were for the time organized into an army of beaters, after the manner of those days. The wild boar and other beasts were thus driven from the forest into netted enclosures and slaughtered by hundreds.

"This man had never married, but he had one child, Viola, by a favourite slave, who, at this time, was a very beautiful girl of about sixteen. He treated her as his own daughter, bringing her up in luxury, and letting her follow her heart's desire, which, considering that she was by nature little better than a lovely savage, was a dangerous experiment. Among her retinue of slaves was a fair Saxon boy, who, on account of his good looks, had been bought for a high price when nine years old to act as a page to the little girl. Like many men engaged in active pursuits, the father allowed these two children to grow up together, without realizing the changed condition which came by years, or that his baby girl was growing into a woman, and her little slave-boy into a youth. The female slaves who ministered to their mistress, while probably conscious of the danger, had no wish to interfere and to rob the girl and themselves of a bright and pleasant companion.

"Thus it came to pass that these two children were left much together, especially during the hunting expeditions, and like two beautiful animals they developed early. The girl, partly owing to her sex and partly to her Southern blood, led the way in this as she did in all other matters. The boy was her slave, and she never for one moment forgot to remind him of his servitude, whether they were at play together, or whether he were attending to the many duties she found for him. And the boy had loved her from the first with a childish devotion; the beautiful little dark-eyed girl had been his queen from the first day when he had been brought, a little naked, fair-haired boy, and given to the maiden in the atrium or hall. As she ran out of the tablinum beyond on hearing her father's voice, his big blue eyes opened wide with astonishment. Was this to be his mistress, this dainty little white-robed goddess? And unbidden he knelt down before her, fully persuaded in his childish ignorance that he was in the presence of some elfish deity. He would then and at any future time have died to save her, and though she often treated him brutally, even making the women slaves beat him unmercifully if he happened to cause her displeasure, no thought of anger ever entered his mind. Was she not his mistress? And why should she not do with him as she desired?

"According to custom, the owner of a slave gave him whatever name seemed most suitable, and the maid, by reason of the colour of the child's hair, called her little servant Aureus. As Viola grew older she was allowed on certain occasions to ride out with Aureus and meet her father at the end of one of the netted enclosures, so as to witness the final slaughter. Here, placed upon a small platform erected on one of the trees, she could watch the wild boar and other animals as they were driven further and further into the ambuscade. She saw them rushing madly at the netting and being slaughtered by the men who surrounded it with their long boar-spears. But the moment of true excitement came at the end, when with a wild rush the maddened animals, who had so far escaped destruction, burst at last through the only opening possible and rushed into the open plain. Here at least they had some little chance of escape, for though they were unable to return to the forest, they might, if they could avoid the archers' arrows, find at last some distant cover. The footmen had done their work, and at this point the horsemen galloped forth followed by the hounds, who had till now been kept in leash. The plain was soon covered with flying huntsmen and hounds, racing after the maddened fugitives. But exciting as this scene was, Viola soon got tired of being only a spectator, and would often urge her father to allow her to follow the chase on horseback; but he, knowing the danger, had hitherto always refused.

"Now it so happened that among the slave girls was one named Myra, who had recently been bought by Valerius Marius on account of her beauty. She was ambitious, and hated her mistress on account of the high position which she held through her father's love. If, she thought, I could but get rid of this girl I might rule here myself in her place.

"It was not long before she realized how dangerous the intimacy might soon become between Aureus and Viola, and though she had no ill-will to the former, she was quite willing to sacrifice him if only by so doing she could also bring about the destruction of her mistress. To accomplish her ends she decided to worm her way into their affections. As she had seen much of life and no little of vice, she was able to interest the girl with many stories connected with the past. But she did not find it easy to get an opportunity to talk in private with the boy. Viola seldom allowed him to leave her, and was evidently jealous if he showed the least liking for any of the slave girls, more especially for the new beauty. Myra, however, was not to be easily defeated. She saw at once that the boy was as yet a child, and that to accomplish her end speedily it would be necessary for her to awaken some youthful passion in his heart, which should ultimately bring about the ruin of her rival.

"Taking, therefore, an opportunity when for once Viola unaccompanied had gone with her father to visit some neighbouring Roman nobles, she drew the boy aside and asked him to show her the surrounding country.

"'I have,' she said, 'not dared to go beyond the enclosure, fearing the wild beasts, but with you as companion I should not fear.'

"It was against the rules for any of the female slaves to go outside the boundary of the dwelling-place without permission, but Myra was at this time in favour, and no one left behind would have dared to interfere with her actions. She was known to be vindictive, and, having the ear of her master, would have had little difficulty in revenging an insult.

"So Aureus consented, and they wandered out into the forest, following the course of a small stream. At length they came to an opening in the trees where the sun shone pleasantly upon a bank of ferns. Here they sat and rested. At their feet was a deep pool in which the boy had often bathed; and Myra, as she reclined on the bank, dabbled her bare legs in the clear water to wash the dust from them.

"'Do you often come here with your mistress?' she asked. 'You seem always with her.'

"'When we were children,' the boy said, 'we often stole out here in the summer-time to bathe in the cool water. But we do not bathe here now.'

"'Why not?' his companion asked.

"The boy looked up into her face with a comical, innocent expression. 'I do not quite know,' he said. 'She is too old to bathe now, except in the bath; only slave girls bathe out of doors when they are grown up.'

"'So you think it does not matter what we do?' she said.

"'You are different from the others,' he answered. 'You wear a tunic, and not an ordinary dress.'

"'You call this a tunic, do you?' she said, pointing to the thin garment which partially concealed the full sensuous beauty of her limbs. 'This is not much of a robe, this summer thing. I might almost as well be without it.'

"'Do you feel cold?' he asked.

"'Feel me,' she said.

"The boy placed his hand upon her bare neck as she moved closer to him. 'You are quite hot,' he said, 'your skin almost burns me. But how soft and smooth it is! Tell me, why are women so much more beautiful than men?'

"'I don't think they are,' the girl answered. 'You, for instance, are more beautiful than Viola. Look at your arm;' and as she said this she laid her dark hand upon his shoulder. 'How fair you are by the side of any of us! Look at your hair;' and she ran her fingers through the bright soft waves of gold. 'Do you not think that it is more beautiful than our long dark tresses?'

"'No, I do not,' he said. 'Viola's hair is beautiful, and so is yours; far more beautiful than mine.'

"'There you are mistaken,' she said. 'You do not know. Come and look.'

"The two bent forward over the still clear water. It was a pretty picture which they saw reflected; the young boy's fair sun-tanned face surrounded with a bright halo of curls through which the sunlight played. The girl bending over him, her dark tresses, which she had unbound, falling over his shoulders and covering them both as with a cloud; her breast, which hitherto looked brown against the white of her tunic, now by contrast with the deep shade of her hair was reflected back with the brilliancy of ivory.

"'You are beautiful,' was all the boy said.

"'We are beautiful,' the girl corrected. 'Do you think,' she continued, 'that I am as lovely as your mistress?'

"'Oh dear, no!' the boy replied, with uncomplimentary frankness. Then, feeling that he had angered her, he went on, 'You see it is different. She is so young, so delicate!' And saying this he looked again into the water, contrasting in his mind the tender budding grace of the maiden with the reflection of developed womanhood before him.

"Myra laughed; but though it was not her desire to win the boy from his devotion to Viola, there was beneath the laughter in her eyes an angry, jealous light.

"'Ah! my pretty infant,' she cried, 'when you are older you will grow wiser. So you love this little mistress of yours, do you?'

"'I worship her!' he said, slightly correcting the verb, and giving it, not only a fuller, but more chastened meaning.

"'What is the difference,' she asked, 'between love and worship?'

"'You tell me,' he said; 'I am not good at explaining, I only feel.'

"They had moved back from the water, and were now once more lying on the soft bank.

"'I don't think you know much about feeling, child,' she answered, 'and as for love, why you're a perfect baby! We begin by worshipping; we go on to loving; and we often end by hating!'

"'Then I don't want to get to loving,' he said, 'I like worshipping best, especially if love leads to hatred; but I don't believe it! I might, perhaps, hate you, Myra, but I never could hate Viola. However, tell me what love is, and I will tell you if I have ever loved.'

"'Have you ever kissed your mistress?' she asked.

"The boy looked surprised. 'The Roman nobles,' he answered, 'do not kiss their slaves.'

"The girl burst out laughing; this idea, from her point of view, was exceedingly comical, but she did not contradict him. 'I will tell you some stories about love,' she said.

"Myra, being a Roman slave girl, and having passed through some considerable experience of what she termed love, it would be unnecessary and unedifying to follow her further. Manners and customs change, and the refinement of thought and language, notwithstanding many an ebb and flow, has enlarged its borders. To describe therefore any such scene as this truthfully, would be not only undesirable, but misleading.

"When Aureus returned to the villa late that evening, though he may not have been intellectually much wiser, he had tasted of the fruit of the tree of knowledge, and knew more of evil than formerly; but it is doubtful whether he or his teacher had any active consciousness of sin. They were little better than half-educated savages, and their training on the moral side had in one case been neglected, and in the other perverted.

"After Viola's return, she noticed a change in her fair slave. He was as devoted as ever, but less bright and natural in manner. When they were alone together he would sit watching her every movement The sensation of being thus watched made her angry and uncomfortable.

"On one such occasion she turned to him and said crossly, 'I shall sell you. You're getting too old and dull to be any amusement. What has come to you of late? Ah! it never struck me before. You're in love!'

"As she said this, the boy turned scarlet. She had guessed part of the truth, but not that he was in love with her.

"'Yes, I see it now--in love with that hateful slave Myra!' she continued, stamping her foot. 'I ought to have known! They told me that you and she had been out together in my absence. I'll teach her to go interfering with my slaves! I'll let her know who rules here!'

"And the girl, raging with passion, bade Aureus to follow, and hurried back to the villa. Going into one of the inner rooms, she told some of the maidens to fetch Myra, who came reluctantly at her summons. The slight girl, absolute mistress of those around, drew up her haughty little figure, when she saw the beautiful slave enter, and at once demanded by whose authority she had left the enclosure during her absence.

"This was too great a strain on Myra's temper, and relying on the favour shown by her master, she became insolent, even taunting her mistress with her illegitimate birth.

"'Who are you!' she cried, 'to rule over me! Daughter of a slave! Soon shall you be turned from your high position, and be servant of my children. Who made you better than the others, that you dare to give orders to me?'

"For a moment Viola stood speechless with anger, her face contracted with rage; then turning to those round her, she cried--

"'Bind her, the insolent brute! I'll teach her whether I am mistress or not!'

"The slave-girls were nothing loth to see their haughty companion humbled, for they were jealous of her beauty, and of the favour which had hitherto been shown to her. In a moment the wretched girl was seized, the grand tunic of which she had been so proud was taken from her, and her hands and feet tightly bound.

"'Now,' said Viola, 'bring the double-lashed whip.'

"When Myra heard this order, her pride vanished, and with tears and entreaties she began to cry to her mistress to spare her. But Viola only mocked at her terror.

"'Ah!' she cried, 'so the slave is beginning to recognize her mistress; and she shall do so with good reason before we let her go!' Then, turning to Aureus, she said, 'Take the whip, and let me see that you use it like a man, or by the gods I will have you lashed and sold in the public slave-market.'

"The boy, though he had often witnessed such scenes before, hesitated; he had never been called upon to hit a woman, and the thought was instinctively repugnant to him. On the other hand, he had never disobeyed his mistress, and her will was his law. He lifted the whip and let it fall gently upon the prostrate woman, who was bound down upon one of the raised stone seats. Then Viola came up to him, and grinding her teeth with anger, she seized his arm.

"'If you do not hit her,' she hissed, 'hit her so that the blood shall flow forth freely, I will kill you both! Brute!' she cried; 'you love her--you dare to love her!'

"Then the boy did as his mistress told him, and a great curse entered into his soul, for the brute nature was awakened, and he knew the delight of cruelty; for the sister fiend of lust, with her horrible fascination, took, for the time, possession of him as he watched the writhing body of his victim. But the young girl Viola stood by more damned than the slave who did her bidding, for a double curse fell upon her soul.

"On a lovely day towards the end of summer, Viola at last obtained her father's consent to ride with the huntsmen, and Aureus, who was a skilful horseman, was told off to be her attendant, and made responsible for her safety.

"It was late in the day before the wild beasts broke cover and the riders galloped over the plain in pursuit. The girl selected for her quarry a hart which had been slightly wounded by one of the archers, and soon she and her companion were urging their horses over the ground. They were both well mounted, but the animals at that date were ill fitted for speed, and there seemed little chance of their overtaking the stag unless his wound exhausted him. The girl, however, was far too excited to consider possibilities, and they soon left the other huntsmen far behind, the sound of the horns growing fainter and fainter.

"At last the hart came to a small wood, and disappeared among the undergrowth.

"'Had we not better return?' the boy asked. 'We shall find it no easy matter to follow him further.'

"But the girl had no mind to give up the chase. A few hounds had followed them, and she put them upon the track and began forcing her horse through the dense thicket. They had not far to go before once more the open country could be seen through the willow-stems, and after wading a small stream they came in sight of the stag who had just been driven from his place of concealment. The hounds, now also emerging from the stream, gave tongue joyfully at view of their prey.

"Once more the chase commenced. Forgetting time and place in the wild excitement, the two continued their solitary run accompanied by three slow but keen-scented hounds. Scrambling up the steep hills and wading the many streams which came in their path, they at last discovered their quarry, who had taken refuge in a deep pool. The boy and girl dismounted and rested for a moment to recover their breath.

"In the mean time the hounds plunged into the water; but powerful though they were on land, resembling as they did in appearance a cross between the modern bloodhound and boarhound, they were no match in the water against their horned antagonist. Aureus knew that, dangerous as was the undertaking to one not fully experienced, it would be necessary for him to go to their assistance. Placing, therefore, his knife between his teeth, and throwing off his garment, he plunged into the water and swam out to the spot where the unequal contest was raging. Waiting for a suitable moment when the attention of the stag was engaged, he approached it cautiously from behind, and taking the dagger from between his teeth, stabbed it to the heart.