The Chariot of the Flesh

THE CHARIOT OF THE FLESH

BY

HEDLEY PEEK

"Look on the Spirit as the rider! take

The Body for the chariot, and the Will

As charioteer! regard the mind as reins.

The senses as the steeds; and things of sense

The ways they trample on....

For whoso rides this chariot of the flesh,

The reins of mind well grasped, the charioteer

Faithful and firm--comes to his journey's end."

The Secret of Death.

LONDON
LAWRENCE & BULLEN, LTD.
1897

NEW YORK
LONGMANS, GREEN & CO.
1897

[All rights reserved]

RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED,
LONDON & BUNGAY.

Dedicated
TO
REV. S. A. TIPPLE

FOR THIRTY YEARS MY FRIEND AND TEACHER

In our definitions we grope after the spiritual by
describing it as invisible. The true meaning of spiritual
is real.--EMERSON.

THE CHARIOT OF THE FLESH

PART I

CHAPTER I

It is nearly eleven years since Alan Sydney left England, but I have only recently been released from my promise of secrecy. So sacred to me is the memory of our friendship, that, even now, I shrink from the task of narrating his strange and curious history. A strong impulse, however, urges me to break silence.

The village of Anstead, near which we both lived, is in Surrey, possibly the best county in England to find mixed society. Here the old-fashioned farmers, the labourers who have never travelled as far as London, and a few country squires are mingled with, and influenced by, retired London shopkeepers, merchant princes--with or without H's--and a sprinkling of literary and scientific dabblers; these last are regarded with suspicion by all, but especially by the retired Army and Navy magnates.

Nobody seemed to know to which class Alan Sydney belonged, and strange to say he was admitted, chiefly, I fancy, because he was an eccentric bachelor, into all societies. As I am wealthy and have been a confirmed idler from my youth, the same privilege has been granted to me; a privilege of which, however, I am seldom inclined to take advantage.

I had known Alan Sydney for some years before we became at all intimate. He fascinated, repelled and puzzled me. "Why," I would say to myself, "is this man so confoundedly unlike other men?"

It is not easy to describe him, because, instead of having to portray an identity, I seem rather obliged to describe a number of individualities peeping out through one person. Often you would fancy when speaking to him that you were in the presence of a fool, to be sharply awakened to the unpleasant discovery that it was far more probable you were being fooled yourself. You had hardly decided that he was a liar before you were conscious that, if once able to get behind the outside spray of speech with which he was purposely blinding you, it might be possible to trust him more fully than other men. I usually left him with the unpleasant impression that instead of treating me as a man, he had been dissecting me as a mental or spiritual corpse. He seemed to have about as much regard for the opinion any one formed of his character as a surgeon would have of the views once entertained by his unconscious subject. Yet it was difficult to tell why one felt these sensations, for his manner was outwardly pleasant even at times jovial; and if there was satire in what he said it was certainly quite impossible for a third party to be conscious of it. I have heard him at a dinner-party make some trivial remark in his quiet voice to one of the guests which would cause the person addressed to flush up with annoyance and surprise as though he had been detected in a crime or stung by the lash of a whip.

I have never been able to find out why he chose me as his only confidant, but so it came about.

It was a warm summer evening, and after dinner it occurred to me that I would stroll over and consult him about an old manuscript which I had recently purchased. From something that he had once said it seemed probable that he might be able to help me with the Old English, which was more than usually difficult on account of the writer having been a North-countryman. Alan Sydney was in the garden inhaling a cigarette, a bad habit which he frequently denounced and perpetually practised. Sitting down beside him I remarked on his inconsistency.

"Consistency," he replied, smiling, "if we may believe Bacon, Emerson, and at least ten other original thinkers, is the quixotism of little minds. Inhaling cigarettes is the last infirmity of habitual smokers. The boy-child begins with a cigarette; in youth or manhood he drifts into cigars and pipes; later on, if he should be unfortunate enough once to try the experiment of inhaling, he reverts to his first love."

I turned the subject by handing to him the manuscript, which he looked over for some time with evident interest. When asked if he could make out the meaning of some of the Old English words he answered that he could not, and that there was probably no one living who could.

"You think I am conceited in making such a remark, but in that you are mistaken. It is simply that I am better acquainted with ignorance than you are. Most of these early English provincialisms, if I may use the term for want of a better, can only be guessed at. There are not sufficient local manuscripts of similar date for comparison to be of much service. If a word cannot be traced either to Anglo-Saxon, Moeso-Gothic, or Scandinavian, you may safely translate it as you please and defy criticism. But let us come in, it is getting chilly."

We entered the house together, passing on to his study. The home was typical of the man. From outside it might easily have been mistaken for a small farm-house. It had the appearance of age, though built by its present owner. It was constructed after the model of the oldest existing style of a Surrey cottage. The walls were supported by and interlaced with massive oak beams, and the roof was entirely composed of thin slabs of rough ironstone which had served a similar purpose for many centuries, having been collected from various dilapidated and condemned buildings. The greatest care had been taken in removing these slabs not to destroy the moss and lichen attached to them, and a few years after the house was finished, an antiquarian might easily have been deceived, so perfectly had every detail, external and internal, been studied.

This humble-looking abode cost probably as much as many of the surrounding mansions, and was unquestionably far more comfortable.

I thought that I was well acquainted with the interior. How far this idea was correct will shortly be seen.

We looked over the manuscript together for some time, and I was surprised to find that many words I had considered provincial were known to my friend; and it was not often that he had to own himself beaten. The matter, however, was most uninteresting, being a homily on the Roman faith.

Presently my companion leaned back in his chair, and seemed to be looking fixedly on some spot on the wall opposite him. I followed the direction of his eyes, but could see nothing likely to attract his attention. I spoke, but he did not answer. The light was rather dim, and it was not possible to see his face distinctly, as the shade from the lamp screened it, but I felt certain that something was wrong. I placed my hand upon his arm, but he took no notice, and this now thoroughly alarmed me.

My first inclination was to ring the bell; my second to move the shade from the lamp so as to be quite sure that I was not mistaken. Lifting the screen, I let the light fall brightly on Sydney's face, and turned to look more closely. For a moment his eyes still maintained their fixed and vacant expression, then turned slowly toward the light. He heaved a deep sigh, and then looked at me with a slightly dazed expression.

"I am afraid you are not well," I said.

"It is nothing," he replied. "For the moment I felt faint, but the sensation has passed."

Knowing something of fainting fits, and having noticed that he had never changed colour nor shown any of the usual signs of faintness, I presumed that he wished to deceive me, and began wondering what the attack could have been.

"You are not satisfied," he continued. "However, let it pass now. Some time I will explain."

Seeing that he wished to be alone, I said good-night.

"Can you come and dine with me to-morrow?" he asked. "I shall be alone, and should be glad to have a quiet talk with you."

Accepting the invitation gladly, I went out into the warm summer night, little thinking how much I was to learn before that door again closed behind me.

CHAPTER II

On the following evening I dined with Alan Sydney for the first time. It was one of his peculiarities not to ask acquaintances to his house; his bachelorhood excused him from the necessity. I was therefore not a little surprised to notice the dainty epicureanism of his meal. The wines were such as it is an unexpected delight to find; the service a thing to remember, but scarcely to hope to attain. Why have some men this curious power of getting their slightest wish gratified, apparently without effort? Money cannot purchase it, and ordinary mortals, whilst they approach the semblance, miss the ease and quietude.

My host talked freely on many subjects, leaving me to suggest a topic, and seeming equally at home whatever I might choose. Sport, philosophy, science, history--I tried each subject, and seemed always the pupil of an expert. At last I started on my pet hobby, Ancient Engravings. "Now," I thought, "it will be my turn."

"I know little or nothing of the subject," he said.

I went off gaily, but even while preparing to air my wisdom, he would apparently intercept my thought and take the very words out of my mouth.

"This man must be deceiving me," I mused. "He has purposely led me on to my favourite topic, to show that even in that he is my superior!."

My reverie was broken by his next remark--

"Why do you think me a liar?"

I turned round confused, protesting that of course I did nothing of the kind.

"I often am guilty of what people call lying," he said, "but never intentionally of deceiving a guest. That is why I so seldom indulge in the pleasure of entertaining."

As he said this he rose, and we went together into his study.

"Come," he continued, "I have a surprise for you."

He went up to one of the book-cases, touched a concealed spring, and the whole oak framework moved slowly round on a pivot, forming a doorway through which we passed.

Having gone down a few steps into what I judged must be an underground passage, we once more ascended into a large room, lined on every side with crowded book-cases.

"You are surprised," he said, "to see so large a room in so small a house. We are now in part of what are usually supposed to be my farm-buildings. There are three rooms here which I use for different purposes. I will show you the other two later on."

The library was lighted by a skylight arranged in such a way, that from outside it would not be visible. My companion sat down on a comfortable couch, and beckoning me to another, said--

"I must ask you to promise me that you will reveal nothing of what I am now going to say, or anything which I may show you until you have my permission. I have a strong opinion that for some reason or other the time has not yet come when it would be advisable to make generally known many facts which I have discovered belonging to a power which is lying dormant in all men. The world, however, is progressing quickly, and the responsibility must rest with you at some future time, when I am gone, as to the wisdom of making known part or all of the knowledge which you will gather from me."

Saying this, he got up, and going to one of the shelves in his book-case, took down a volume.

"You may judge," he continued, "by the collection here, that at one time I was an ardent lover of books. Now they have little interest for me: but this volume will always have a special value, for it was from it that I first gained the knowledge which has influenced my whole life.

"While travelling in France, and making, as was then my custom, a round of any old book-stalls that came in my way, I noticed a small shop which outwardly had little appearance of containing anything of interest to the bibliomaniac. In the window there were various ancient curiosities, but knowing that these antique dealers sometimes bought books which they did not display, it seemed worth while to make an inquiry. I was well rewarded, for the old man, after saying that he did not as a rule buy books, told me that he had at various times picked up at sales a few which he usually sent to be sold by auction in Paris. He had some by him at the time, and amongst these a curious Latin manuscript. Though evidently a seventeenth-century work, it was not dated. I thought at first that it would probably prove of little value, until turning over the leaves, I noticed that it was by no less celebrated a writer than Descartes. This author's works were at the time little known to me, and it never occurred to my mind that this volume could be anything more valuable than a manuscript of one of his published works. However, published or unpublished, it was certainly worth a thousand times more than the dealer asked for it, so I took it back to my hotel well pleased with my morning's work, and spent the whole afternoon reading. An entirely new idea of existence seemed opening before me, and it appeared incredible that a work of this description could have been known for two hundred and fifty years without my having even heard a repetition of the views found there. Then remembering that many of Descartes' works had, owing to the opposition of the Romish Church, never been printed, I decided to find out at once whether by any chance this might be one of them. I sent immediately to Paris for a complete edition of Descartes, which had recently been published, and soon found that this volume was not among them. A little further inquiry satisfied me of the authenticity of the MS., and that it was entirely unknown.

"You may remember that Descartes, in his 'Discourse on Method,' published in 1637, says, 'It appears to me that I have discovered many truths more useful and more important than all I had before learned, or even expected to learn. I have essayed to expound the chief of these discoveries in a treatise which certain considerations prevent me from publishing.' Now we know that the chief consideration was his fear of offending the Church, and every one who has read Descartes' published works must observe through them a perpetual veiling of what he thought to be true so as to avoid being brought in conflict with the religious opinions of his day. Notice this passage from the work just mentioned. 'It may be believed without discredit to the miracle of creation, that things purely material might in course of time have become such as we observe them at present, and their end is much more easily conceived when they are beheld coming in this manner gradually into existence, than when they are only considered as produced at once in a finished and perfect state.'

"He then applies this theory to man. He says that as yet he has not sufficient knowledge to treat of this development, and is obliged to remain satisfied with the supposition that God formed the body of man wholly like to one of ours, but at first placed in it no rational soul. Having gone thus far and apparently fearing to go further, he breaks off suddenly and never satisfactorily returns to the subject in his published works. But how different is his method when we turn to the manuscript before me, which I fancy must have been his last work, as it is unfinished! How much more lucid and complete we find his conclusions here! There is no attempt to suppress his real view. I will give you briefly a summary of the chief conclusions which interested me, and which will be enough for the present purpose.

"'All things have slowly developed.'

"'Man is the most perfectly developed being of whose existence we are conscious.'

"'The lower orders of life have a varying number of powers of perception which we term senses.'

"'The higher orders of life have five.'

"'These senses diminish in power as they increase in number, being relieved one by the other.'

"'No deterioration in sense-power is known to have taken place without causing deterioration to the possessor unless at the same time accompanied by the development of a new perceptive faculty.'

"'Man alone is credited with being an exception to this rule. He is inferior in keenness of sense to the animals below him, yet superior in power. It is also noticeable that the savage is in like manner superior to the civilized man. It is therefore probable that man is really the possessor of a sixth sense as yet imperfectly developed and unequally distributed.'

"Briefly this is the key to the remarkable conclusions at which he eventually arrives, and which are worked out with his usual mathematical exactitude and care. He has fully satisfied me that this theory explains most of the mysteries of life; but there is not time now to go more fully into the matter."

"But," I said, "he appears to have forgotten entirely the importance of intellect."

"There you are mistaken. He goes very fully into the matter and anticipates Darwin. 'Intellect,' he writes, 'is not a means of perception, but an organ for the arrangement and use of the senses, and is to be found in all animal life though in a less developed form than is noticeable in man.'"

"But," I interrupted, "is not that therefore the explanation; the higher intellect of man needs a lower standard of sensitive faculty, and he is thus enabled to produce from lesser gifts a greater gain?"

"I will," he answered, "as nearly as possible give you Descartes' answer to this objection. 'To say that the more highly developed a being, the less it will require its perceptive powers, and that therefore through want of use they have gradually deteriorated, would lead us to this reductio ad absurdum:--that in time man will become so perfectly developed that his senses must continue deteriorating until at last he will arrive at the perfection of an insensitive existence, with intellect to place in order all things which he perceives while he is unable to perceive anything.' Of course in endeavouring to give you his argument in a few words--an argument which requires close and careful reasoning, I do Descartes considerable injustice, but I hope on some future occasion to be able to go more fully into the discussion. I have said enough for my present purpose, and am not fond of argument unless satisfied that my opponent agrees with me upon the primary ground of discussion; much valuable time is otherwise wasted. For instance, if you are speaking on the subject of the colour red to a man born blind and his idea of red is some sound which resembles the blast of a trumpet, you cannot possibly hope to arrive at any very satisfactory conclusion. In the same way if man is unconscious of the power granted him through the sixth; or, as for lack of a better term we may call it, the spiritual sense, no argument on the subject would be of the least value. It will suffice at present to say that the theory which Descartes fully works out was to me personally a revelation; a revelation, because it seemed but the perfected expression of my own dormant thought. Having therefore carefully considered the advice which the writer gives to those who are anxious to prove the value of this partially developed power, namely, to use it, I started on a course of experiments which, should you care to follow me, I will endeavour to explain. You may thus be able to judge of the truth of the theory by its results, which after all is by far the safer plan. Moreover, some of my experiences may be of interest."

I expressed my anxiety to hear him further, and he continued--

"You must endeavour to realize clearly the work to which I had decided to devote my energies and time. It was to cultivate and analyze every perception or sensation which appeared to reach me through none of the known organs of sense. The first conclusion arrived at was that I imperfectly possessed the power to read other people's thoughts; that at certain times and under certain conditions ideas were conveyed to me through no recognized organ of perception. I therefore decided for the time being to devote all my energy to following up this clue. It was not long before the truth of my idea was confirmed beyond any possibility of doubt; but the difficulty was, firstly, in being confident from whom the impression came; and secondly, in discerning truth from imagination. Many others have gone as far as this point on the road to discovery, but few have persevered much further. The story of how my path was cleared of these uncertainties is worth describing in detail.

"About this time I became engaged to be married to a girl of seventeen. It may be owing to prejudice, but I still think she possessed remarkable beauty. It is not easy to give a reason, but a girl seldom at that time seemed lovely to me after she was out of her teens. She might be more interesting intellectually; but owing to some peculiarity in my character, her chief charm was too often brushed away somewhere about the age of twenty.

"I first met Vera Soudin at her father's house in Scotland. I had gone down to stay with a friend for grouse-shooting, and the members of her family were practically our only neighbours, so that we saw a good deal of each other. She was an only child, and must have found life rather dull. Her father's thoughts were chiefly concentrated on sport; her mother was an invalid, and a decidedly uninteresting woman. It is hardly surprising that Vera found the change from previous solitude a relief. She had a remarkably weak will, though probably few outside her intimate friends were aware of the fact, for, as is often the case with such characters, she possessed a strong vein of obstinacy, which people mistook for firmness. As a matter of fact she was little more than a mirror which reflected surrounding influences. On the other hand, I may possibly possess a will of rather unusual power, more powerful, unfortunately, over others than myself. I was unconscious how great my influence over her really was, nor did I know that in cultivating her acquaintance I was allowing myself to be swayed by my affections.

"I had decided to take this opportunity of practising and perfecting, if possible, my power of thought-reading. It is curious how often we are influenced by an unconscious motive, and how long we take to find out in ourselves an emotion which is perfectly obvious to those around us.

"Whatever the effect of our intercourse may have been in other ways, it certainly enabled me to make considerable advance in my particular study. To begin with, being often alone with her, the difficulty of deciding from whom the impression came was at these times necessarily removed. I had, therefore, only to satisfy myself as to whether these impressions were real or imaginary; and it was easy with a girl who had not yet learned the trick of hiding, or feigning emotions, to discover by her face whether I had rightly or wrongly interpreted something which was passing through her mind. A question on the subject was usually sufficient. It mattered little to me how trivial or unimportant the thought might be; I felt satisfied that there was a difference between the effect caused on my mind by a true or by an imaginary impression. The difficulty lay in defining this subtle difference.

"Before I had known the girl a week I was able, as far as she was concerned, to overcome this obstacle, and to tell with certainty whenever any thought of hers passed involuntarily through my mind. In the same way when meeting her at dinner, among other people, I was equally certain that the impression was a correct one if it came from her; and this knowledge was a great assistance, enabling me, as it were, to take the first step towards localizing the direction from which thought was transmitted.

"One evening after dinner I was sitting alone with Vera Soudin; her mother had not been well enough to come down to dinner, and the other men had retired to the billiard-room. The light from the candles was overpowered by the brightness of the fire, and as she leant back, this ruddy glow gave an additional attraction to the delicate beauty of her face. I forgot for the moment all about my new power, and sat looking at her without speaking, the whole force of my will unconsciously exercised in a desire to gain her love. She sat silent, gazing at the burning logs as though unconscious of my presence. Then I recognized an inaudible voice speaking. I use the words 'voice' and 'speaking' because as yet our language is too imperfect to express any sensations connected with the sixth sense. The sentence was, however, unmistakable.

"'I love him.'

"I answered her aloud. 'Why do you?'

"Her face flushed and then lost all colour save what the firelight cast there. 'Why do I what?' she stammered.

"I cared for her too much to press my advantage. 'I love you!' I said, and getting up I went over and knelt by her side; then looking into her eyes I saw an expression that I had never seen before.

"What man who has once been brought under this influence could ever forget it--man's passion reflected upon woman's nature, the idealized counterpart of his sensations revealed on the idol of worship? In a moment such as this, reason is trampled under the feet of a hundred new emotions, hurrying forward to find expression, and the man's action will be determined by natural instincts, and not, as is more often the case, by the training and habits which have moulded them. During such times of intoxication we become for once natural; and as all men tend by nature, if on a lower plane, to idiocy, if on a higher to madness, such moments are best kept private. An observer missing the more delicate atmosphere of pathos which ever surrounds a truly comic situation, is apt to rest his own instability more on the stick of ridicule than the crutch of pity.

"As, however, owing to the power which I have of reading other people's thoughts of myself, my nature has become impervious to scorn; and as it is better that you should have the opportunity of judging my actions impartially, I will throw off reserve as far as possible.

"We remained much in the same attitude for an indefinite period of sensations, which may probably have extended to thirty minutes, her hands clasped in mine as we talked together. As far as I can remember, the conversation rested principally with me, and her answers came back chiefly in unspoken thoughts. I will endeavour to give you an idea of what passed between us, audibly and inaudibly.

"'Beloved,' I said, 'is it possible that you can care for me? That what I have longed for, dreamed of, and despaired of ever attaining, is at last mine? I cannot realize it! I feel rather that I am in a trance, surrounded by a confusing, yet delightful mist.'

"'I love you.'

"'Say it again out loud that I can hear.'

"'I love you.'

"'But why--tell me why?'

"'I don't know. Why do you love me? I cannot see that there can be anything to love in me. I suppose it is only because I am pretty!'

"'Beauty is only a veil which the soul looks through; how perfect then must be your soul, dearest!'

"Then came these unspoken words which puzzled me--

"'What queer things men are!--but I like to hear him, and perhaps it is true; but if so, how horrid most women must be!' Then out loud--'I fancy you will soon get tired of me.'

"'Tired! It makes me mad when I think of ever having an opportunity of getting tired--to have you with me always--to know that we can never be parted--to feel that death itself will only bring us closer: I almost wish that we could die now, for such great happiness makes me afraid something may come. Oh, Vera! you will always love me?'

"'Of course, dear!'

"Then this thought followed--

"'I wish he would not talk about death; I hate death, I don't want to die. It is quite nice enough to be here having some one loving and petting me, without thinking about the future. I wonder if he is going to kiss me? I thought men always kissed girls when they proposed to them!'

"This was enough for me. I had been afraid to venture on what seemed so great a liberty, but now I moved forward and was about to kiss her, when to my surprise she drew away saying--

"'Oh, don't! You frighten me!'

"'Why, dearest, you cannot be afraid of me? Will you not let me have just one when you know how I should prize it!'

"'No, I cannot really, not yet anyway; perhaps some day!'

"I was so afraid of offending her that I moved back, puzzled and discomfited, when once again I was conscious she was thinking.

"'How foolish he is!--it would have been much nicer to have been forced to give him one; he is so strong he could easily have held me back in the chair and made me do it.'

"This came as a whip for my inclinations, and I did as suggested under a storm of protests which soon died down, for I now found her thoughts were wandering between the condition of her hair and the probability of some one coming in from the billiard-room.

"I think I have now described sufficiently our first moments of happiness, but I will own that before we were eventually disturbed I had begun to get not a little annoyed with my new power of perception, and began to wonder if after all we had arrived at a sufficient state of perfection to be always happily employed when using it.

"The next half-hour which I spent with Vera's father convinced me that often it might be useful in the cause of humility.

"I asked to speak with him alone, a request that he readily granted, though, if I interpreted his thoughts aright, he used strong language internally. I felt horribly nervous, and at first he did nothing to help me, but what was far worse, he kept on transmitting thoughts that made me every moment more wretched and uncomfortable; they must have been his, as I feel sure they would never otherwise have occurred to me as being likely to proceed from the smiling old gentleman sitting opposite. This is something of what I made out of them, but they were disjointed and confused, for you must remember I had not as yet had an opportunity of studying him as perfectly as his daughter.

"'Confound it! I wish he had not been in such a hurry. I must delay things in some way. I meant to make inquiries, but have been so busy. Besides there is ... coming, and I quite fancy that when he sees her, he ... But after all, Sydney is an only son; I did find that out, and I must not choke him off. I wonder how much longer he will stand there like a fool and say nothing!'

"You may well imagine that this kind of thing was hardly helpful to me. I began at once to wonder who my rival might be. And here I may as well mention that even now, when my thought-reading power has been developed very nearly to perfection, I can seldom read the name of a person passing through another's mind, unless that person is also known to me. This is probably owing to the fact that in thinking of an acquaintance we disregard usually the name and are conscious only of the individuality, for in the few cases when I have had a name conveyed distinctly, it has been where the person referred to was comparatively a stranger to the one whose thoughts I was studying.

"The silence was eventually broken by Mr. Soudin.

"'You wish to speak to me. I hope that you know me well enough to be certain that if there is any service I can do for you I shall be delighted!'

"'It is more than an ordinary service,' I answered. 'I wish to take from you your greatest treasure, and consequently you must excuse my embarrassment in asking. I love your daughter, and would beg her from you.'

"'Young ass! Now he has once started he talks like a book bound in morocco with gilt edges,' was his thought. His words--'You have taken me greatly by surprise, Mr. Sydney. I have always looked upon my daughter as a child, and it would be quite impossible for me to think of allowing her at present to be disturbed by any question of marriage. Hers is a sweet and delicate nature, influenced as yet but by the dreams of childhood. I trust that nothing you have said to her can possibly have ruffled the calm of innocence.'

"At this point I should have been placed in a position of difficulty had not his thoughts continued--

"'I would stake twenty to one the young cub has been sitting spooning for the last half-hour. I wonder how he will try to get out of it.'

"I did not, therefore, try at all, but quietly told him the fact, ignoring, however, the details. His anger was so well assumed, that whilst it lasted his thoughts almost followed his words, or else the latter so upset me that I missed the accompanying reflections.

"'It was, he said, a most unpardonable action thus to take advantage of an innocent child who, he felt quite certain, had not even realized the very meaning of the situation, etc., etc.'

"At last he cooled down a little, and when this happened, his thoughts and words became mixed up in my mind somewhat in the following manner. 'You must realize, Mr. Sydney, that in speaking to you in this manner, I am actuated by no unfriendly feeling--it would be unwise to go too far--Personally from what I have seen of you, there are few young men whom I could welcome more cordially into my family--If only I were certain that he possessed a safe five thousand a year--But she is too young, and I am quite sure that you will agree with me when you think it over in a calmer mood, that it would be unfair to bind my daughter to an engagement before she is fairly out of the nursery--That ought to smooth him down and keep up the romance at the same time. I must have a good talk with Vera and see what is best to be done. I feel certain that I shall have indigestion to-night. It always upsets me having to think and bother about things after dinner.'

"I eventually agreed not to see Vera for a week, and at the end of that time I was to be granted another interview with her father for the purpose of arriving at some plan for the future.

"My feelings were of a mixed character as I walked away from the house over the crisp, frozen ground. I felt excited, but neither satisfied nor happy. I had tasted the sweets of love, and a little of the acidity of disenchantment. I began to meditate somewhat after this fashion. How lovely she looked with that expression on her face as I knelt down by her side and took her hands in mine. 'Is it possible that the physiognomists are correct when they tell us that the eye never changes, and that the eyelids alone work those miracles of varying expression; that a few slight wrinkles can convey such a world of meaning, and have often the power to change the destiny of thousands? Is it not more probable that some subtle influence passes from eye to eye that no scientist can detect, owing to the fact that as yet science confines its observations only to those influences which are discernible by animal sense organs? But, whatever the cause, the fact is most remarkable, and one must needs have loved to realize the full significance of its power.' However, I did not, after all, feel satisfied that I had awakened quite the same feeling in Vera as that which I myself experienced, and I began to think of another partially developed power which Descartes attributes to this sixth sense, and to which I have not hitherto referred.

"He maintains that the will-force is always unconsciously transmitted, and that if this power were cultivated it would lead to surprising results. We can now have no doubt that his theory is partially correct, as it has been satisfactorily demonstrated through recent experiments in hypnotism; but his views also convince me that the modern methods which have been adopted for the transmission of this will-power are likely to prove both dangerous and inadequate, as they are based on totally false premises. As, however, I shall have occasion to go into all this matter more fully later on, as well as to show you the light which Descartes throws on theosophy, spiritualism, and many other modern mysteries, I shall only refer now to the subject so far as I find it necessary in order to make my story intelligible.

"The probability that this theory of transmitted will-power might have been experimentally proved in my late interview with Vera sent a shock of anxiety to my heart. What if after all she had been little better than a semi-conscious mirror reflecting my newly-awakened sensations? I argued, however, against my fear, that it could not be so, for I had read in her thoughts sensations not only differing from my own, but even foreign to a man's inclinations. Yet even as I recalled these instances with relief, a passage from Descartes flashed through my mind which brought a painful reaction.

"'It must not be supposed,' he writes, 'that the will-power, however strong, can absolutely take possession of an alien mind. A person of tender susceptibility cannot be induced to commit a murder, or a man of brutal instinct be made, even for the time being, pure or lovable. That part of the brain on which the will either of ourselves or others is brought to bear, may be compared to a musical instrument on which this force plays. A tune may be the same whether practised on a pipe or upon a full organ, but there will be a considerable difference in the effect produced, owing to the numerous variations, etc. of which the more complex instrument is capable; so also on different natures a similar impulse will produce totally different results. This difference of effect is most noticeable in the actions of men and women who, if willed by one influence, often act dissimilarly, singing, as it were, the same melody to an accompanying music which flows forth from their complex dispositions and sensibilities.'

"Having by this and similar reflections thoroughly unsettled my belief, not only in the girl I loved, but in myself and in nearly everything else, I went to bed wretched, and after tossing about for some hours, at last fell into a troubled sleep, during which I had the following rather curious dream.

"It seemed that I was walking hurriedly along a winding path, though for what purpose, or whither, I thus hastened was hidden. On my left, through its setting of ferns and pleasant flowers, there flowed a stream, the waters of which cast back many fair reflections; yet so great was my wish to gain some unknown object, that I was scarcely conscious of the beauty around. As I turned a corner, however, I saw across my path an object lying, and coming nearer found it to be a woman; the face turned upwards bore all the traces of degradation which dissipation and misery had engraved upon the image of one who in youth might have been beautiful. My feelings, supersensitive to the slightest coarseness, revolted at the spectacle before me, and crushing through the undergrowth which grew beside my path, I strove to avoid getting in closer contact with it, but I had not gone many paces forward before I became hopelessly entangled. Then looking round I noticed an old man standing near, who it seemed must have followed me unobserved. His hair was of silvery whiteness, and though his face was lined with age, each furrow seemed but the imprint of an habitual expression of kindliness. He might have stood as a sculptor's model for love that has outlived passion.

"'Why have you wandered from the path?' he said. 'It is not possible for man to reach the place whither you are bound save by the way appointed.'

"'But,' I answered, 'He who called me is pure, and in the footpath lies that which is abhorrent both to my Master and to me.'

"'Who then is thy master?' he asked.

"Then I looked at him in surprise and said--

"'We have but one Master; He who ruleth all things, and is Father of all.'

"'And it is one of His beloved children,' he said, 'from whom you turn aside, and her weakness and your strength are of His ordering; and you whom He has made on a different, though no higher plan, turn in pride from your sister who has been placed in the path so that your strength may support her weakness.'

"'Now,' I replied, 'you speak blasphemy, for God is not the Father of sin, and what is sinful is unpleasing in His sight.'

"Then my companion, looking fixedly at me, said--

"'There is no sin. Viewed from the eye of wisdom and holiness there is one law--Love; one path--Order; and one state--Happiness. Man is permitted to dream of freedom, which he calls life; is allowed to dip into the darkness, and, for the moment, to imagine discord exists, that when he shall awaken his joy may be exceeding joyful. It has been left to man to give names to nothing and to fight the phantoms of negation; when his sleep shall be broken the former things will have passed away. Follow me.'

"So we returned together to the path, and as we stood before the woman I said, 'If this is but a dream, wherefore should I care what happens either to the woman or myself?' Then it seemed that the man did not answer, but I heard a voice singing. And the song was of love, and told how the slumber of life could never be broken till the light of unselfish love fell upon the sleeper.

"When the voice ceased, I turned and said to my companion--'What can I do for the woman? Behold her, as she lies there. It seems impossible for me to feel more than helpless compassion for such a one.'

"'Compassion and pity,' he answered, 'are words coined by man, and are associated at best but with a gleam of love, and more often with nothing but a selfish desire to hide pain from sight because it reminds man of that which is hateful. Love will ever find a way to helpfulness.'

"'But,' I said to him, 'I cannot feel this love to one so degraded.'

"Then he bent over the woman, and touched her with his hand; and as I looked down wondering, the degraded face seemed changed into the face of the girl I loved. And in the horror of the revelation I awoke, thankful to believe that it was but a dream! How many lessons, prophecies, and warnings come to men, if they did but realize it, in certain forms called dreams!

"When I got up on the following morning my mind was in that anxious and restless condition in which it usually finds itself after being too busily occupied during the hours of slumber. I felt depressed and irritable, consequently my view of everything was one-sided. My thoughts continually expressed themselves in doggerel verse instead of moving along smoothly and quietly in prose. This, I have always noticed, is a sign that my body requires some stimulating exercise. Moreover, every picture that reached my mind had a dark and unpleasant background. For instance, when my thoughts for relief turned to Vera's face, I had scarcely begun to dwell with pleasure on the beauty of some remembered expression before I became conscious that the woman of my dream was grinning at me over the girl's shoulder.

"This way, I knew, led to madness; so conscious that the body, if ill-used, becomes too often the master of the mind, I decided to give it a day's pleasure, tempting it back thereby into a condition of happy servitude.

"The result was in every way satisfactory. After two hours' walking over the moors, I was able to laugh at my fears, and by lunch-time it was even a trouble to recall them. At dinner nothing seemed more important in life than perfect accuracy of aim, and my friends might easily have mistaken me for a sportomaniac by my conversation. The only thought I read that evening came, I believe, from my host, and took the form of regret that he had not selected a better shot than myself for the sake of the game returns which he intended to forward to The Field, and considering the number of birds which my nerves had succeeded in missing for me during the morning, I could not feel surprised. My dreams during the night did not trouble me. I felt but a momentary discomfiture even when the youth who was expected to fall in love with Vera rose up with a whirr just under my feet, and in the flurry of the moment I only succeeded in knocking a few feathers out of his coat-tail.

"On the second day, therefore, after my proposal, I felt in a safe mental condition to think rationally over the prospect before me, and as I can always reason more quietly when walking and in the open air, I went for a stroll by myself over the moors.

"The day was bright, and the wind blew softly from the south-west. I felt that life was very good as I passed over the heather. Presently, however, a wounded bird which was lying by the side of the footpath upset my train of thought, and set me on a discussion of cruelty which I began to argue out from both sides. The impression which I arrived at, after wasting fully an hour, may be summed up as follows: that about an equal amount can be urged for and against sport, and that there is something wrong somewhere. Nearly every subject we approach seems beset with like difficulty, owing to the fact that our life is not as yet sufficiently under the rule of order to embrace, without causing additional misery, the doctrine of perfection. For instance, war can easily be shown to be unjustifiable, and socialism to be the only form of perfect justice; but it is equally clear that the abolition of armaments and the adoption of socialistic principles would lead to the greatest misery that has ever been experienced on earth, if they should be tried before men have learnt to control their evil passions without the whip of legal and military chastisement. Birds of prey and moral disease would quickly take the place of the fowling-pieces of modern civilization, whilst the dream of Paradise would be found more to resemble a nightmare, and the comparative peace of the past would be transformed into a pandemonium of unbridled passions.

"At last, after a few more fruitless attempts, I managed to fix my mind on the condition of my own prospects. Firstly, was I in love? And this involved settling in my mind what love really meant. If not, what had caused in me certain sensations never before experienced? Secondly, if this love existed, was it returned? It is not necessary for you to follow me through my subsequent confused circle of reasoning, as it led to no satisfactory conclusion beyond a determination to watch for further light, and in the meantime to follow the dictates of inclination. It is always easy to do the latter, and unless a man's nature inclines strongly to selfishness, it is often the wisest course to adopt. Progress is often hindered by self-repression, and even more by self-analysis.

"At the moment, inclination led me towards a figure which I saw in the distance. On drawing nearer I felt certain that the form in question was a familiar one, and soon recognized one of my London acquaintances, Lord Vancome. Now if there was one man whom I thoroughly disliked without apparent reason, it was Vancome. I had at that time a peculiar eccentricity; there were a few people who possessed the power of unconsciously torturing me in a way that defies description. He was one of these. If we met in a room I felt my whole flesh creep, and on shaking hands with him an absolute chill of horror passed through my body. It was with great difficulty that I refrained from showing to such persons marked expressions of dislike. When, therefore, I met him thus unexpectedly, it seemed as though a blight had suddenly swept over the hills, blurring the sunshine: the glow of life had vanished; the beauty of love was forgotten.

"'Why, Sydney!' he called out, 'whoever expected to see you here?'

"I told him briefly how it came about, and that I was stopping with Major Couson.

"'Oh!' he said, 'that's lucky! I am glad to find there is some sort of society in the place. Mr. Soudin asked me down, and feeling a trifle played out, I accepted; but I was already beginning to dread the idea of being confined to the society of Heather Lodge for a fortnight. The daughter's not a bad sort of girl, and devilish pretty, too!--but one wants even more than that combined with the shooting, which is not first-rate, to avoid being bored to death during a period of two weeks.'

"'Why are you not shooting?' I asked.

"'The old man's got a touch of the gout, so I was taking a look round.' (Then before I could think of anything further to say his thought flashed through me.) 'Damn the fellow! I wish he would go. The girl's bound to turn up soon, and I don't want him fooling round.'

"'I must be going,' I said, looking at my watch. 'No doubt we shall meet again before long.'

"He seemed relieved, and saying that he should look me up, held out his hand. I took it, thanking God I had not a gun, and being now certain that I was in love, went hurriedly on my way.

"I had been walking for perhaps ten minutes, when I saw Vera Soudin coming towards me. She had evidently been to the village. What was to be done? I had promised not to see her for a week, but it would be ridiculous to pass without speaking. Besides, ought she not to be put on her guard against Lord Vancome? And yet what right had I to do this? As far as I knew there was nothing against his character. It is true that I felt a mortal antipathy to him, but such feelings are hardly regarded as evidence. Then I remembered that women are credited with possessing far more accurate discrimination of character than men. This thought comforted me, and having decided to discover her feelings with regard to Vancome I went on towards her.

"When we met I noticed that she also felt embarrassed, but for some reason possessed better control over herself. When I made some remark about being so pleased to see her again, she put her hand to her lips, and then, taking out a pocket-book, scribbled these words down--

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I gave up the contest without a struggle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER III

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Come to me, dearest, with a love

Eternal, strong as death;

Love that but lasts a transient life,

And fades with fading breath,

Can bring to this sad heart no joy,

No ecstasy divine;

Eternity is far too brief

To fill this heart of mine.

Though I should change, as all must change.

My soul shall ever be,

In youth or age, the soul you love

Through all eternity.

The beauty now that charms your eye,

This youthful form so fair,

Shall alter with each passing year.

Is it for these you care?

Go! face the truth! If all the grace

That earth alone can give,

Were turned from one you think you love,

What of that love would live?

A little space--say fifty years,

Or only five, may be,

And all that now you prize so much

Shall change to what you see.'"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER IV