Part 15

"The weeks of early summer passed quickly and pleasantly by. It is true that my conscience occasionally troubled me, for the agreement which I had made with Captain Frint did not work out exactly as intended. Our friendship at times would have been open to misconception had some unseen observer been present. I will do my companion the justice he deserves, by saying at once that he seemed to strive against his love; moreover, his conscience troubled him, I fancy, more than mine disturbed me, and after each outburst of demonstration he suffered apparently from a deep fit of remorse, which struck me as rather amusing than otherwise.

"But familiarity bred contempt, and little by little we both got more callous over what I tried to justify as playing at love-making. It was some time before I had any idea that this play was likely to become serious as far as my own feelings were concerned; but after a time a suspicion arose in my mind which I tried to stifle, that some great change had taken place in my heart. I found that life had begun to assume a different aspect. Time no longer hung heavily on my hands, but was divided into about equal periods of depression and exultation. My thoughts were running on one subject--the man who loved me.

"Then for the first time I began to realize the hopeless position in which we were placed, for though I believed that to live such a life as we now enjoyed would continue to satisfy me, yet even this was manifestly impossible; and I felt regret that we had drifted thus far upon a path which could only lead to the sorrow of parting. Up to this time any consideration for my companion's feelings in the matter had never occurred to me; but now I understood, and was more sorry for him than for myself. I had come across his path, and perhaps ruined his life. He had struggled nobly against his passion, while I had refused to let him go, and without any intention of returning his devotion had kept him from escaping the temptation. Now it seemed that I was being entangled in a like web, and it was impossible to see what would be the end of it all.

"Amy surprised me very much one morning by saying that she should be obliged to go home at the end of the week. She expressed great regret at leaving, but at the same time gave a reason for her return which, though unanswerable, was to me unsatisfactory. I felt convinced that she had some further object in view, which she did not care to mention. For a few weeks past our talks had been less confidential, partly owing to the fact that as I grew to care more for Captain Frint, I was less anxious to speak about him; and also that when we discussed the Major, while professing to have nothing further to communicate, Amy seemed desirous of avoiding the subject.

"On the Monday after she left I heard that Major Jackson had gone home on leave, and this seemed partially to explain her sudden change of plans."

*CHAPTER XII*

"I shall not attempt any explanation of a remarkable experience which happened some little time after Amy left, but shall give you a brief account of it.

"One lovely evening near the close of summer, sitting alone in the garden, dreamily listening to the soft hum of the insects and the distant murmur of the water, I was suddenly roused by the sound of a footstep, and turning toward the direction from which the sound came, I saw, greatly to my astonishment, Alan Sydney.

"At first sight I could hardly believe my senses, for though, after all, there was nothing so very extraordinary in his having returned to England, yet I fancied that he had gone away for some years, and I had lately hardly ever even thought about him.

"He was much changed, though it is not easy to describe in what way the alteration struck me. I had always been rather afraid of him, and I felt the fear now even more strongly than in the past. Yet his face, as he came nearer, bore no expression of severity, but only kindliness and pity.

"'You are surprised to see me, Vera,' he said; 'but you know I promised always to help you, and have, therefore, come now.'

"'I am delighted to see you back,' I answered, holding out my hand to him. 'But why did you not write? My father will be delighted! You must come and see him at once.'

"'Not now,' he replied, 'I only came to talk to you, and must go directly. Moreover, I do not wish you even to mention that you have seen me.'

"Saying this he sat down by my side, and I, wondering greatly why he had come, said--

"'Oh! I shall not hear of your going! You must tell me all about your travels. But, first of all, what made you fancy that I required your help now? You have already done so much for me it is difficult to imagine what further assistance so lucky a girl can need.'

"'Perhaps,' he said, 'I have done too much. It is often the case that those who would help, by their very effort to do so, only hinder. But tell me, are you happy?'

"As he said this he looked into my eyes, and there was something in his look which seemed to open my heart so that I could see what I had never fully known before. I tried to speak, but could not; then burying my face in my hands I wept. He placed his hand upon my head, and at his touch a feeling of rest and calm stole over me.

"Then he said--'Vera, why will you turn into the way of trouble? I have tried again and again to save you, but it is impossible to help one who wilfully, or even heedlessly, chooses that road which can only lead to sorrow. Every step taken over it has to be retrodden, and the smooth pathway will then be overgrown with thorns; the light of passion will have died out, and in weariness and darkness each step must be one of uncertainty and pain. I know how you have endeavoured to blind your eyes by false reasoning which can never help you, but the day of self-revelation always comes. You would argue that it is not your fault if men fall in love with your beauty, and that, placed in your position, it is more than usually difficult to act. But there is one thing that can always guide us--if, leaving our own position out of the question, and, caring nothing about our own salvation or our own end, we think but of others--of how each action will affect their lives. "Love and do as you like," said one of earth's noblest men. But it must be true love.

"There is a man who, in a limited sense, loves you, and whom, though in a still more limited sense, you love. He has tried nobly, considering his weakness, to keep that love pure, and when he found that his lower nature rebelled against his higher, he was willing, even anxious, to suffer the pain of separation rather than harm you. How knowing this, did you act? Did you consider him? Did you think--if I let him go on I shall be his eternal curse? He is now honourable, but he will become mean. Have you any idea what this implies to a man? When he is with you he may forget; but think of the solitary hours when he sees himself as he is, and knows that he is damning the girl he loves! If there is any nobleness in his nature, he must conquer his passion, or destroy his conscience. And each day it becomes more difficult to do the former--more imperative to do the latter. And you, consciously or unconsciously, have taken the very course which makes the path most difficult for him. Professing not to care for his love, you have well-nigh made it a point of honour that he should not leave you, whilst under the pretence of friendship you have taken every means to increase his infatuation. Already the infection of his feeling has influenced your nature. What will be the end? One of three things must happen. He will conquer either himself, or you, or the battle will destroy him. There is no other way open if you continue to act as you are doing now. The first would be the best, but whether it is now possible I doubt. Either of the other alternatives must lead to his utter misery and yours. Do not blind your eyes, Vera! You do not know how soon the fatal moment may come when it will be too late. And remember, do not think about yourself or your own safety--that will never help you. Think of the man who loves you, and save him.'

"He stopped speaking, and for a few moments I was so overcome by his words that I did not move, but still sat with bent head, my face covered in my hands. When I looked up he was no longer by me.

"It was growing dusk, and I could not see him. I called his name, but there was no answer. He had gone! Shame prevented me from trying to find him. No wonder, if he knew all this, that he wished to have nothing further to do with one so vile!

"It is surprising how hateful actions seem when placed in words, which, when only hid in the heart, trouble us little. If there be a God who can read the inmost thoughts, how great must be His love, or how overwhelming His contempt for us!"

As Vera said this I found myself in darkness. The vision had gone, and being very tired I slept.

*PART IV*

*CHAPTER XIII*

I have already mentioned that Alan Sydney was fond of hunting, and it so happened that a few days after the incidents related in the last chapter I overtook him riding to the meet. Since hearing his experience in India, and seeing more of his remarkable power, it seemed strange to me that a man with his advantages should still care for hunting, or even continue to live in the way he did at all. I took this opportunity of asking him some questions on the subject.

"I will try to explain to you," he said, "what seems, but is not, a contradiction in my life. One of the strongest powers which influences character is association. What a man once loves and cares for leaves him very slowly, and even death, as we call it, namely, the change in our surroundings, does not destroy the tendency of the past. No doubt it is owing to this that so often we see traces of the beast nature in man. Of all tendencies the desire to hunt, a necessary instinct of the lower creation, is most noticeable. It was doubtless this instinct that influenced me when young, as it has influenced so many; and I have explained to you before that I still find the sport of great service in taming and controlling my body."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*CHAPTER XIV*

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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