Part 3

"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.