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Project Gutenberg Australia
Title: A Strange Story
Author: Edward Bulwer-Lytton
eBook No.: c00055.html
Language: English
Date first posted: 2022
Most recent update: 2022
by
Edward Bulwer-Lytton
Of the many illustrious thinkers whom the schools of France havecontributed to the intellectual philosophy of our age, VictorCousin, the most accomplished, assigns to Maine de Biran the rankof the most original.
In the successive developments of his own mind, Maine de Biranmay, indeed, be said to represent the change that has been silentlyat work throughout the general mind of Europe since the close ofthe last century. He begins his career of philosopher with blindfaith in Condillac and Materialism. As an intellect severelyconscientious in the pursuit of truth expands amidst theperplexities it revolves, phenomena which cannot be accounted forby Condillac's sensuous theories open to his eye. To the firstrudimentary life of man, the animal life, "characterized byimpressions, appetites, movements, organic in their origin andruled by the Law of Necessity," (1) he is compelled to add, "thesecond, or human life, from which Free-will and Self-consciousnessemerge." He thus arrives at the union of mind and matter; but stilla something is wanted,—some key to the marvels which neitherof these conditions of vital being suffices to explain. And at lastthe grand self-completing Thinker attains to the Third Life of Manin Man's Soul.
"There are not," says this philosopher, towards the close of his last and loftiest work,—"there are not only two principles opposed to each other in Man,—there are three. For there are in him three lives and three orders of faculties. Though all should be in accord and in harmony between the sensitive and the active faculties which constitute Man, there would still be a nature superior, a third life which would not be satisfied; which would make felt (ferait sentir) the truth that there is another happiness, another wisdom, another perfection, at once above the greatest human happiness, above the highest wisdom, or intellectual and moral perfection of which the human being is susceptible." (2)
Now, as Philosophy and Romance both take their origin in thePrinciple of Wonder, so in the "Strange Story" submitted to thePublic it will be seen that Romance, through the freest exercise ofits wildest vagaries, conducts its bewildered hero towards the samegoal to which Philosophy leads its luminous Student, through fargrander portents of Nature, far higher visions of SupernaturalPower, than Fable can yield to Fancy. That goal is defined in thesenoble words:—
"The relations (rapports) which exist between the elements and the products of the three lives of Man are the subjects of meditation, the fairest and finest, but also the most difficult. The Stoic Philosophy shows us all which can be most elevated in active life; but it makes abstraction of the animal nature, and absolutely fails to recognize all which belongs to the life of the spirit. Its practical morality is beyond the forces of humanity. Christianity alone embraces the whole Man. It dissimulates none of the sides of his nature, and avails itself of his miseries and his weakness in order to conduct him to his end in showing him all the want that he has of a succor more exalted." (3)
In the passages thus quoted, I imply one of the objects forwhich this tale has been written; and I cite them, with a wish toacknowledge one of those priceless obligations which writings thelightest and most fantastic often incur to reasoners the mostserious and profound.
But I here construct a romance which should have, as a romance,some interest for the general reader. I do not elaborate a treatisesubmitted to the logic of sages. And it is only when "in fairyfiction drest" that Romance gives admission to "truths severe."
I venture to assume that none will question my privilege toavail myself of the marvellous agencies which have ever been at thelegitimate command of the fabulist.
To the highest form of romantic narrative, the Epic, critics,indeed, have declared that a supernatural machinery isindispensable. That the Drama has availed itself of the samelicense as the Epic, it would be unnecessary to say to thecountrymen of Shakspeare, or to the generation that is yet studyingthe enigmas of Goethe's "Faust." Prose Romance has immemoriallyasserted, no less than the Epic or the Drama, its heritage in theRealm of the Marvellous. The interest which attaches to thesupernatural is sought in the earliest Prose Romance which moderntimes take from the ancient, and which, perhaps, had its origin inthe lost Novels of Miletus; (4) and the right to invoke suchinterest has, ever since, been maintained by Romance through allvarieties of form and fancy,—from the majestic epopee of"Telemaque" to the graceful fantasies of "Undine," or the mightymockeries of "Gulliver's Travels" down to such comparativelycommonplace elements of wonder as yet preserve from oblivion "TheCastle of Otranto" and "The Old English Baron."
Now, to my mind, the true reason why a supernatural agency isindispensable to the conception of the Epic, is that the Epic isthe highest and the completest form in which Art can express eitherMan or Nature, and that without some gleams of the supernatural,Man is not man nor Nature, nature.
It is said, by a writer to whom an eminent philosophical criticjustly applies the epithets of "pious and profound:" (5)
"Is it unreasonable to confess that we believe in God, not by reason of the Nature which conceals Him, but by reason of the Supernatural in Man which alone reveals and proves Him to exist?... Man reveals God: for Man, by his intelligence, rises above Nature; and in virtue of this intelligence is conscious of himself as a power not only independent of, but opposed to, Nature, and capable of resisting, conquering, and controlling her." (6)
If the meaning involved in the argument, of which I have heremade but scanty extracts, be carefully studied, I think that weshall find deeper reasons than the critics who dictated canons oftaste to the last century discovered,—why the supernatural isindispensable to the Epic, and why it is allowable to all works ofimagination, in which Art looks on Nature with Man's inner sense ofa something beyond and above her.
But the Writer who, whether in verse or prose, would availhimself of such sources of pity or terror as flow from theMarvellous, can only attain his object in proportion as the wondershe narrates are of a kind to excite the curiosity of the age headdresses.
In the brains of our time, the faculty of Causation is verymarkedly developed. People nowadays do not delight in theMarvellous according to the old childlike spirit. They say in onebreath, "Very extraordinary!" and in the next breath ask, "How doyou account for it?" If the Author of this work has presumed toborrow from science some elements of interest for Romance, heventures to hope that no thoughtful reader—and certainly notrue son of science—will be disposed to reproach him. Infact, such illustrations from the masters of Thought were essentialto the completion of the purpose which pervades the work.
That purpose, I trust, will develop itself in proportion as thestory approaches the close; and whatever may appear violent ormelodramatic in the catastrophe, will, perhaps, be found, by areader capable of perceiving the various symbolical meaningsconveyed in the story, essential to the end in which those meaningsconverge, and towards which the incidents that give them thecharacter and interest of of fiction, have been planned anddirected from the commencement.
Of course, according to the most obvious principles of art, thenarrator of a fiction must be as thoroughly in earnest as if hewere the narrator of facts. One could not tell the most extravagantfairy-tale so as to rouse and sustain the attention of the mostinfantine listener, if the tale were told as if the taleteller didnot believe in it. But when the reader lays down this "StrangeStory," perhaps he will detect, through all the haze of romance,the outlines of these images suggested to his reason: Firstly, theimage of sensuous, soulless Nature, such as the Materialist hadconceived it; secondly, the image of Intellect, obstinatelyseparating all its inquiries from the belief in the spiritualessence and destiny of man, and incurring all kinds of perplexityand resorting to all kinds of visionary speculation before itsettles at last into the simple faith which unites the philosopherand the infant; and thirdly, the image of the erring butpure-thoughted visionary, seeking over-much on this earth toseparate soul from mind, till innocence itself is led astray by aphantom, and reason is lost in the space between earth and thestars. Whether in these pictures there be any truth worth theimplying, every reader must judge for himself; and if he doubt ordeny that there be any such truth, still, in the process of thoughtwhich the doubt or denial enforces, he may chance on a truth whichit pleases himself to discover.
"Most of the Fables of AEsop,"—thus says Montaigne in his charming essay "Of Books" (7)—"have several senses and meanings, of which the Mythologists choose some one that tallies with the fable. But for the most part 't is only what presents itself at the first view, and is superficial; there being others more lively, essential, and internal, into which they had not been able to penetrate; and"—adds Montaigne—"the case is the very same with me."
(1) OEuvres inedites de Maine de Biran, vol. i. Seeintroduction.
(2) OEuvres inedites de Maine de Biran, vol. iii. p. 546(Anthropologie).
(3) OEuvres inedites de Maine de Biran, vol. iii. p. 524.
(4) "The Golden Ass" of Apuleius.
(5) Sir William Hamilton: Lectures on Metaphysics, p. 40.
(6) Jacobi: Von der Gottlichen Dingen; Werke, p. 424-426.
(7) Translation, 1776, Yol. ii. p. 103.
In the year 18— I settled as a physician at one of thewealthiest of our great English towns, which I will designate bythe initial L——. I was yet young, but I had acquiredsome reputation by a professional work, which is, I believe, stillamongst the received authorities on the subject of which it treats.I had studied at Edinburgh and at Paris, and had borne away fromboth those illustrious schools of medicine whatever guarantees forfuture distinction the praise of professors may concede to theambition of students. On becoming a member of the College ofPhysicians, I made a tour of the principal cities of Europe, takingletters of introduction to eminent medical men, and gathering frommany theories and modes of treatment hints to enlarge thefoundations of unprejudiced and comprehensive practice. I hadresolved to fix my ultimate residence in London. But before thispreparatory tour was completed, my resolve was changed by one ofthose unexpected events which determine the fate man in vain wouldwork out for himself. In passing through the Tyro, on my way intothe north of Italy, I found in a small inn, remote from medicalattendance, an English traveller seized with acute inflammation ofthe lungs, and in a state of imminent danger. I devoted myself tohim night and day; and, perhaps more through careful nursing thanactive remedies, I had the happiness to effect his completerecovery. The traveller proved to be Julius Faber, a physician ofgreat distinction, contented to reside, where he was born, in theprovincial city of L——, but whose reputation as aprofound and original pathologist was widely spread, and whosewritings had formed no unimportant part of my special studies. Itwas during a short holiday excursion, from which he was about toreturn with renovated vigour, that he had been thus stricken down.The patient so accidentally met with became the founder of myprofessional fortunes. He conceived a warm attachment forme,—perhaps the more affectionate because he was a childlessbachelor, and the nephew who would succeed to his wealth evinced nodesire to succeed to the toils by which the wealth had beenacquired. Thus, having an heir for the one, he had long lookedabout for an heir to the other, and now resolved on finding thatheir in me. So when we parted Dr. Faber made me promise tocorrespond with him regularly, and it was not long before hedisclosed by letter the plans he had formed in my favour. He saidthat he was growing old; his practice was beyond his strength; heneeded a partner; he was not disposed to put up to sale the healthof patients whom he had learned to regard as his children: moneywas no object to him, but it was an object close at his heart thatthe humanity he had served, and the reputation he had acquired,should suffer no loss in his choice of a successor. In fine, heproposed that I should at once come to L—— as hispartner, with the view of succeeding to his entire practice at theend of two years, when it was his intention to retire.
The opening into fortune thus afforded to me was one that rarelypresents itself to a young man entering upon an overcrowdedprofession; and to an aspirant less allured by the desire offortune than the hope of distinction, the fame of the physician whothus generously offered to me the inestimable benefits of his longexperience and his cordial introduction was in itself an assurancethat a metropolitan practice is not essential to a nationalrenown.
I went, then, to L——, and before the two years of mypartnership had expired, my success justified my kind friend'sselection, and far more than realized my own expectations. I wasfortunate in effecting some notable cures in the earliest casessubmitted to me, and it is everything in the career of a physicianwhen good luck wins betimes for him that confidence which patientsrarely accord except to lengthened experience. To the rapidfacility with which my way was made, some circumstances apart fromprofessional skill probably contributed. I was saved from thesuspicion of a medical adventurer by the accidents of birth andfortune. I belonged to an ancient family (a branch of the oncepowerful border-clan of the Fenwicks) that had for many generationsheld a fair estate in the neighbourhood of Windermere. As an onlyson I had succeeded to that estate on attaining my majority, andhad sold it to pay off the debts which had been made by my father,who had the costly tastes of an antiquary and collector. Theresidue on the sale insured me a modest independence apart from theprofits of a profession; and as I had not been legally bound todefray my father's debts, so I obtained that character fordisinterestedness and integrity which always in England tends topropitiate the public to the successes achieved by industry ortalent. Perhaps, too, any professional ability I might possess wasthe more readily conceded, because I had cultivated with assiduitythe sciences and the scholarship which are collaterally connectedwith the study of medicine. Thus, in a word, I established a socialposition which came in aid of my professional repute, and silencedmuch of that envy which usually embitters and sometimes impedessuccess.
Dr. Faber retired at the end of the two years agreed upon. Hewent abroad; and being, though advanced in years, of a frame stillrobust, and habits of mind still inquiring and eager, he commenceda lengthened course of foreign travel, during which ourcorrespondence, at first frequent, gradually languished, andfinally died away.
I succeeded at once to the larger part of the practice which thelabours of thirty years had secured to my predecessor. My chiefrival was a Dr. Lloyd, a benevolent, fervid man, not withoutgenius, if genius be present where judgment is absent; not withoutscience, if that may be science which fails in precision,—oneof those clever desultory men who, in adopting a profession, do notgive up to it the whole force and heat of their minds. Men of thatkind habitually accept a mechanical routine, because in theexercise of their ostensible calling their imaginative facultiesare drawn away to pursuits more alluring. Therefore, in theirproper vocation they are seldom bold or inventive,—out of itthey are sometimes both to excess. And when they do take up anovelty in their own profession they cherish it with an obstinatetenacity, and an extravagant passion, unknown to those quietphilosophers who take up novelties every day, examine them with thesobriety of practised eyes, to lay down altogether, modify in part,or accept in whole, according as inductive experiment supports ordestroys conjecture.
Dr. Lloyd had been esteemed a learned naturalist long before hewas admitted to be a tolerable physician. Amidst the privations ofhis youth he had contrived to form, and with each succeeding yearhe had perseveringly increased, a zoological collection ofcreatures, not alive, but, happily for the beholder, stuffed orembalmed. From what I have said, it will be truly inferred that Dr.Lloyd's early career as a physician had not been brilliant; but oflate years he had gradually rather aged than worked himself intothat professional authority and station which time confers on athoroughly respectable man whom no one is disposed to envy, and allare disposed to like.
Now in L—— there were two distinct socialcircles,—that of the wealthy merchants and traders, and thatof a few privileged families inhabiting a part of the town alooffrom the marts of commerce, and called the Abbey Hill. These superbAreopagites exercised over the wives and daughters of the inferiorcitizens to whom all of L——, except the Abbey Hill,owed its prosperity, the same kind of mysterious influence whichthe fine ladies of May Fair and Belgravia are reported to hold overthe female denizens of Bloomsbury and Marylebone.
Abbey Hill was not opulent; but it was powerful by aconcentration of its resources in all matters of patronage. AbbeyHill had its own milliner and its own draper, its own confectioner,butcher, baker, and tea-dealer; and the patronage of Abbey Hill waslike the patronage of royalty,—less lucrative in itself thanas a solemn certificate of general merit. The shops on which AbbeyHill conferred its custom were certainly not the cheapest, possiblynot the best; but they were undeniably the most imposing. Theproprietors were decorously pompous, the shopmen superciliouslypolite. They could not be more so if they had belonged to theState, and been paid by a public which they benefited and despised.The ladies of Low Town (as the city subjacent to the Hill had beenstyled from a date remote in the feudal ages) entered those shopswith a certain awe, and left them with a certain pride. There theyhad learned what the Hill approved; there they had bought what theHill had purchased. It is much in this life to be quite sure thatwe are in the right, whatever that conviction may cost us. AbbeyHill had been in the habit of appointing, amongst other objects ofpatronage, its own physician. But that habit had fallen into disuseduring the latter years of my predecessor's practice. Hissuperiority over all other medical men in the town had become soincontestable, that, though he was emphatically the doctor of LowTown, the head of its hospitals and infirmaries, and by birthrelated to its principal traders, still as Abbey Hill wasoccasionally subject to the physical infirmities of meaner mortals,so on those occasions it deemed it best not to push the point ofhonour to the wanton sacrifice of life. Since Low Town possessedone of the most famous physicians in England, Abbey Hillmagnanimously resolved not to crush him by a rival. Abbey Hill lethim feel its pulse.
When my predecessor retired, I had presumptuously expected thatthe Hill would have continued to suspend its normal right to aspecial physician, and shown to me the same generous favour it hadshown to him, who had declared me worthy to succeed to his honours.I had the more excuse for this presumption because the Hill hadalready allowed me to visit a fair proportion of its invalids, hadsaid some very gracious things to me about the great respectabilityof the Fenwick family, and sent me some invitations to dinner, anda great many invitations to tea.
But my self-conceit received a notable check. Abbey Hilldeclared that the time had come to reassert its dormant privilege;it must have a doctor of its own choosing,—a doctor whomight, indeed, be permitted to visit Low Town from motives ofhumanity or gain, but who must emphatically assert his specialallegiance to Abbey Hill by fixing his home on that venerablepromontory. Miss Brabazon, a spinster of uncertain age butundoubted pedigree, with small fortune but high nose, which shewould pleasantly observe was a proof of her descent from HumphreyDuke of Gloucester (with whom, indeed, I have no doubt, in spite ofchronology, that she very often dined), was commissioned to inquireof me diplomatically, and without committing Abbey Hill too much bythe overture, whether I would take a large and antiquated mansion,in which abbots were said to have lived many centuries ago, andwhich was still popularly styled Abbots' House, situated on theverge of the Hill, as in that case the "Hill" would think ofme.
"It is a large house for a single man, I allow," said MissBrabazon, candidly; and then added, with a sidelong glance ofalarming sweetness, "but when Dr. Fenwick has taken his trueposition (so old a family!) amongst us, he need not long remainsingle, unless he prefer it."
I replied, with more asperity than the occasion called for, thatI had no thought of changing my residence at present, and if theHill wanted me, the Hill must send for me.
Two days afterwards Dr. Lloyd took Abbots' House, and in lessthan a week was proclaimed medical adviser to the Hill. Theelection had been decided by the fiat of a great lady, who reignedsupreme on the sacred eminence, under the name and title of Mrs.Colonel Poyntz.
"Dr. Fenwick," said this lady, "is a clever young man and agentleman, but he gives himself airs,—the Hill does not allowany airs but its own. Besides, he is a new comer: resistance to newcomers, and, indeed, to all things new, except caps and novels, isone of the bonds that keep old established societies together.Accordingly, it is by my advice that Dr. Lloyd has taken Abbots'House; the rent would be too high for his means if the Hill did notfeel bound in honour to justify the trust he has placed in itspatronage. I told him that all my friends, when they were in wantof a doctor, would send for him; those who are my friends will doso. What the Hill does, plenty of common people down there will doalso,—so that question is settled!" And it was settled.
Dr. Lloyd, thus taken by the hand, soon extended the range ofhis visits beyond the Hill, which was not precisely a mountain ofgold to doctors, and shared with myself, though in a comparativelysmall degree, the much more lucrative practice of Low Town.
I had no cause to grudge his success, nor did I. But to mytheories of medicine his diagnosis was shallow, and hisprescriptions obsolete. When we were summoned to a jointconsultation, our views as to the proper course of treatment seldomagreed. Doubtless he thought I ought to have deferred to hisseniority in years; but I held the doctrine which youth deems atruth and age a paradox,—namely, that in science the youngmen are the practical elders, inasmuch as they are schooled in thelatest experiences science has gathered up, while their seniors arecramped by the dogmas they were schooled to believe when the worldwas some decades the younger.
Meanwhile my reputation continued rapidly to advance; it becamemore than local; my advice was sought even by patients from themetropolis. That ambition, which, conceived in early youth, haddecided my career and sweetened all its labours,—the ambitionto take a rank and leave a name as one of the great pathologists towhom humanity accords a grateful, if calm, renown,—saw beforeit a level field and a certain goal.
I know not whether a success far beyond that usually attained atthe age I had reached served to increase, but it seemed to myselfto justify, the main characteristic of my moralorganization,—intellectual pride.
Though mild and gentle to the sufferers under my care, as anecessary element of professional duty, I was intolerant ofcontradiction from those who belonged to my calling, or even fromthose who, in general opinion, opposed my favourite theories. I hadespoused a school of medical philosophy severely rigid in itsinductive logic. My creed was that of stern materialism. I had acontempt for the understanding of men who accepted with credulitywhat they could not explain by reason. My favourite phrase was"common-sense." At the same time I had no prejudice against bolddiscovery, and discovery necessitates conjecture, but I dismissedas idle all conjecture that could not be brought to a practicaltest.
As in medicine I had been the pupil of Broussais, so inmetaphysics I was the disciple of Condillac. I believed with thatphilosopher that "all our knowledge we owe to Nature; that in thebeginning we can only instruct ourselves through her lessons; andthat the whole art of reasoning consists in continuing as she hascompelled us to commence." Keeping natural philosophy apart fromthe doctrines of revelation, I never assailed the last; but Icontended that by the first no accurate reasoner could arrive atthe existence of the soul as a third principle of being equallydistinct from mind and body. That by a miracle man might liveagain, was a question of faith and not of understanding. I leftfaith to religion, and banished it from philosophy. How define witha precision to satisfy the logic of philosophy what was to liveagain? The body? We know that the body rests in its grave till bythe process of decomposition its elemental parts enter into otherforms of matter. The mind? But the mind was as clearly the resultof the bodily organization as the music of the harpsichord is theresult of the instrumental mechanism. The mind shared thedecrepitude of the body in extreme old age, and in the full vigourof youth a sudden injury to the brain might forever destroy theintellect of a Plato or a Shakspeare. But the thirdprinciple,—the soul,—the something lodged within thebody, which yet was to survive it? Where was that soul hidden outof the ken of the anatomist? When philosophers attempted to defineit, were they not compelled to confound its nature and its actionswith those of the mind? Could they reduce it to the mere moralsense, varying according to education, circumstances, and physicalconstitution? But even the moral sense in the most virtuous of menmay be swept away by a fever. Such at the time I now speak of werethe views I held,—views certainly not original nor pleasing;but I cherished them with as fond a tenacity as if they had beenconsolatory truths of which I was the first discoverer. I wasintolerant to those who maintained oppositedoctrines,—despised them as irrational, or disliked them asinsincere. Certainly if I had fulfilled the career which myambition predicted,—become the founder of a new school inpathology, and summed up my theories in academicallectures,—I should have added another authority, howeverfeeble, to the sects which circumscribe the interest of man to thelife that has its close in his grave.
Possibly that which I have called my intellectual pride was morenourished than I should have been willing to grant by theself-reliance which an unusual degree of physical power is apt tobestow. Nature had blessed me with the thews of an athlete. Amongthe hardy youths of the Northern Athens I had been preeminentlydistinguished for feats of activity and strength. My mentallabours, and the anxiety which is inseparable from theconscientious responsibilities of the medical profession, kept myhealth below the par of keen enjoyment, but had in no waydiminished my rare muscular force. I walked through the crowd withthe firm step and lofty crest of the mailed knight of old, who felthimself, in his casement of iron, a match against numbers. Thus thesense of a robust individuality, strong alike in disciplined reasonand animal vigour, habituated to aid others, needing no aid foritself, contributed to render me imperious in will and arrogant inopinion. Nor were such defects injurious to me in my profession; onthe contrary, aided as they were by a calm manner, and a presencenot without that kind of dignity which is the livery ofself-esteem, they served to impose respect and to inspiretrust.
I had been about six years at L—— when I becamesuddenly involved in a controversy with Dr. Lloyd. Just as thisill-fated man appeared at the culminating point of his professionalfortunes, he had the imprudence to proclaim himself not only anenthusiastic advocate of mesmerism as a curative process, but anardent believer of the reality of somnambular clairvoyance as aninvaluable gift of certain privileged organizations. To thesedoctrines I sternly opposed myself,—the more sternly,perhaps, because on these doctrines Dr. Lloyd founded an argumentfor the existence of soul, independent of mind, as of matter, andbuilt thereon a superstructure of physiological fantasies, which,could it be substantiated, would replace every system ofmetaphysics on which recognized philosophy condescends todispute.
About two years before he became a disciple rather of Puysegurthan Mesmer (for Mesmer hard little faith in that gift ofclairvoyance of which Puysegur was, I believe, at least in moderntimes, the first audacious asserter), Dr. Lloyd had been afflictedwith the loss of a wife many years younger than himself, and towhom he had been tenderly attached. And this bereavement, indirecting the hopes that consoled him to a world beyond the grave,had served perhaps to render him more credulous of the phenomena inwhich he greeted additional proofs of purely spiritual existence.Certainly, if, in controverting the notions of anotherphysiologist, I had restricted myself to that fair antagonism whichbelongs to scientific disputants anxious only for the truth, Ishould need no apology for sincere conviction and honest argument;but when, with condescending good-nature, as if to a man muchyounger than himself, who was ignorant of the phenomena which henevertheless denied, Dr. Lloyd invited me to attend his seances andwitness his cures, my amour propre became aroused and nettled, andit seemed to me necessary to put down what I asserted to be toogross an outrage on common-sense to justify the ceremony ofexamination. I wrote, therefore, a small pamphlet on the subject,in which I exhausted all the weapons that irony can lend tocontempt. Dr. Lloyd replied; and as he was no very skilful arguer,his reply injured him perhaps more than my assault. Meanwhile, Ihad made some inquiries as to the moral character of his favouriteclairvoyants. I imagined that I had learned enough to justify me intreating them as flagrant cheats, and himself as their egregiousdupe.
Low Town soon ranged itself, with very few exceptions, on myside. The Hill at first seemed disposed to rally round its insultedphysician, and to make the dispute a party question, in which theHill would have been signally worsted, when suddenly the same ladyparamount, who had secured to Dr. Lloyd the smile of the Eminence,spoke forth against him, and the Eminence frowned.
"Dr. Lloyd," said the Queen of the Hill, "is an amiablecreature, but on this subject decidedly cracked. Cracked poets maybe all the better for being cracked,—cracked doctors aredangerous. Besides, in deserting that old-fashioned routine, hisadherence to which made his claim to the Hill's approbation, andunsettling the mind of the Hill with wild revolutionary theories,Dr. Lloyd has betrayed the principles on which the Hill itselfrests its social foundations. Of those principles Dr. Fenwick hasmade himself champion; and the Hill is bound to support him. There,the question is settled!"
And it was settled.
From the moment Mrs. Colonel Poyntz thus issued the word ofcommand, Dr. Lloyd was demolished. His practice was gone, as wellas his repute. Mortification or anger brought on a stroke ofparalysis which, disabling my opponent, put an end to ourcontroversy. An obscure Dr. Jones, who had been the special pupiland protege of Dr. Lloyd, offered himself as a candidate for theHill's tongues and pulses. The Hill gave him little encouragement.It once more suspended its electoral privileges, and, withoutinsisting on calling me up to it, the Hill quietly called me inwhenever its health needed other advice than that of its visitingapothecary. Again it invited me, sometimes to dinner, often to tea;and again Miss Brabazon assured me by a sidelong glance that it wasno fault of hers if I were still single.
I had almost forgotten the dispute which had obtained for me soconspicuous a triumph, when one winter's night I was roused fromsleep by a summons to attend Dr Lloyd, who, attacked by a secondstroke a few hours previously, had, on recovering sense, expresseda vehement desire to consult the rival by whom he had suffered soseverely. I dressed myself in haste and hurried to his house.
A February night, sharp and bitter; an iron-gray frost below, aspectral melancholy moon above. I had to ascend the Abbey Hill by asteep, blind lane between high walls. I passed through statelygates, which stood wide open, into the garden ground thatsurrounded the old Abbots' House. At the end of a shortcarriage-drive the dark and gloomy building cleared itself fromleafless skeleton trees,—the moon resting keen and cold onits abrupt gables and lofty chimney-stacks. An old woman-servantreceived me at the door, and, without saying a word, led me througha long low hall, and up dreary oak stairs, to a broad landing, atwhich she paused for a moment, listening. Round and about hall,staircase, and landing were ranged the dead specimens of the savageworld which it had been the pride of the naturalist's life tocollect. Close where I stood yawned the open jaws of the fellanaconda, its lower coils hidden, as they rested on the floorbelow, by the winding of the massive stairs. Against the dullwainscot walls were pendent cases stored with grotesque unfamiliarmummies, seen imperfectly by the moon that shot through thewindow-panes, and the candle in the old woman's hand. And as nowshe turned towards me, nodding her signal to follow, and went on upthe shadowy passage, rows of gigantic birds—ibis and vulture,and huge sea glaucus—glared at me in the false light of theirhungry eyes.
So I entered the sick-room, and the first glance told me that myart was powerless there.
The children of the stricken widower were grouped round his bed,the eldest apparently about fifteen, the youngest four; one littlegirl—the only female child—was clinging to her father'sneck, her face pressed to his bosom, and in that room her sobsalone were loud.
As I passed the threshold, Dr. Lloyd lifted his face, which hadbeen bent over the weeping child, and gazed on me with an aspect ofstrange glee, which I failed to interpret. Then as I stole towardshim softly and slowly, he pressed his lips on the long fair tressesthat streamed wild over his breast, motioned to a nurse who stoodbeside his pillow to take the child away, and in a voice clearerthan I could have expected in one on whose brow lay theunmistakable hand of death, he bade the nurse and the children quitthe room. All went sorrowfully, but silently, save the little girl,who, borne off in the nurse's arms, continued to sob as if herheart were breaking.
I was not prepared for a scene so affecting; it moved me to thequick. My eyes wistfully followed the children so soon to beorphans, as one after one went out into the dark chill shadow, andamidst the bloodless forms of the dumb brute nature, ranged ingrisly vista beyond the death-room of man. And when the last infantshape had vanished, and the door closed with a jarring click, mysight wandered loiteringly around the chamber before I could bringmyself to fix it on the broken form, beside which I now stood inall that glorious vigour of frame which had fostered the pride ofmy mind. In the moment consumed by my mournful survey, the wholeaspect of the place impressed itself ineffaceably on lifelongremembrance. Through the high, deepsunken casement, across whichthe thin, faded curtain was but half drawn, the moonlight rushed,and then settled on the floor in one shroud of white glimmer, lostunder the gloom of the death-bed. The roof was low, and seemedlower still by heavy intersecting beams, which I might have touchedwith my lifted hand. And the tall guttering candle by the bedside,and the flicker from the fire struggling out through the fuel butnewly heaped on it, threw their reflection on the ceiling just overmy head in a reek of quivering blackness, like an angry cloud.
Suddenly I felt my arm grasped; with his left hand (the rightside was already lifeless) the dying man drew me towards him nearerand nearer, till his lips almost touched my ear, and, in a voicenow firm, now splitting into gasp and hiss, thus he said, "I havesummoned you to gaze on your own work! You have stricken down mylife at the moment when it was most needed by my children, and mostserviceable to mankind. Had I lived a few years longer, my childrenwould have entered on manhood, safe from the temptations of wantand undejected by the charity of strangers. Thanks to you, theywill be penniless orphans. Fellow-creatures afflicted by maladiesyour pharmacopoeia had failed to reach came to me for relief, andthey found it. 'The effect of imagination,' you say. What matters,if I directed the imagination to cure? Now you have mocked theunhappy ones out of their last chance of life. They will suffer andperish. Did you believe me in error? Still you knew that my objectwas research into truth. You employed against your brother in artvenomous drugs and a poisoned probe. Look at me! Are you satisfiedwith your work?"
I sought to draw back and pluck my arm from the dying man'sgrasp. I could not do so without using a force that would have beeninhuman. His lips drew nearer still to my ear.
"Vain pretender, do not boast that you brought a genius forepigram to the service of science. Science is lenient to all whooffer experiment as the test of conjecture. You are of the stuff ofwhich inquisitors are made. You cry that truth is profaned whenyour dogmas are questioned. In your shallow presumption you havemeted the dominions of nature, and where your eye halts its vision,you say, 'There nature must close;' in the bigotry which adds crimeto presumption, you would stone the discoverer who, in annexing newrealms to her chart, unsettles your arbitrary landmarks. Verily,retribution shall await you! In those spaces which your sight hasdisdained to explore you shall yourself be a lost and bewilderedstraggler. Hist! I see them already! The gibbering phantoms aregathering round you!"
The man's voice stopped abruptly; his eye fixed in a glazingstare; his hand relaxed its hold; he fell back on his pillow. Istole from the room; on the landing-place I met the nurse and theold woman-servant. Happily the children were not there. But I heardthe wail of the female child from some room not far distant.
I whispered hurriedly to the nurse, "All is over!" passed againunder the jaws of the vast anaconda, and on through the blind lanebetween the dead walls, on through the ghastly streets, under theghastly moon, went back to my solitary home.
It was some time before I could shake off the impression made onme by the words and the look of that dying man.
It was not that my conscience upbraided me. What had I done?Denounced that which I held, in common with most men of sense in orout of my profession, to be one of those illusions by whichquackery draws profit from the wonder of ignorance. Was I to blameif I refused to treat with the grave respect due to asserteddiscovery in legitimate science pretensions to powers akin to thefables of wizards? Was I to descend from the Academe of decorousscience to examine whether a slumbering sibyl could read from abook placed at her back, or tell me at L—— what at thatmoment was being done by my friend at the Antipodes?
And what though Dr. Lloyd himself might be a worthy and honestman, and a sincere believer in the extravagances for which hedemanded an equal credulity in others, do not honest men every dayincur the penalty of ridicule if, from a defect of good sense, theymake themselves ridiculous? Could I have foreseen that a satire sojustly provoked would inflict so deadly a wound? Was I inhumanlybarbarous because the antagonist destroyed was morbidly sensitive?My conscience, therefore, made me no reproach, and the public wasas little severe as my conscience. The public had been with me inour contest; the public knew nothing of my opponent's deathbedaccusations; the public knew only that I had attended him in hislast moments; it saw me walk beside the bier that bore him to hisgrave; it admired the respect to his memory which I evinced in thesimple tomb that I placed over his remains, inscribed with anepitaph that did justice to his unquestionable benevolence andintegrity; above all, it praised the energy with which I set onfoot a subscription for his orphan children, and the generositywith which I headed that subscription by a sum that was large inproportion to my means.
To that sum I did not, indeed, limit my contribution. The sobsof the poor female child rang still on my heart. As her grief hadbeen keener than that of her brothers, so she might be subjected tosharper trials than they, when the time came for her to fight herown way through the world; therefore I secured to her, but withsuch precautions that the gift could not be traced to my hand, asum to accumulate till she was of marriageable age, and which thenmight suffice for a small wedding portion; or if she remainedsingle, for an income that would place her beyond the temptation ofwant, or the bitterness of a servile dependence.
That Dr. Lloyd should have died in poverty was a matter ofsurprise at first, for his profits during the last few years hadbeen considerable, and his mode of life far from extravagant. Butjust before the date of our controversy he had been induced toassist the brother of his lost wife, who was a junior partner in aLondon bank, with the loan of his accumulated savings. This manproved dishonest; he embezzled that and other sums intrusted tohim, and fled the country. The same sentiment of conjugal affectionwhich had cost Dr. Lloyd his fortune kept him silent as to thecause of the loss. It was reserved for his executors to discoverthe treachery of the brother-in-law whom he, poor man, would havegenerously screened from additional disgrace.
The Mayor of L——, a wealthy and public-spiritedmerchant, purchased the museum, which Dr. Lloyd's passion fornatural history had induced him to form; and the sum thus obtained,together with that raised by subscription, sufficed not only todischarge all debts due by the deceased, but to insure to theorphans the benefits of an education that might fit at least theboys to enter fairly armed into that game, more of skill than ofchance, in which Fortune is really so little blinded that we see,in each turn of her wheel, wealth and its honours pass away fromthe lax fingers of ignorance and sloth, to the resolute grasp oflabour and knowledge.
Meanwhile a relation in a distant county undertook the charge ofthe orphans; they disappeared from the scene, and the tides of lifein a commercial community soon flowed over the place which the deadman had occupied in the thoughts of his bustling townsfolk.
One person at L——, and only one, appeared to shareand inherit the rancour with which the poor physician had denouncedme on his death-bed. It was a gentleman named Vigors, distantlyrelated to the deceased, and who had been, in point of station, themost eminent of Dr. Lloyd's partisans in the controversy withmyself, a man of no great scholastic acquirements, but ofrespectable abilities. He had that kind of power which the worldconcedes to respectable abilities when accompanied with a tempermore than usually stern, and a moral character more than usuallyaustere. His ruling passion was to sit in judgment upon others; andbeing a magistrate, he was the most active and the most rigid ofall the magistrates L—— had ever known.
Mr. Vigors at first spoke of me with great bitterness, as havingruined, and in fact killed, his friend, by the uncharitable andunfair acerbity which he declared I had brought into what ought tohave been an unprejudiced examination of simple matter of fact. Butfinding no sympathy in these charges, he had the discretion tocease from making them, contenting himself with a solemn shake ofhis head if he heard my name mentioned in terms of praise, and anoracular sentence or two, such as "Time will show," "All's wellthat ends well," etc. Mr. Vigors, however, mixed very little in themore convivial intercourse of the townspeople. He called himselfdomestic; but, in truth, he was ungenial,—a stiff man,starched with self-esteem. He thought that his dignity of stationwas not sufficiently acknowledged by the merchants of Low Town, andhis superiority of intellect not sufficiently recognized by theexclusives of the Hill. His visits were, therefore, chieflyconfined to the houses of neighbouring squires, to whom hisreputation as a magistrate, conjoined with his solemn exterior,made him one of those oracles by which men consent to be awed oncondition that the awe is not often inflicted. And though he openedhis house three times a week, it was only to a select few, whom hefirst fed and then biologized. Electro-biology was very naturallythe special entertainment of a man whom no intercourse ever pleasedin which his will was not imposed upon others. Therefore he onlyinvited to his table persons whom he could stare into theabnegation of their senses, willing to say that beef was lamb, orbrandy was coffee, according as he willed them to say. And, nodoubt, the persons asked would have said anything he willed, solong as they had, in substance, as well as in idea, the beef andthe brandy, the lamb and the coffee. I did not, then, often meetMr. Vigors at the houses in which I occasionally spent my evenings.I heard of his enmity as a man safe in his home hears the sough ofa wind on a common without. If now and then we chanced to pass inthe streets, he looked up at me (he was a small man walking ontiptoe) with a sullen scowl of dislike; and from the height of mystature, I dropped upon the small man and sullen scowl the affablesmile of supreme indifference.
I had now arrived at that age when an ambitious man, satisfiedwith his progress in the world without, begins to feel in thecravings of unsatisfied affection the void of a solitary hearth. Iresolved to marry, and looked out for a wife. I had never hithertoadmitted into my life the passion of love. In fact, I had regardedthat passion, even in my earlier youth, with a certain superbcontempt,—as a malady engendered by an effeminate idleness,and fostered by a sickly imagination.
I wished to find in a wife a rational companion, an affectionateand trustworthy friend. No views of matrimony could be lessromantic, more soberly sensible, than those which I conceived. Norwere my requirements mercenary or presumptuous. I cared not forfortune; I asked nothing from connections. My ambition wasexclusively professional; it could be served by no titled kindred,accelerated by no wealthy dower. I was no slave to beauty. I didnot seek in a wife the accomplishments of a finishing-schoolteacher.
Having decided that the time had come to select my helpmate, Iimagined that I should find no difficulty in a choice that myreason would approve. But day upon day, week upon week, passedaway, and though among the families I visited there were many youngladies who possessed more than the qualifications with which Iconceived that I should be amply contented, and by whom I mightflatter myself that my proposals would not be disdained, I saw notone to whose lifelong companionship I should not infinitely havepreferred the solitude I found so irksome.
One evening, in returning home from visiting a poor femalepatient whom I attended gratuitously, and whose case demanded morethought than that of any other in my list,—for though it hadbeen considered hopeless in the hospital, and she had come home todie, I felt certain that I could save her, and she seemedrecovering under my care,—one evening—it was thefifteenth of May—I found myself just before the gates of thehouse that had been inhabited by Dr. Lloyd. Since his death thehouse had been unoccupied; the rent asked for it by the proprietorwas considered high; and from the sacred Hill on which it wassituated, shyness or pride banished the wealthier traders. Thegarden gates stood wide open, as they had stood on the winter nighton which I had passed through them to the chamber of death. Theremembrance of that deathbed came vividly before me, and the dyingman's fantastic threat rang again in my startled ears. Anirresistible impulse, which I could not then account for, and whichI cannot account for now,—an impulse the reverse of thatwhich usually makes us turn away with quickened step from a spotthat recalls associations of pain,—urged me on through theopen gates up the neglected grass-grown road, urged me to look,under the weltering sun of the joyous spring, at that house which Ihad never seen but in the gloom of a winter night, under themelancholy moon. As the building came in sight, with dark-redbricks, partially overgrown with ivy, I perceived that it was nolonger unoccupied. I saw forms passing athwart the open windows; avan laden with articles of furniture stood before the door; aservant in livery was beside it giving directions to the men whowere unloading. Evidently some family was just entering intopossession. I felt somewhat ashamed of my trespass, and turnedround quickly to retrace my steps. I had retreated but a few yards,when I saw before me, at the entrance gates, Mr. Vigors, walkingbeside a lady apparently of middle age; while, just at hand, a pathcut through the shrubs gave view of a small wicketgate at the endof the grounds. I felt unwilling not only to meet the lady, whom Iguessed to be the new occupier, and to whom I should have to make asomewhat awkward apology for intrusion, but still more to encounterthe scornful look of Mr. Vigors in what appeared to my pride afalse or undignified position. Involuntarily, therefore, I turneddown the path which would favour my escape unobserved. When abouthalf way between the house and the wicket-gate, the shrubs that hadclothed the path on either side suddenly opened to the left,bringing into view a circle of sward, surrounded by irregularfragments of old brickwork partially covered with ferns, creepers,or rockplants, weeds, or wild flowers; and, in the centre of thecircle, a fountain, or rather well, over which was built a Gothicmonastic dome, or canopy, resting on small Norman columns,time-worn, dilapidated. A large willow overhung this unmistakablerelic of the ancient abbey. There was an air of antiquity, romance,legend about this spot, so abruptly disclosed amidst the delicategreen of the young shrubberies. But it was not the ruined wall northe Gothic well that chained my footstep and charmed my eye.
It was a solitary human form, seated amidst the mournfulruins.
The form was so slight, the face so young, that at the firstglance I murmured to myself, "What a lovely child!" But as my eyelingered it recognized in the upturned thoughtful brow, in thesweet, serious aspect, in the rounded outlines of that slendershape, the inexpressible dignity of virgin woman.
A book was on her lap, at her feet a little basket, half-filledwith violets and blossoms culled from the rock-plants that nestledamidst the ruins. Behind her, the willow, like an emeraldwaterfall, showered down its arching abundant green, bough afterbough, from the tree-top to the sward, descending in wavy verdure,bright towards the summit, in the smile of the setting sun, anddarkening into shadow as it neared the earth.
She did not notice, she did not see me; her eyes were fixed uponthe horizon, where it sloped farthest into space, above thetreetops and the ruins,—fixed so intently that mechanically Iturned my own gaze to follow the flight of hers. It was as if shewatched for some expected, familiar sign to grow out from thedepths of heaven; perhaps to greet, before other eyes beheld it,the ray of the earliest star.
The birds dropped from the boughs on the turf around her sofearlessly that one alighted amidst the flowers in the littlebasket at her feet. There is a famous German poem, which I had readin my youth, called the Maiden from Abroad, variously supposed tobe an allegory of Spring, or of Poetry, according to the choice ofcommentators: it seemed to me as if the poem had been made for her.Verily, indeed, in her, poet or painter might have seen an imageequally true to either of those adornments of the earth; bothoutwardly a delight to sense, yet both wakening up thoughts withinus, not sad, but akin to sadness.
I heard now a step behind me, and a voice which I recognized tobe that of Mr. Vigors. I broke from the charm by which I had beenso lingeringly spell-bound, hurried on confusedly, gained thewicket-gate, from which a short flight of stairs descended into thecommon thoroughfare. And there the every-day life lay again beforeme. On the opposite side, houses, shops, church-spires; a few stepsmore, and the bustling streets! How immeasurably far from, yet howfamiliarly near to, the world in which we move and have being isthat fairy-land of romance which opens out from the hard earthbefore us, when Love steals at first to our side, fading back intothe hard earth again as Love smiles or sighs its farewell!
And before that evening I had looked on Mr. Vigors with supremeindifference! What importance he now assumed in my eyes! The ladywith whom I had seen him was doubtless the new tenant of that housein which the young creature by whom my heart was so strangely movedevidently had her home. Most probably the relation between the twoladies was that of mother and daughter. Mr. Vigors, the friend ofone, might himself be related to both, might prejudice them againstme, might—Here, starting up, I snapped the thread ofconjecture, for right before my eyes, on the table beside which Ihad seated myself on entering my room, lay a card ofinvitation:—
MRS. POYNTZ. At Home, Wednesday, May 15th. Early.
Mrs. Poyntz,—Mrs. Colonel Poyntz, the Queen of the Hill?There, at her house, I could not fail to learn all about the newcomers, who could never without her sanction have settled on herdomain.
I hastily changed my dress, and, with beating heart, wound myway up the venerable eminence.
I did not pass through the lane which led direct to Abbots'House (for that old building stood solitary amidst its grounds alittle apart from the spacious platform on which the society of theHill was concentrated), but up the broad causeway, with vistaedgaslamps; the gayer shops still-unclosed, the tide of busy lifeonly slowly ebbing from the still-animated street, on to a square,in which the four main thoroughfares of the city converged, andwhich formed the boundary of Low Town. A huge dark archway,popularly called Monk's Gate, at the angle of this square, made theentrance to Abbey Hill. When the arch was passed, one felt at oncethat one was in the town of a former day. The pavement was narrowand rugged; the shops small, their upper stories projecting, withhere and there plastered fronts, quaintly arabesque. An ascent,short, but steep and tortuous, conducted at once to the old AbbeyChurch, nobly situated in a vast quadrangle, round which were thegenteel and gloomy dwellings of the Areopagites of the Hill. Moregenteel and less gloomy than the rest—lights at the windowsand flowers on the balcony—stood forth, flanked by a gardenwall at either side, the mansion of Mrs. Colonel Poyntz.
As I entered the drawing-room, I heard the voice of the hostess;it was a voice clear, decided, metallic, bell-like, uttering thesewords: "Taken Abbots' House? I will tell you."
Mrs. Poyntz was seated on the sofa; at her right sat fat Mrs.Bruce, who was a Scotch lord's grand-daughter; at her left thinMiss Brabazon, who was an Irish baronet's niece. Around her—afew seated, many standing—had grouped all the guests, savetwo old gentlemen, who had remained aloof with Colonel Poyntz nearthe whist-table, waiting for the fourth old gentleman who was tomake up the rubber, but who was at that moment spell-bound in themagic circle which curiosity, that strongest of social demons, hadattracted round the hostess.
"Taken Abbots' House? I will tell you.—Ah, Dr. Fenwick,charmed to see you. You know Abbots' House is let at last? Well,Miss Brabazon, dear, you ask who has taken it. I will informyou,—a particular friend of mine."
"Indeed! Dear me!" said Miss Brabazon, looking confused. "I hopeI did not say anything to—"
"Wound my feelings. Not in the least. You said your uncle SirPhelim employed a coachmaker named Ashleigh, that Ashleigh was anuncommon name, though Ashley was a common one; you intimated anappalling suspicion that the Mrs. Ashleigh who had come to the Hillwas the coach maker's widow. I relieve your mind,—she is not;she is the widow of Gilbert Ashleigh, of Kirby Hall."
"Gilbert Ashleigh," said one of the guests, a bachelor, whoseparents had reared him for the Church, but who, like poorGoldsmith, did not think himself good enough for it, a mistake ofover-modesty, for he matured into a very harmless creature."Gilbert Ashleigh? I was at Oxford with him,—a gentlemancommoner of Christ Church. Good-looking man, very;sapped—"
"Sapped! what's that?—Oh, studied. That he did all hislife. He married young,—Anne Chaloner; she and I were girlstogether; married the same year. They settled at KirbyHall—nice place, but dull. Poyntz and I spent a Christmasthere. Ashleigh when he talked was charming, but he talked verylittle. Anne, when she talked, was commonplace, and she talked verymuch. Naturally, poor thing,—-she was so happy. Poyntz and Idid not spend another Christmas there. Friendship is long, but lifeis short. Gilbert Ashleigh's life was short indeed; he died in theseventh year of his marriage, leaving only one child, a girl. Sincethen, though I never spent another Christmas at Kirby Hall, I havefrequently spent a day there, doing my best to cheer up Anne. Shewas no longer talkative, poor dear. Wrapped up in her child, whohas now grown into a beautiful girl of eighteen—such eyes,her father's—the real dark blue—rare; sweet creature,but delicate; not, I hope, consumptive, but delicate; quiet, wantslife. My girl Jane adores her. Jane has life enough for two."
"Is Miss Ashleigh the heiress to Kirby Hall?" asked Mrs. Bruce,who had an unmarried son.
"No. Kirby Hall passed to Ashleigh Sumner, the male heir, acousin. And the luckiest of cousins! Gilbert's sister, showy woman(indeed all show), had contrived to marry her kinsman, Sir WalterAshleigh Haughton, the head of the Ashleigh family,—just theman made to be the reflector of a showy woman! He died years ago,leaving an only son, Sir James, who was killed last winter, by afall from his horse. And here, again, Ashleigh Summer proved to bethe male heir-at-law. During the minority of this fortunate youth,Mrs. Ashleigh had rented Kirby Hall of his guardian. He is now justcoming of age, and that is why she leaves. Lilian Ashleigh willhave, however, a very good fortune,—is what we genteelpaupers call an heiress. Is there anything more you want toknow?"
Said thin Miss Brabazon, who took advantage of her thinness towedge herself into every one's affairs, "A most interestingaccount. What a nice place Abbots' House could be made with alittle taste! So aristocratic! Just what I should like if I couldafford it! The drawing-room should be done up in the Moorish style,with geranium-coloured silk curtains, like dear LadyL——'s boudoir at Twickenham. And Mrs. Ashleigh hastaken the house on lease too, I suppose!" Here Miss Brabazonfluttered her fan angrily, and then exclaimed, "But what on earthbrings Mrs. Ashleigh here?"
Answered Mrs. Colonel Poyntz, with the military frankness bywhich she kept her company in good humour, as well asawe,—
"Why do any of us come here? Can any one tell me?"
There was a blank silence, which the hostess herself was thefirst to break.
"None of us present can say why we came here. I can tell you whyMrs. Ashleigh came. Our neighbour, Mr. Vigors, is a distantconnection of the late Gilbert Ashleigh, one of the executors tohis will, and the guardian to the heir-at-law. About ten days agoMr. Vigors called on me, for the first time since I felt it my dutyto express my disapprobation of the strange vagaries so unhappilyconceived by our poor dear friend Dr. Lloyd. And when he had takenhis chair, just where you now sit, Dr. Fenwick, he said in asepulchral voice, stretching out two fingers, so,—as if Iwere one of the what-do-you-call-'ems who go to sleep when he bidsthem, 'Marm, you know Mrs. Ashleigh? You correspond with her?''Yes, Mr. Vigors; is there any crime in that? You look as if therewere.' 'No crime, marm,' said the man, quite seriously. 'Mrs.Ashleigh is a lady of amiable temper, and you are a woman ofmasculine understanding.'"
Here there was a general titter. Mrs. Colonel Poyntz hushed itwith a look of severe surprise. "What is there to laugh at? Allwomen would be men if they could. If my understanding is masculine,so much the better for me. I thanked Mr. Vigors for his veryhandsome compliment, and he then went on to say that though Mrs.Ashleigh would now have to leave Kirby Hall in a very few weeks,she seemed quite unable to make up her mind where to go; that ithad occurred to him that, as Miss Ashleigh was of an age to see alittle of the world, she ought not to remain buried in the country;while, being of quiet mind, she recoiled from the dissipation ofLondon. Between the seclusion of the one and the turmoil of theother, the society of L—— was a happy medium. He shouldbe glad of my opinion. He had put off asking for it, because heowned his belief that I had behaved unkindly to his lamentedfriend, Dr. Lloyd; but he now found himself in rather an awkwardposition. His ward, young Sumner, had prudently resolved on fixinghis country residence at Kirby Hall, rather than at Haughton Park,the much larger seat which had so suddenly passed to hisinheritance, and which he could not occupy without a vastestablishment, that to a single man, so young, would be but acumbersome and costly trouble. Mr. Vigors was pledged to his wardto obtain him possession of Kirby Hall, the precise day agreedupon, but Mrs. Ashleigh did not seem disposed to stir,—couldnot decide where else to go. Mr. Vigors was loth to press hard onhis old friend's widow and child. It was a thousand pities MrsAshleigh could not make up her mind; she had had ample time forpreparation. A word from me at this moment would be an effectivekindness. Abbots' House was vacant, with a garden so extensive thatthe ladies would not miss the country. Another party was after it,but—'Say no more,' I cried; 'no party but my dear old friendAnne Ashleigh shall have Abbots' House. So that question issettled.' I dismissed Mr. Vigors, sent for my carriage, that is,for Mr. Barker's yellow fly and his best horses,—and drovethat very day to Kirby Hall, which, though not in this county, isonly twenty-five miles distant. I slept there that night. By nineo'clock the next morning I had secured Mrs. Ashleigh's consent, onthe promise to save her all trouble; came back, sent for thelandlord, settled the rent, lease, agreement; engaged Forbes' vansto remove the furniture from Kirby Hall; told Forbes to begin withthe beds. When her own bed came, which was last night, AnneAshleigh came too. I have seen her this morning. She likes theplace, so does Lilian. I asked them to meet you all here to-night;but Mrs. Ashleigh was tired. The last of the furniture was toarrive today; and though dear Mrs. Ashleigh is an undecidedcharacter, she is not inactive. But it is not only the planningwhere to put tables and chairs that would have tried her today: shehas had Mr. Vigors on her hands all the afternoon, and he hasbeen—here's her little note—what are the words? Nodoubt 'most overpowering and oppressive;' no, 'most kind andattentive,'—different words, but, as applied to Mr. Vigors,they mean the same thing.
"And now, next Monday—-we must leave them in peace tillthen—you will all call on the Ashleighs. The Hill knows whatis due to itself; it cannot delegate to Mr. Vigors, a respectableman indeed, but who does not belong to its set, its own propercourse of action towards those who would shelter themselves on itsbosom. The Hill cannot be kind and attentive, overpowering oroppressive by proxy. To those newborn into its family circle itcannot be an indifferent godmother; it has towards them all thefeelings of a mother,—or of a stepmother, as the case may be.Where it says 'This can be no child of mine,' it is a stepmotherindeed; but in all those whom I have presented to its arms, it hashitherto, I am proud to say, recognized desirable acquaintances,and to them the Hill has been a mother. And now, my dear Mr.Sloman, go to your rubber; Poyntz is impatient, though he don'tshow it. Miss Brabazon, love, we all long to see you seated at thepiano,—you play so divinely! Something gay, if you please;something gay, but not very noisy,—Mr. Leopold Symthe willturn the leaves for you. Mrs. Bruce, your own favourite set atvingt-un, with four new recruits. Dr. Fenwick, you are like me,don't play cards, and don't care for music; sit here, and talk ornot, as you please, while I knit."
The other guests thus disposed of, some at the card-tables, someround the piano, I placed myself at Mrs. Poyntz's side, on a seatniched in the recess of a window which an evening unusually warmfor the month of May permitted to be left open. I was next to onewho had known Lilian as a child, one from whom I had learned bywhat sweet name to call the image which my thoughts had alreadyshrined. How much that I still longed to know she could tell me!But in what form of question could I lead to the subject, yet notbetray my absorbing interest in it? Longing to speak, I felt as ifstricken dumb; stealing an unquiet glance towards the face besideme, and deeply impressed with that truth which the Hill had longago reverently acknowledged,—namely, that Mrs. Colonel Poyntzwas a very superior woman, a very powerful creature.
And there she sat knitting, rapidly, firmly; a woman somewhat onthe other side of forty, complexion a bronze paleness, hair abronze brown, in strong ringlets cropped shortbehind,—handsome hair for a man; lips that, when closed,showed inflexible decision, when speaking, became supple andflexible with an easy humour and a vigilant finesse; eyes of a redhazel, quick but steady,—observing, piercing, dauntless eyes;altogether a fine countenance,—would have been a very finecountenance in a man; profile sharp, straight, clear-cut, with anexpression, when in repose, like that of a sphinx; a frame robust,not corpulent; of middle height, but with an air and carriage thatmade her appear tall; peculiarly white firm hands, indicative ofvigorous health, not a vein visible on the surface.
There she sat knitting, knitting, and I by her side, gazing nowon herself, now on her work, with a vague idea that the threads inthe skein of my own web of love or of life were passing quickthrough those noiseless fingers. And, indeed, in every web ofromance, the fondest, one of the Parcae is sure to be somematter-of-fact She, Social Destiny, as little akin to romanceherself as was this worldly Queen of the Hill.
I have given a sketch of the outward woman of Mrs. ColonelPoyntz. The inner woman was a recondite mystery deep as that of thesphinx, whose features her own resembled. But between the outwardand the inward woman there is ever a third woman,—theconventional woman,—such as the whole human being appears tothe world,—always mantled, sometimes masked.
I am told that the fine people of London do not recognize thetitle of "Mrs. Colonel." If that be true, the fine people of Londonmust be clearly in the wrong, for no people in the universe couldbe finer than the fine people of Abbey Hill; and they consideredtheir sovereign had as good a right to the title of Mrs. Colonel asthe Queen of England has to that of "our Gracious Lady." But Mrs.Poyntz herself never assumed the title of Mrs. Colonel; it neverappeared on her cards,—any more than the title of "GraciousLady" appears on the cards which convey the invitation that a LordSteward or Lord Chamberlain is commanded by her Majesty to issue.To titles, indeed, Mrs. Poyntz evinced no superstitious reverence.Two peeresses, related to her, not distantly, were in the habit ofpaying her a yearly visit which lasted two or three days. The Hillconsidered these visits an honour to its eminence. Mrs. Poyntznever seemed to esteem them an honour to herself; never boasted ofthem; never sought to show off her grand relations, nor put herselfthe least out of the way to receive them. Her mode of life was freefrom ostentation. She had the advantage of being a few hundreds ayear richer than any other inhabitant of the Hill; but she did notdevote her superior resources to the invidious exhibition ofsuperior splendour. Like a wise sovereign, the revenues of herexchequer were applied to the benefit of her subjects, and not tothe vanity of egotistical parade. As no one else on the Hill kept acarriage, she declined to keep one. Her entertainments were simple,but numerous. Twice a week she received the Hill, and was genuinelyat home to it. She contrived to make her parties proverbiallyagreeable. The refreshments were of the same kind as those whichthe poorest of her old maids of honour might proffer; but they werebetter of their kind, the best of their kind,—the best tea,the best lemonade, the best cakes. Her rooms had an air of comfort,which was peculiar to them. They looked like rooms accustomed toreceive, and receive in a friendly way; well warmed, well lighted,card-tables and piano each in the place that made cards and musicinviting; on the walls a few old family portraits, and three orfour other pictures said to be valuable and certainlypleasing,—two Watteaus, a Canaletti, a Weenix; plenty ofeasy-chairs and settees covered with a cheerful chintz,—inthe arrangement of the furniture generally an indescribablecareless elegance. She herself was studiously plain in dress, moreconspicuously free from jewelry and trinkets than any married ladyon the Hill. But I have heard from those who were authorities onsuch a subject that she was never seen in a dress of the lastyear's fashion. She adopted the mode as it came out, just enough toshow that she was aware it was out; but with a sober reserve, asmuch as to say, "I adopt the fashion as far as it suits myself; Ido not permit the fashion to adopt me." In short, Mrs. ColonelPoyntz was sometimes rough, sometimes coarse, always masculine, andyet somehow or other masculine in a womanly way; but she was nevervulgar because never affected. It was impossible not to allow thatshe was a thorough gentlewoman, and she could do things that lowerother gentlewomen, without any loss of dignity. Thus she was anadmirable mimic, certainly in itself the least ladylikecondescension of humour. But when she mimicked, it was with sotranquil a gravity, or so royal a good humour, that one could onlysay, "What talents for society dear Mrs. Colonel has!" As she was agentlewoman emphatically, so the other colonel, the he-colonel, wasemphatically a gentleman; rather shy, but not cold; hating troubleof every kind, pleased to seem a cipher in his own house. If thesole study of Mrs. Colonel had been to make her husbandcomfortable, she could not have succeeded better than by bringingfriends about him and then taking them off his hands. ColonelPoyntz, the he-colonel, had seen, in his youth, actual service; buthad retired from his profession many years ago, shortly after hismarriage. He was a younger brother of one of the principal squiresin the country; inherited the house he lived in, with some othervaluable property in and about L——, from an uncle; wasconsidered a good landlord; and popular in Low Town, though henever interfered in its affairs. He was punctiliously neat in hisdress; a thin youthful figure, crowned with a thick youthful wig.He never seemed to read anything but the newspapers and the"Meteorological Journal:" was supposed to be the most weatherwiseman in all L——. He had another intellectualpredilection,—whist; but in that he had less reputation forwisdom. Perhaps it requires a rarer combination of mental facultiesto win an odd trick than to divine a fall in the glass. For therest, the he-colonel, many years older than his wife, despite thethin youthful figure, was an admirable aid-de-camp to the generalin command, Mrs. Colonel; and she could not have found one moreobedient, more devoted, or more proud of a distinguished chief.
In giving to Mrs. Colonel Poyntz the appellation of Queen of theHill, let there be no mistake. She was not a constitutionalsovereign; her monarchy was absolute. All her proclamations had theforce of laws.
Such ascendancy could not have been attained withoutconsiderable talents for acquiring and keeping it. Amidst all heroff-hand, brisk, imperious frankness, she had the ineffablediscrimination of tact. Whether civil or rude, she was never civilor rude but what she carried public opinion along with her. Herknowledge of general society must have been limited, as must bethat of all female sovereigns; but she seemed gifted with anintuitive knowledge of human nature, which she applied to herspecial ambition of ruling it. I have not a doubt that if she hadbeen suddenly transferred, a perfect stranger, to the world ofLondon, she would have soon forced her way to its selectestcircles, and, when once there, held her own against a duchess.
I have said that she was not affected: this might be one causeof her sway over a set in which nearly every other woman was tryingrather to seem, than to be, a somebody.
But if Mrs. Colonel Poyntz was not artificial, she was artful,or perhaps I might more justly say artistic. In all she said anddid there were conduct, system, plan. She could be a mostserviceable friend, a most damaging enemy; yet I believe she seldomindulged in strong likings or strong hatreds. All waspolicy,—a policy akin to that of a grand party chief,determined to raise up those whom, for any reason of state, it wasprudent to favour, and to put down those whom, for any reason ofstate, it was expedient to humble or to crush.
Ever since the controversy with Dr. Lloyd, this lady hadhonoured me with her benignest countenance; and nothing could bemore adroit than the manner in which, while imposing me on othersas an oracular authority, she sought to subject to her will theoracle itself.
She was in the habit of addressing me in a sort of motherly way,as if she had the deepest interest in my welfare, happiness, andreputation. And thus, in every compliment, in every seeming mark ofrespect, she maintained the superior dignity of one who takes fromresponsible station the duty to encourage rising merit; so that,somehow or other, despite all that pride which made me believe thatI needed no helping hand to advance or to clear my way through theworld, I could not shake off from my mind the impression that I wasmysteriously patronized by Mrs. Colonel Poyntz.
We might have sat together five minutes, side by side in silenceas complete as if in the cave of Trophonius—when withoutlooking up from her work, Mrs. Poyntz said abruptly,—
"I am thinking about you, Dr. Fenwick. And you—arethinking about some other woman. Ungrateful man!"
"Unjust accusation! My very silence should prove how intently mythoughts were fixed on you, and on the weird web which springsunder your hand in meshes that bewilder the gaze and snare theattention."
Mrs. Poyntz looked up at me for a moment—one rapid glanceof the bright red hazel eye—and said,—
"Was I really in your thoughts? Answer truly."
"Truly, I answer, you were."
"That is strange! Who can it be?"
"Who can it be? What do you mean?"
"If you were thinking of me, it was in connection with someother person,—some other person of my own sex. It iscertainly not poor dear Miss Brabazon. Who else can it be?"
Again the red eye shot over me, and I felt my cheek reddenbeneath it.
"Hush!" she said, lowering her voice; "you are in love!"
"In love!—I! Permit me to ask you why you think so?"
"The signs are unmistakable; you are altered in your manner,even in the expression of your face, since I last saw you; yourmanner is generally quiet and observant,—it is now restlessand distracted; your expression of face is generally proud andserene,—it is now humbled and troubled. You have something onyour mind! It is not anxiety for your reputation,—that isestablished; nor for your fortune,—that is made; it is notanxiety for a patient or you would scarcely be here. But anxiety itis,—an anxiety that is remote from your profession, thattouches your heart and is new to it!"
I was startled, almost awed; but I tried to cover my confusionwith a forced laugh.
"Profound observer! Subtle analyst! You have convinced me that Imust be in love, though I did not suspect it before. But when Istrive to conjecture the object, I am as much perplexed asyourself; and with you, I ask, who can it be?"
"Whoever it be," said Mrs. Poyntz, who had paused, while Ispoke, from her knitting, and now resumed it very slowly and verycarefully, as if her mind and her knitting worked in unisontogether,—"whoever it be, love in you would be serious; and,with or without love, marriage is a serious thing to us all. It isnot every pretty girl that would suit Allen Fenwick."
"Alas! is there any pretty girl whom Allen Fenwick wouldsuit?"
"Tut! You should be above the fretful vanity that lays traps fora compliment. Yes; the time has come in your life and your careerwhen you would do well to marry. I give my consent to that," sheadded with a smile as if in jest, and a slight nod as if inearnest. The knitting here went on more decidedly, more quickly."But I do not yet see the person. No! 'T is a pity, Allen Fenwick"(whenever Mrs. Poyntz called me by my Christian name, she alwaysassumed her majestic motherly manner),—"a pity that, withyour birth, energies, perseverance, talents, and, let me add, youradvantages of manner and person,—a pity that you did notchoose a career that might achieve higher fortunes and louder famethan the most brilliant success can give to a provincial physician.But in that very choice you interest me. My choice has been muchthe same,—a small circle, but the first in it. Yet, had Ibeen a man, or had my dear Colonel been a man whom it was in thepower of a woman's art to raise one step higher in thatmetaphorical ladder which is not the ladder of the angels, why,then—what then? No matter! I am contented. I transfer myambition to Jane. Do you not think her handsome?"
"There can be no doubt of that," said I, carelessly andnaturally.
"I have settled Jane's lot in my own mind," resumed Mrs. Poyntz,striking firm into another row of knitting. "She will marry acountry gentleman of large estate. He will go into parliament. Shewill study his advancement as I study Poyntz's comfort. If he beclever, she will help to make him a minister; if he be not clever,his wealth will make her a personage, and lift him into apersonage's husband. And, now that you see I have no matrimonialdesigns on you, Allen Fenwick, think if it will be worth while toconfide in me. Possibly I may be useful—"
"I know not how to thank you; but, as yet, I have nothing toconfide."
While thus saying, I turned my eyes towards the open windowbeside which I sat. It was a beautiful soft night, the May moon inall her splendour. The town stretched, far and wide, below with allits numberless lights,—below, but somewhat distant; anintervening space was covered, here, by the broad quadrangle (inthe midst of which stood, massive and lonely, the grand oldchurch), and, there, by the gardens and scattered cottages ormansions that clothed the sides of the hill.
"Is not that house," I said, after a short pause, "yonder withthe three gables, the one in which—in which poor Dr. Lloydlived—Abbots' House?"
I spoke abruptly, as if to intimate my desire to change thesubject of conversation. My hostess stopped her knitting, halfrose, looked forth.
"Yes. But what a lovely night! How is it that the moon blendsinto harmony things of which the sun only marks the contrast? Thatstately old church tower, gray with its thousand years, thosevulgar tile-roofs and chimney-pots raw in the freshness ofyesterday,—now, under the moonlight, all melt into oneindivisible charm!"
As my hostess thus spoke, she had left her seat, taking her workwith her, and passed from the window into the balcony. It was notoften that Mrs. Poyntz condescended to admit what is called"sentiment" into the range of her sharp, practical, worldly talk;but she did so at times,—always, when she did, giving me thenotion of an intellect much too comprehensive not to allow thatsentiment has a place in this life, but keeping it in its properplace, by that mixture of affability and indifference with whichsome high-born beauty allows the genius, but checks thepresumption, of a charming and penniless poet. For a few minutesher eyes roved over the scene in evident enjoyment; then, as theyslowly settled upon the three gables of Abbots' House, her faceregained that something of hardness which belonged to its decidedcharacter; her fingers again mechanically resumed her knitting, andshe said, in her clear, unsoftened, metallic chime of voice, "Canyou guess why I took so much trouble to oblige Mr. Vigors andlocate Mrs. Ashleigh yonder?"
"You favoured us with a full explanation of your reasons."
"Some of my reasons; not the main one. People who undertake thetask of governing others, as I do, be their rule a kingdom or ahamlet, must adopt a principle of government and adhere to it. Theprinciple that suits best with the Hill is Respect for theProprieties. We have not much money; entre nous, we have no greatrank. Our policy is, then, to set up the Proprieties as aninfluence which money must court and rank is afraid of. I hadlearned just before Mr. Vigors called on me that Lady SarahBellasis entertained the idea of hiring Abbots' House. London hasset its face against her; a provincial town would be morecharitable. An earl's daughter, with a good income and an awfullybad name, of the best manners and of the worst morals, would havemade sad havoc among the Proprieties. How many of our primmest oldmaids would have deserted tea and Mrs. Poyntz for champagne and herladyship! The Hill was never in so imminent a danger. Rather thanLady Sarah Bellasis should have had that house, I would have takenit myself, and stocked it with owls.
"Mrs. Ashleigh turned up just in the critical moment. Lady Sarahis foiled, the Proprieties safe, and so that question issettled."
"And it will be pleasant to have your early friend so nearyou."
Mrs. Poyntz lifted her eyes full upon me.
"Do you know Mrs. Ashleigh?"
"Not in the least."
"She has many virtues and few ideas. She is commonplace weak, asI am commonplace strong. But commonplace weak can be very lovable.Her husband, a man of genius and learning, gave her his wholeheart,—a heart worth having; but he was not ambitious, and hedespised the world."
"I think you said your daughter was very much attached to MissAshleigh? Does her character resemble her mother's?"
I was afraid while I spoke that I should again meet Mrs.Poyntz's searching gaze, but she did not this time look up from herwork.
"No; Lilian is anything but commonplace."
"You described her as having delicate health; you implied a hopethat she was not consumptive. I trust that there is no seriousreason for apprehending a constitutional tendency which at her agewould require the most careful watching!"
"I trust not. If she were to die—Dr. Fenwick, what is thematter?"
So terrible had been the picture which this woman's words hadbrought before me, that I started as if my own life had received ashock.
"I beg pardon," I said falteringly, pressing my hand to myheart; "a sudden spasm here,—it is over now. You were sayingthat—that—"
"I was about to say-" and here Mrs. Poyntz laid her hand lightlyon mine,—"I was about to say that if Lilian Ashleigh were todie, I should mourn for her less than I might for one who valuedthe things of the earth more. But I believe there is no cause forthe alarm my words so inconsiderately excited in you. Her mother iswatchful and devoted; and if the least thing ailed Lilian, shewould call in medical advice. Mr. Vigors would, I know, recommendDr. Jones."
Closing our conference with those stinging words, Mrs. Poyntzhere turned back into the drawing-room.
I remained some minutes on the balcony, disconcerted, enraged.With what consummate art had this practised diplomatist woundherself into my secret! That she had read my heart better thanmyself was evident from that Parthian shaft, barbed with Dr. Jones,which she had shot over her shoulder in retreat. That from thefirst moment in which she had decoyed me to her side, she haddetected "the something" on my mind, was perhaps but the ordinaryquickness of female penetration. But it was with no ordinary craftthat the whole conversation afterwards had been so shaped as tolearn the something, and lead me to reveal the some one to whom thesomething was linked. For what purpose? What was it to her? Whatmotive could she have beyond the mere gratification of curiosity?Perhaps, at first, she thought I had been caught by her daughter'sshowy beauty, and hence the half-friendly, half-cynical franknesswith which she had avowed her ambitious projects for that younglady's matrimonial advancement. Satisfied by my manner that Icherished no presumptuous hopes in that quarter, her scrutiny wasdoubtless continued from that pleasure in the exercise of a wilyintellect which impels schemers and politicians to an activity forwhich, without that pleasure itself, there would seem no adequateinducement. And besides, the ruling passion of this petty sovereignwas power; and if knowledge be power, there is no better instrumentof power over a contumacious subject than that hold on his heartwhich is gained in the knowledge of its secret.
But "secret"! Had it really come to this? Was it possible thatthe mere sight of a human face, never beheld before, could disturbthe whole tenor of my life,—a stranger of whose mind andcharacter I knew nothing, whose very voice I had never heard? Itwas only by the intolerable pang of anguish that had rent my heartin the words, carelessly, abruptly spoken, "if she were to die,"that I had felt how the world would be changed to me, if indeedthat face were seen in it no more! Yes, secret it was no longer tomyself, I loved! And like all on whom love descends, sometimessoftly, slowly, with the gradual wing of the cushat settling downinto its nest, sometimes with the swoop of the eagle on hisunsuspecting quarry, I believed that none ever before loved as Iloved; that such love was an abnormal wonder, made solely for me,and I for it. Then my mind insensibly hushed its angrier and moreturbulent thoughts, as my gaze rested upon the roof-tops ofLilian's home, and the shimmering silver of the moonlit willow,under which I had seen her gazing into the roseate heavens.
When I returned to the drawing-room, the party was evidentlyabout to break up. Those who had grouped round the piano were nowassembled round the refreshment-table. The cardplayers had risen,and were settling or discussing gains and losses. While I wassearching for my hat, which I had somewhere mislaid, a poorgentleman, tormented by tic-doloureux, crept timidly up tome,—the proudest and the poorest of all the hidalgos settledon the Hill. He could not afford a fee for a physician's advice;but pain had humbled his pride, and I saw at a glance that he wasconsidering how to take a surreptitious advantage of socialintercourse, and obtain the advice without paying the fee. The oldman discovered the hat before I did, stooped, took it up, extendedit to me with the profound bow of the old school, while the otherhand, clenched and quivering, was pressed into the hollow of hischeek, and his eyes met mine with wistful mute entreaty. Theinstinct of my profession seized me at once. I could never beholdsuffering without forgetting all else in the desire to relieveit.
"You are in pain," said I, softly. "Sit down and describe thesymptoms. Here, it is true, I am no professional doctor, but I am afriend who is fond of doctoring, and knows something about it."
So we sat down a little apart from the other guests, and after afew questions and answers, I was pleased to find that his "tic" didnot belong to the less curable kind of that agonizing neuralgia. Iwas especially successful in my treatment of similar sufferings,for which I had discovered an anodyne that was almost specific. Iwrote on a leaf of my pocketbook a prescription which I felt surewould be efficacious, and as I tore it out and placed it in hishand, I chanced to look up, and saw the hazel eyes of my hostessfixed upon me with a kinder and softer expression than they oftencondescended to admit into their cold and penetrating lustre. Atthat moment, however, her attention was drawn from me to a servant,who entered with a note, and I heard him say, though in anundertone, "From Mrs. Ashleigh."
She opened the note, read it hastily, ordered the servant towait without the door, retired to her writing-table, which stoodnear the place at which I still lingered, rested her face on herhand, and seemed musing. Her meditation was very soon over. Sheturned her head, and to my surprise, beckoned to me. Iapproached.
"Sit here," she whispered: "turn your back towards those people,who are no doubt watching us. Read this."
She placed in my hand the note she had just received. Itcontained but a few words, to this effect:—
DEAR MARGARET,—I am so distressed. Since I wrote to you a few hours ago, Lilian is taken suddenly ill, and I fear seriously. What medical man should I send for? Let my servant have his name and address. A. A.
I sprang from my seat.
"Stay," said Mrs. Poyntz. "Would you much care if I sent theservant to Dr. Jones?"
"Ah, madam, you are cruel! What have I done that you shouldbecome my enemy?"
"Enemy! No. You have just befriended one of my friends. In thisworld of fools intellect should ally itself with intellect. No; Iam not your enemy! But you have not yet asked me to be yourfriend."
Here she put into my hands a note she had written while thusspeaking. "Receive your credentials. If there be any cause foralarm, or if I can be of use, send for me." Resuming the work shehad suspended, but with lingering, uncertain fingers, she added,"So far, then, this is settled. Nay, no thanks; it is but littlethat is settled as yet."
In a very few minutes I was once more in the grounds of that oldgable house; the servant, who went before me, entered them by thestairs and the wicket-gate of the private entrance; that way wasthe shortest. So again I passed by the circling glade and themonastic well,—sward, trees, and ruins all suffused in thelimpid moonlight.
And now I was in the house; the servant took up-stairs the notewith which I was charged, and a minute or two afterwards returnedand conducted me to the corridor above, in which Mrs. Ashleighreceived me. I was the first to speak.
"Your daughter—is—is—not seriously ill, Ihope. What is it?"
"Hush!" she said, under her breath. "Will you step this way fora moment?" She passed through a doorway to the right. I followedher, and as she placed on the table the light she had been holding,I looked round with a chill at the heart,—it was the room inwhich Dr. Lloyd had died. Impossible to mistake. The furnitureindeed was changed, there was no bed in the chamber; but the shapeof the room, the position of the high casement, which was now wideopen, and through which the moonlight streamed more softly than onthat drear winter night, the great square beams intersecting thelow ceiling,—all were impressed vividly on my memory. Thechair to which Mrs. Ashleigh beckoned me was placed just on thespot where I had stood by the bedhead of the dying man.
I shrank back,—I could not have seated myself there. So Iremained leaning against the chimney-piece, while Mrs. Ashleightold her story.
She said that on their arrival the day before, Lilian had beenin more than usually good health and spirits, delighted with theold house, the grounds, and especially the nook by the Monk's Well,at which Mrs. Ashleigh had left her that evening in order to makesome purchases in the town, in company with Mr. Vigors. When Mrs.Ashleigh returned, she and Mr. Vigors had sought Lilian in thatnook, and Mrs. Ashleigh then detected, with a mother's eye, somechange in Lilian which alarmed her. She seemed listless anddejected, and was very pale; but she denied that she felt unwell.On regaining the house she had sat down in the room in which wethen were,—"which," said Mrs. Ashleigh, "as it is notrequired for a sleeping-room, my daughter, who is fond of reading,wished to fit up as her own morning-room, or study. I left her hereand went into the drawing-room below with Mr. Vigors. When hequitted me, which he did very soon, I remained for nearly an hourgiving directions about the placing of furniture, which had justarrived, from our late residence. I then went up-stairs to join mydaughter, and to my terror found her apparently lifeless in herchair. She had fainted away."
I interrupted Mrs. Ashleigh here. "Has Miss Ashleigh beensubject to fainting fits?"
"No, never. When she recovered she seemed bewildered,disinclined to speak. I got her to bed, and as she then fellquietly to sleep, my mind was relieved. I thought it only a passingeffect of excitement, in a change of abode; or caused by somethinglike malaria in the atmosphere of that part of the grounds in whichI had found her seated."
"Very likely. The hour of sunset at this time of year is tryingto delicate constitutions. Go on."
"About three quarters of an hour ago she woke up with a loudcry, and has been ever since in a state of great agitation, weepingviolently, and answering none of my questions. Yet she does notseem light-headed, but rather what we call hysterical."
"You will permit me now to see her. Take comfort; in all youtell me I see nothing to warrant serious alarm."
To the true physician there is an inexpressible sanctity in thesick chamber. At its threshold the more human passions quit theirhold on his heart. Love there would be profanation; even the griefpermitted to others he must put aside. He must enter thatroom—a calm intelligence. He is disabled for his mission ifhe suffer aught to obscure the keen quiet glance of his science.Age or youth, beauty or deformity, innocence or guilt, merge theirdistinctions in one common attribute—human sufferingappealing to human skill.
Woe to the households in which the trusted Healer feels not onhis conscience the solemn obligations of his glorious art!Reverently as in a temple, I stood in the virgin's chamber. Whenher mother placed her hand in mine, and I felt the throb of itspulse, I was aware of no quicker beat of my own heart. I lookedwith a steady eye on the face more beautiful from the flush thatdeepened the delicate hues of the young cheek, and the lustre thatbrightened the dark blue of the wandering eyes. She did not atfirst heed me, did not seem aware of my presence; but keptmurmuring to herself words which I could not distinguish.
At length, when I spoke to her, in that low, soothing tone whichwe learn at the sick-bed, the expression of her face alteredsuddenly; she passed the hand I did not hold over her forehead,turned round, looked at me full and long, with unmistakablesurprise, yet not as if the surprise displeased her,—less thesurprise which recoils from the sight of a stranger than that whichseems doubtfully to recognize an unexpected friend. Yet on thesurprise there seemed to creep something of apprehension, of fear;her hand trembled, her voice quivered, as she said,—
"Can it be, can it be? Am I awake? Mother, who is this?"
"Only a kind visitor, Dr. Fenwick, sent by Mrs. Poyntz, for Iwas uneasy about you, darling. How are you now?"
"Better. Strangely better."
She removed her hand gently from mine, and with an involuntarymodest shrinking turned towards Mrs. Ashleigh, drawing her mothertowards herself, so that she became at once hidden from me.
Satisfied that there was here no delirium, nor even more thanthe slight and temporary fever which often accompanies a suddennervous attack in constitutions peculiarly sensitive, I retirednoiselessly from the room, and went, not into that which had beenoccupied by the ill-fated Naturalist, but down-stairs into thedrawing-room, to write my prescription. I had already sent theservant off with it to the chemist's before Mrs. Ashleigh joinedme.
"She seems recovering surprisingly; her forehead is cooler; sheis perfectly self-possessed, only she cannot account for her ownseizure,—cannot account either for the fainting or theagitation with which she awoke from sleep."
"I think I can account for both. The first room in which sheentered—that in which she fainted—had its window open;the sides of the window are overgrown with rank creeping plants infull blossom. Miss Ashleigh had already predisposed herself toinjurious effects from the effluvia by fatigue, excitement,imprudence in sitting out at the fall of a heavy dew. The sleepafter the fainting fit was the more disturbed, because Nature,always alert and active in subjects so young, was making its owneffort to right itself from an injury. Nature has nearly succeeded.What I have prescribed will a little aid and accelerate that whichNature has yet to do, and in a day or two I do not doubt that yourdaughter will be perfectly restored. Only let me recommend care toavoid exposure to the open air during the close of the day. Let heravoid also the room in which she was first seized, for it is astrange phenomenon in nervous temperaments that a nervous attackmay, without visible cause, be repeated in the same place where itwas first experienced. You had better shut up the chamber for atleast some weeks, burn fires in it, repaint and paper it, sprinklechloroform. You are not, perhaps, aware that Dr. Lloyd died in thatroom after a prolonged illness. Suffer me to wait till your servantreturns with the medicine, and let me employ the interval in askingyou a few questions. Miss Ashleigh, you say, never had a faintingfit before. I should presume that she is not what we call strong.But has she ever had any illness that alarmed you?"
"Never."
"No great liability to cold and cough, to attacks of the chestor lungs?"
"Certainly not. Still I have feared that she may have a tendencyto consumption. Do you think so? Your questions alarm me!"
"I do not think so; but before I pronounce a positive opinion,one question more. You say you have feared a tendency toconsumption. Is that disease in her family? She certainly did notinherit it from you. But on her father's side?"
"Her father," said Mrs. Ashleigh, with tears in her eyes, "diedyoung, but of brain fever, which the medical men said was broughton by over study."
"Enough, my dear madam. What you say confirms my belief thatyour daughter's constitution is the very opposite to that in whichthe seeds of consumption lurk. It is rather that far noblerconstitution, which the keenness of the nervous susceptibilityrenders delicate but elastic,—as quick to recover as it is tosuffer."
"Thank you, thank you, Dr. Fenwick, for what you say. You take aload from my heart; for Mr. Vigors, I know, thinks Lilianconsumptive, and Mrs. Poyntz has rather frightened me at times byhints to the same effect. But when you speak of nervoussusceptibility, I do not quite understand you. My daughter is notwhat is commonly called nervous. Her temper is singularlyeven."
"But if not excitable, should you also say that she is notimpressionable? The things which do not disturb her temper may,perhaps, deject her spirits. Do I make myself understood?"
"Yes, I think I understand your distinction; but I am not quitesure if it applies. To most things that affect the spirits she isnot more sensitive than other girls, perhaps less so; but she iscertainly very impressionable in some things."
"In what?"
"She is more moved than any one I ever knew by objects inexternal nature, rural scenery, rural sounds, by music, by thebooks that she reads,—even books that are not works ofimagination. Perhaps in all this she takes after her poor father,but in a more marked degree,—at least, I observe it more inher; for he was very silent and reserved. And perhaps also herpeculiarities have been fostered by the seclusion in which she hasbeen brought up. It was with a view to make her a little more likegirls of her own age that our friend, Mrs. Poyntz, induced me tocome here. Lilian was reconciled to this change; but she shrankfrom the thoughts of London, which I should have preferred. Herpoor father could not endure London."
"Miss Ashleigh is fond of reading?"
"Yes, she is fond of reading, but more fond of musing. She willsit by herself for hours without book or work, and seem asabstracted as if in a dream. She was so even in her earliestchildhood. Then she would tell me what she had been conjuring up toherself. She would say that she had seen—positivelyseen—beautiful lands far away from earth; flowers and treesnot like ours. As she grew older this visionary talk displeased me,and I scolded her, and said that if others heard her, they wouldthink that she was not only silly but very untruthful. So of lateyears she never ventures to tell me what, in such dreamy moments,she suffers herself to imagine; but the habit of musing continuesstill. Do you not agree with Mrs. Poyntz that the best cure wouldbe a little cheerful society amongst other young people?"
"Certainly," said I, honestly, though with a jealous pang. "Buthere comes the medicine. Will you take it up to her, and then sitwith her half an hour or so? By that time I expect she will beasleep. I will wait here till you return. Oh, I can amuse myselfwith the newspapers and books on your table. Stay! one caution: besure there are no flowers in Miss Ashleigh's sleeping-room. I thinkI saw a treacherous rose-tree in a stand by the window. If so,banish it."
Left alone, I examined the room in which, oh, thought of joy! Ihad surely now won the claim to become a privileged guest. Itouched the books Lilian must have touched; in the articles offurniture, as yet so hastily disposed that the settled look of homewas not about them, I still knew that I was gazing on things whichher mind must associate with the history of her young life. Thatluteharp must be surely hers, and the scarf, with a girl'sfavourite colours,—pure white and pale blue,—and thebird-cage, and the childish ivory work-case, with implements toopretty for use,—all spoke of her.
It was a blissful, intoxicating revery, which Mrs. Ashleigh'sentrance disturbed.
Lilian was sleeping calmly. I had no excuse to linger there anylonger.
"I leave you, I trust, with your mind quite at ease," said I."You will allow me to call to-morrow, in the afternoon?"
"Oh, yes, gratefully."
Mrs. Ashleigh held out her hand as I made towards the door.
Is there a physician who has not felt at times how thatceremonious fee throws him back from the garden-land of humanityinto the market-place of money,—seems to put him out of thepale of equal friendship, and say, "True, you have given health andlife. Adieu! there, you are paid for it!" With a poor person therewould have been no dilemma, but Mrs. Ashleigh was affluent: todepart from custom here was almost impertinence. But had thepenalty of my refusal been the doom of never again beholdingLilian, I could not have taken her mother's gold. So I did notappear to notice the hand held out to me, and passed by with aquickened step.
"But, Dr. Fenwick, stop!"
"No, ma'am, no! Miss Ashleigh would have recovered as soonwithout me. Whenever my aid is really wanted, then—but Heavengrant that time may never come! We will talk again about herto-morrow."
I was gone,—now in the garden ground, odorous withblossoms; now in the lane, inclosed by the narrow walls; now in thedeserted streets, over which the moon shone full as in that winternight when I hurried from the chamber of death. But the streetswere not ghastly now, and the moon was no longer Hecate, thatdreary goddess of awe and spectres, but the sweet, simple Lady ofthe Stars, on whose gentle face lovers have gazed ever since (ifthat guess of astronomers be true) she was parted from earth torule the tides of its deeps from afar, even as love, from lovedivided, rules the heart that yearns towards it with mysteriouslaw.
With what increased benignity I listened to the patients whovisited me the next morning! The whole human race seemed to beworthier of love, and I longed to diffuse amongst all some rays ofthe glorious hope that had dawned upon my heart. My first call,when I went forth, was on the poor young woman from whom I had beenreturning the day before, when an impulse, which seemed like afate, had lured me into the grounds where I had first seen Lilian.I felt grateful to this poor patient; without her Lilian herselfmight be yet unknown to me.
The girl's brother, a young man employed in the police, andwhose pay supported a widowed mother and the suffering sister,received me at the threshold of the cottage.
"Oh, sir, she is so much better to-day; almost free from pain.Will she live now; can she live?"
"If my treatment has really done the good you say; if she bereally better under it, I think her recovery may be pronounced. ButI must first see her."
The girl was indeed wonderfully better. I felt that my skill wasachieving a signal triumph; but that day even my intellectual pridewas forgotten in the luxurious unfolding of that sense of heartwhich had so newly waked into blossom.
As I recrossed the threshold, I smiled on the brother, who wasstill lingering there,—
"Your sister is saved, Wady. She needs now chiefly wine, andgood though light nourishment; these you will find at my house;call there for them every day."
"God bless you, sir! If ever I can serve you—" His tonguefaltered, he could say no more.
Serve me, Allen Fenwick—that poor policeman! Me, whom aking could not serve! What did I ask from earth but Fame andLilian's heart? Thrones and bread man wins from the aid of others;fame and woman's heart he can only gain through himself.
So I strode gayly up the hill, through the iron gates, into thefairy ground, and stood before Lilian's home.
The man-servant, on opening the door, seemed somewhat confused,and said hastily before I spoke,—
"Not at home, sir; a note for you."
I turned the note mechanically in my hand; I felt stunned.
"Not at home! Miss Ashleigh cannot be out. How is she?"
"Better, sir, thank you."
I still could not open the note; my eyes turned wistfullytowards the windows of the house, and there—at thedrawing-room window—I encountered the scowl of Mr. Vigors. Icoloured with resentment, divined that I was dismissed, and walkedaway with a proud crest and a firm step.
When I was out of the gates, in the blind lane, I opened thenote. It began formally. "Mrs. Ashleigh presents her compliments,"and went on to thank me, civilly enough, for my attendance thenight before, would not give me the trouble to repeat my visit, andinclosed a fee, double the amount of the fee prescribed by custom.I flung the money, as an asp that had stung me, over the high wall,and tore the note into shreds. Having thus idly vented my rage, adull gnawing sorrow came heavily down upon all other emotions,stifling and replacing them. At the mouth of the lane I halted. Ishrank from the thought of the crowded streets beyond; I shrank yetmore from the routine of duties, which stretched before me in thedesert into which daily life was so suddenly smitten. I sat down bythe roadside, shading my dejected face with a nervous hand. Ilooked up as the sound of steps reached my ear, and saw Dr. Jonescoming briskly along the lane, evidently from Abbots' House. Hemust have been there at the very time I had called. I was not onlydismissed but supplanted. I rose before he reached the spot onwhich I had seated myself, and went my way into the town, wentthrough my allotted round of professional visits; but my attentionswere not so tenderly devoted, my skill so genially quickened by theglow of benevolence, as my poorer patients had found them in themorning. I have said how the physician should enter the sick-room."A Calm Intelligence!" But if you strike a blow on the heart, theintellect suffers. Little worth, I suspect, was my "calmintelligence" that day. Bichat, in his famous book upon Life andDeath, divides life into two classes,—animal and organic.Man's intellect, with the brain for its centre, belongs to lifeanimal; his passions to life organic, centred in the heart, in theviscera. Alas! if the noblest passions through which alone we liftourselves into the moral realm of the sublime and beautiful reallyhave their centre in the life which the very vegetable, that livesorganically, shares with us! And, alas! if it be that life which weshare with the vegetable, that can cloud, obstruct, suspend, annulthat life centred in the brain, which we share with every beinghowsoever angelic, in every star howsoever remote, on whom theCreator bestows the faculty of thought!
But suddenly I remembered Mrs. Poyntz. I ought to call on her.So I closed my round of visits at her door. The day was then faradvanced, and the servant politely informed me that Mrs. Poyntz wasat dinner. I could only leave my card, with a message that I wouldpay my respects to her the next day. That evening I received fromher this note:—
Dear Dr. Fenwick,—I regret much that I cannot have the pleasure of seeing you to-morrow. Poyntz and I are going to visit his brother, at the other end of the county, and we start early. We shall be away some days. Sorry to hear from Mrs. Ashleigh that she has been persuaded by Mr. Vigors to consult Dr. Jones about Lilian. Vigors and Jones both frighten the poor mother, and insist upon consumptive tendencies. Unluckily, you seem to have said there was little the matter. Some doctors train their practice as some preachers fill their churches,—by adroit use of the appeals to terror. You do not want patients, Dr. Jones does. And, after all, better perhaps as it is. Yours, etc. M. Poyntz.
To my more selfish grief, anxiety for Lilian was now added. Ihad seen many more patients die from being mistreated forconsumption than from consumption itself. And Dr. Jones was amercenary, cunning, needy man, with much crafty knowledge of humanfoibles, but very little skill in the treatment of human maladies.My fears were soon confirmed. A few days after I heard from MissBrabazon that Miss Ashleigh was seriously ill, kept her room. Mrs.Ashleigh made this excuse for not immediately returning the visitswhich the Hill had showered upon her. Miss Brabazon had seen Dr.Jones, who had shaken his head, said it was a serious case; butthat time and care (his time and his care!) might effectwonders.
How stealthily at the dead of the night I would climb the Hilland look towards the windows of the old sombre house,—onewindow, in which a light burned dim and mournful, the light of asick-room,—of hers!
At length Mrs. Poyntz came back, and I entered her house, havingfully resolved beforehand on the line of policy to be adoptedtowards the potentate whom I hoped to secure as an ally. It wasclear that neither disguise nor half-confidence would baffle thepenetration of so keen an intellect, nor propitiate the good willof so imperious and resolute a temper. Perfect frankness here wasthe wisest prudence; and after all, it was most agreeable to my ownnature, and most worthy of my own honour.
Luckily, I found Mrs. Poyntz alone, and taking in both mine thehand she somewhat coldly extended to me, I said, with theearnestness of suppressed emotion,—
"You observed when I last saw you, that I had not yet asked youto be my friend. I ask it now. Listen to me with all the indulgenceyou can vouchsafe, and let me at least profit by your counsel ifyou refuse to give me your aid."
Rapidly, briefly, I went on to say how I had first seen Lilian,and how sudden, how strange to myself, had been the impressionwhich that first sight of her had produced.
"You remarked the change that had come over me," said I; "youdivined the cause before I divined it myself,—divined it as Isat there beside you, thinking that through you I might see, in thefreedom of social intercourse, the face that was then haunting me.You know what has since passed. Miss Ashleigh is ill; her case is,I am convinced, wholly misunderstood. All other feelings are mergedin one sense of anxiety,—of alarm. But it has become due tome, due to all, to incur the risk of your ridicule even more thanof your reproof, by stating to you thus candidly, plainly, bluntly,the sentiment which renders alarm so poignant, and which, ifscarcely admissible to the romance of some wild dreamy boy, mayseem an unpardonable folly in a man of my years and my sobercalling,—due to me, to you, to Mrs. Ashleigh, because stillthe dearest thing in life to me is honour. And if you, who knowMrs. Ashleigh so intimately, who must be more or less aware of herplans or wishes for her daughter's future,—if you believethat those plans or wishes lead to a lot far more ambitious than analliance with me could offer to Miss Ashleigh, then aid Mr. Vigorsin excluding me from the house; aid me in suppressing apresumptuous, visionary passion. I cannot enter that house withoutlove and hope at my heart; and the threshold of that house I mustnot cross if such love and such hope would be a sin and a treacheryin the eyes of its owner. I might restore Miss Ashleigh to health;her gratitude might—I cannot continue. This danger must notbe to me nor to her, if her mother has views far above such ason-in-law. And I am the more bound to consider all this while itis yet time, because I heard you state that Miss Ashleigh had afortune, was what would be here termed an heiress. And the fullconsciousness that whatever fame one in my profession may live toacquire, does not open those vistas of social power and grandeurwhich are opened by professions to my eyes less noble inthemselves,—that full consciousness, I say, was forced uponme by certain words of your own. For the rest, you know my descentis sufficiently recognized as that amidst well-born gentry to haverendered me no mesalliance to families the most proud of theirancestry, if I had kept my hereditary estate and avoided the careerthat makes me useful to man. But I acknowledge that on entering aprofession such as mine—entering any profession except thatof arms or the senate—all leave their pedigree at its door,an erased or dead letter. All must come as equals, high-born orlow-born, into that arena in which men ask aid from a man as hemakes himself; to them his dead forefathers are idle dust.Therefore, to the advantage of birth I cease to have a claim. I ambut a provincial physician, whose station would be the same had hebeen a cobbler's son. But gold retains its grand privilege in allranks. He who has gold is removed from the suspicion that attachesto the greedy fortune-hunter. My private fortune, swelled by mysavings, is sufficient to secure to any one I married a largersettlement than many a wealthy squire can make. I need no fortunewith a wife; if she have one, it would be settled on herself.Pardon these vulgar details. Now, have I made myselfunderstood?"
"Fully," answered the Queen of the Hill, who had listened to mequietly, watchfully, and without one interruption, "fully; and youhave done well to confide in me with so generous an unreserve. Butbefore I say further, let me ask, what would be your advice forLilian, supposing that you ought not to attend her? You have notrust in Dr. Jones; neither have I. And Annie Ashleigh's notereceived to-day, begging me to call, justifies your alarm. Stillyou think there is no tendency to consumption?"
"Of that I am certain so far as my slight glimpse of a case thatto me, however, seems a simple and not uncommon one, will permit.But in the alternative you put—that my own skill, whateverits worth, is forbidden—my earnest advice is that Mrs.Ashleigh should take her daughter at once to London, and consultthere those great authorities to whom I cannot compare my ownopinion or experience; and by their counsel abide."
Mrs. Poyntz shaded her eyes with her hand for a few moments, andseemed in deliberation with herself. Then she said, with herpeculiar smile, half grave, half ironical,—
"In matters more ordinary you would have won me to your sidelong ago. That Mr. Vigors should have presumed to cancel myrecommendation to a settler on the Hill was an act of rebellion,and involved the honour of my prerogative; but I suppressed myindignation at an affront so unusual, partly out of pique againstyourself, but much more, I think, out of regard for you."
"I understand. You detected the secret of my heart; you knewthat Mrs. Ashleigh would not wish to see her daughter the wife of aprovincial physician."
"Am I sure, or are you sure, that the daughter herself wouldaccept that fate; or if she accepted it, would not repent?"
"Do you not think me the vainest of men when I saythis,—that I cannot believe I should be so enthralled by afeeling at war with my reason, unfavoured by anything I can detectin my habits of mind, or even by the dreams of a youth whichexalted science and excluded love, unless I was intimatelyconvinced that Miss Ashleigh's heart was free, that I could win,and that I could keep it! Ask me why I am convinced of this, and Ican tell you no more why I think that she could love me than I cantell you why I love her!"
"I am of the world, worldly; but I am a woman,womanly,—though I may not care to be thought it. And,therefore, though what you say is, regarded in a worldly point ofview, sheer nonsense, regarded in a womanly point of view, it islogically sound. But still you cannot know Lilian as I do. Yournature and hers are in strong contrast. I do not think she is asafe wife for you. The purest, the most innocent creatureimaginable, certainly that, but always in the seventh heaven; andyou in the seventh heaven just at this moment, but with anirresistible gravitation to the solid earth, which will have itsway again when the honeymoon is over—I do not believe you twowould harmonize by intercourse. I do not believe Lilian wouldsympathize with you, and I am sure you could not sympathize withher throughout the long dull course of this workday life. And,therefore, for your sake, as well as hers, I was not displeased tofind that Dr. Jones had replaced you; and now, in return for yourfrankness, I say frankly, do not go again to that house. Conquerthis sentiment, fancy, passion, whatever it be. And I will adviseMrs. Ashleigh to take Lilian to town. Shall it be so settled?"
I could not speak. I buried my face in my hands—misery,misery, desolation!
I know not how long I remained thus silent, perhaps manyminutes. At length I felt a cold, firm, but not ungentle handplaced upon mine; and a clear, full, but not discouraging voicesaid to me,—
"Leave me to think well over this conversation, and to ponderwell the value of all you have shown that you so deeply feel. Theinterests of life do not fill both scales of the balance. Theheart, which does not always go in the same scale with theinterests, still has its weight in the scale opposed to them. Ihave heard a few wise men say, as many a silly woman says, 'Betterbe unhappy with one we love, than be happy with one we love not.'Do you say that too?"
"With every thought of my brain, every beat of my pulse, I sayit."
"After that answer, all my questionings cease. You shall hearfrom me to-morrow. By that time, I shall have seen Annie andLilian. I shall have weighed both scales of the balance,—andthe heart here, Allen Fenwick, seems very heavy. Go, now. I hearfeet on the stairs, Poyntz bringing up some friendly gossiper;gossipers are spies."
I passed my hand over my eyes, tearless, but how tears wouldhave relieved the anguish that burdened them! and, without a word,went down the stairs, meeting at the landing-place Colonel Poyntzand the old man whose pain my prescription had cured. The old manwas whistling a merry tune, perhaps first learned on theplayground. He broke from it to thank, almost to embrace me, as Islid by him. I seized his jocund blessing as a good omen, andcarried it with me as I passed into the broad sunlight.Solitary—solitary! Should I be so evermore?
The next day I had just dismissed the last of my visitingpatients, and was about to enter my carriage and commence my round,when I received a twisted note containing but thesewords:—
Call on me to-day, as soon as you can. M. Poyntz.
A few minutes afterwards I was in Mrs. Poyntz'sdrawing-room.
"Well, Allen Fenwick" said she, "I do not serve friends byhalves. No thanks! I but adhere to a principle I have laid down formyself. I spent last evening with the Ashleighs. Lilian iscertainly much altered,—very weak, I fear very ill, and Ibelieve very unskillfully treated by Dr. Jones. I felt that it wasmy duty to insist on a change of physician; but there was somethingelse to consider before deciding who that physician should be. Iwas bound, as your confidante, to consult your own scruples ofhonour. Of course I could not say point-blank to Mrs. Ashleigh,'Dr. Fenwick admires your daughter, would you object to him as ason-in-law?' Of course I could not touch at all on the secret withwhich you intrusted me; but I have not the less arrived at aconclusion, in agreement with my previous belief, that not being awoman of the world, Annie Ashleigh has none of the ambition whichwomen of the world would conceive for a daughter who has a goodfortune and considerable beauty; that her predominant anxiety isfor her child's happiness, and her predominant fear is that herchild will die. She would never oppose any attachment which Lilianmight form; and if that attachment were for one who had preservedher daughter's life, I believe her own heart would gratefully gowith her daughter's. So far, then, as honour is concerned, allscruples vanish."
I sprang from my seat, radiant with joy. Mrs. Poyntz drylycontinued: "You value yourself on your common-sense, and to that Iaddress a few words of counsel which may not be welcome to yourromance. I said that I did not think you and Lilian would suit eachother in the long run; reflection confirms me in that supposition.Do not look at me so incredulously and so sadly. Listen, and takeheed. Ask yourself what, as a man whose days are devoted to alaborious profession, whose ambition is entwined with its success,whose mind must be absorbed in its pursuits,—ask yourselfwhat kind of a wife you would have sought to win; had not thissudden fancy for a charming face rushed over your better reason,and obliterated all previous plans and resolutions. Surely some onewith whom your heart would have been quite at rest; by whom yourthoughts would have been undistracted from the channels into whichyour calling should concentrate their flow; in short, a serenecompanion in the quiet holiday of a trustful home! Is it notso?"
"You interpret my own thoughts when they have turned towardsmarriage. But what is there in Lilian Ashleigh that should mar thepicture you have drawn?"
"What is there in Lilian Ashleigh which in the least accordswith the picture? In the first place, the wife of a young physicianshould not be his perpetual patient. The more he loves her, and themore worthy she may be of love, the more her case will haunt himwherever he goes. When he returns home, it is not to a holiday; thepatient he most cares for, the anxiety that most gnaws him, awaitshim there."
"But, good heavens! why should Lilian Ashleigh be a perpetualpatient? The sanitary resources of youth are incalculable.And—"
"Let me stop you; I cannot argue against a physician in love! Iwill give up that point in dispute, remaining convinced that thereis something in Lilian's constitution which will perplex, torment,and baffle you. It was so with her father, whom she resembles inface and in character. He showed no symptoms of any grave malady.His outward form was, like Lilian's, a model of symmetry, except inthis, that, like hers, it was too exquisitely delicate; but whenseemingly in the midst of perfect health, at any slight jar on thenerves he would become alarmingly ill. I was sure that he would dieyoung, and he did so."
"Ay, but Mrs. Ashleigh said that his death was from brain-fever,brought on by over-study. Rarely, indeed, do women so fatigue thebrain. No female patient, in the range of my practice, ever died ofpurely mental exertion."
"Of purely mental exertion, no; but of heart emotion, manyfemale patients, perhaps? Oh, you own that! I know nothing aboutnerves; but I suppose that, whether they act on the brain or theheart, the result to life is much the same if the nerves be toofinely strung for life's daily wear and tear. And this is what Imean, when I say you and Lilian will not suit. As yet, she is amere child; her nature undeveloped, and her affections thereforeuntried. You might suppose that you had won her heart; she mightbelieve that she gave it to you, and both be deceived. If fairiesnowadays condescended to exchange their offspring with those ofmortals, and if the popular tradition did not represent a fairychangeling as an ugly peevish creature, with none of the grace ofits parents, I should be half inclined to suspect that Lilian wasone of the elfin people. She never seems at home on earth; and I donot think she will ever be contented with a prosaic earthly lot.Now I have told you why I do not think she will suit you. I mustleave it to yourself to conjecture how far you would suit her. Isay this in due season, while you may set a guard upon yourimpulse; while you may yet watch, and weigh, and meditate; and fromthis moment on that subject I say no more. I lend advice, but Inever throw it away."
She came here to a dead pause, and began putting on her bonnetand scarf, which lay on the table beside her. I was a littlechilled by her words, and yet more by the blunt, shrewd, hard lookand manner which aided the effect of their delivery; but the chillmelted away in the sudden glow of my heart when she again turnedtowards me and said,—
"Of course you guess, from these preliminary cautions, that youare going into danger? Mrs. Ashleigh wishes to consult you aboutLilian, and I propose to take you to her house."
"Oh, my friend, my dear friend, how can I ever repay you?" Icaught her hand, the white firm hand, and lifted it to my lips.
She drew it somewhat hastily away, and laying it gently on myshoulder, said, in a soft voice, "Poor Allen, how little the worldknows either of us! But how little perhaps we know ourselves! Come,your carriage is here? That is right; we must put down Dr. Jonespublicly and in all our state."
In the carriage Mrs. Poyntz told me the purport of thatconversation with Mrs. Ashleigh to which I owed my re-introductionto Abbots' House. It seems that Mr. Vigors had called early themorning after my first visit! had evinced much discomposure onhearing that I had been summoned! dwelt much on my injurioustreatment of Dr. Lloyd, whom, as distantly related to himself, andhe (Mr. Vigors) being distantly connected with the late GilbertAshleigh, he endeavoured to fasten upon his listener as one of herhusband's family, whose quarrel she was bound in honour to take up.He spoke of me as an infidel "tainted with French doctrines," andas a practitioner rash and presumptuous; proving his own freedomfrom presumption and rashness by flatly deciding that my opinionmust be wrong. Previously to Mrs. Ashleigh's migration toL——, Mr. Vigors had interested her in the pretendedphenomena of mesmerism. He had consulted a clairvoyante, muchesteemed by poor Dr. Lloyd, as to Lilian's health, and theclairvoyante had declared her to be constitutionally predisposed toconsumption. Mr. Vigors persuaded Mrs. Ashleigh to come at oncewith him and see this clairvoyante herself, armed with a lock ofLilian's hair and a glove she had worn, as the media of mesmericalrapport.
The clairvoyante, one of those I had publicly denounced as animpostor, naturally enough denounced me in return. On being askedsolemnly by Mr. Vigors "to look at Dr. Fenwick and see if hisinfluence would be beneficial to the subject," the sibyl had becomeviolently agitated, and said that, "when she looked at us together,we were enveloped in a black cloud; that this portended afflictionand sinister consequences; that our rapport was antagonistic." Mr.Vigors then told her to dismiss my image, and conjure up that ofDr. Jones. Therewith the somnambule became more tranquil, and said:"Dr. Jones would do well if he would be guided by higher lightsthan his own skill, and consult herself daily as to the properremedies. The best remedy of all would be mesmerism. But since Dr.Lloyd's death, she did not know of a mesmerist, sufficientlygifted, in affinity with the patient." In fine, she impressed andawed Mrs. Ashleigh, who returned in haste, summoned Dr. Jones, anddismissed myself.
"I could not have conceived Mrs. Ashleigh to be so utterlywanting in common-sense," said I. "She talked rationally enoughwhen I saw her."
"She has common-sense in general, and plenty of the sense mostcommon," answered Mrs. Poyntz; "but she is easily led and easilyfrightened wherever her affections are concerned, and therefore,just as easily as she had been persuaded by Mr. Vigors andterrified by the somnambule, I persuaded her against the one, andterrified her against the other. I had positive experience on myside, since it was clear that Lilian had been getting rapidly worseunder Dr. Jones's care. The main obstacles I had to encounter ininducing Mrs. Ashleigh to consult you again were, first, herreluctance to disoblige Mr. Vigors, as a friend and connection ofLilian's father; and, secondly, her sentiment of shame inre-inviting your opinion after having treated you with so littlerespect. Both these difficulties I took on myself. I bring you toher house, and, on leaving you, I shall go on to Mr. Vigors, andtell him what is done is my doing, and not to be undone by him; sothat matter is settled. Indeed, if you were out of the question, Ishould not suffer Mr. Vigors to re-introduce all these mummeries ofclairvoyance and mesmerism into the precincts of the Hill. I didnot demolish a man I really liked in Dr. Lloyd, to set up a Dr.Jones, whom I despise, in his stead. Clairvoyance on Abbey Hill,indeed! I saw enough of it before."
"True; your strong intellect detected at once the absurdity ofthe whole pretence,—the falsity of mesmerism, theimpossibility of clairvoyance."
"No, my strong intellect did nothing of the kind. I do not knowwhether mesmerism be false or clairvoyance impossible; and I don'twish to know. All I do know is, that I saw the Hill in greatdanger,—young ladies allowing themselves to be put to sleepby gentlemen, and pretending they had no will of their own againstsuch fascination! Improper and shocking! And Miss Brabazonbeginning to prophesy, and Mrs. Leopold Smythe questioning her maid(whom Dr. Lloyd declared to be highly gifted) as to all the secretsof her friends. When I saw this, I said, 'The Hill is becomingdemoralized; the Hill is making itself ridiculous; the Hill must besaved!' I remonstrated with Dr. Lloyd as a friend; he remainedobdurate. I annihilated him as an enemy, not to me but to theState. I slew my best lover for the good of Rome. Now you know whyI took your part,—not because I have any opinion, one way orthe other, as to the truth or falsehood of what Dr. Lloyd asserted;but I have a strong opinion that, whether they be true or false,his notions were those which are not to be allowed on the Hill. Andso, Allen Fenwick, that matter was settled."
Perhaps at another time I might have felt some littlehumiliation to learn that I had been honoured with the influence ofthis great potentate not as a champion of truth, but as aninstrument of policy; and I might have owned to some twinge ofconscience in having assisted to sacrifice a fellow-seeker afterscience—misled, no doubt, but preferring his independentbelief to his worldly interest—and sacrifice him to thosedeities with whom science is ever at war,—the Prejudices of aClique sanctified into the Proprieties of the World. But at thatmoment the words I heard made no perceptible impression on my mind.The gables of Abbots' House were visible above the evergreens andlilacs; another moment, and the carriage stopped at the door.
Mrs. Ashleigh received us in the dining-room. Her manner to me,at first, was a little confused and shy. But my companion sooncommunicated something of her own happy ease to her gentler friend.After a short conversation we all three went to Lilian, who was ina little room on the ground-floor, fitted up as her study. I wasglad to perceive that my interdict of the deathchamber had beenrespected.
She reclined on a sofa near the window, which was, however,jealously closed; the light of the bright May-day obscured byblinds and curtains; a large fire on the hearth; the air of theroom that of a hot-house,—the ignorant, senseless, explodedsystem of nursing into consumption those who are confined onsuspicion of it! She did not heed us as we entered noiselessly; hereyes were drooped languidly on the floor, and with difficulty Isuppressed the exclamation that rose to my lips on seeing her. Sheseemed within the last few days so changed, and on the aspect ofthe countenance there was so profound a melancholy! But as sheslowly turned at the sound of our footsteps, and her eyes met mine,a quick blush came into the wan cheek, and she half rose, but sankback as if the effort exhausted her. There was a struggle forbreath, and a low hollow cough. Was it possible that I had beenmistaken, and that in that cough was heard the warning knell of themost insidious enemy to youthful life?
I sat down by her side; I lured her on to talk of indifferentsubjects,—the weather, the gardens, the bird in the cage,which was placed on the table near her. Her voice, at first low andfeeble, became gradually stronger, and her face lighted up with achild's innocent, playful smile. No, I had not been mistaken! Thatwas no lymphatic, nerveless temperament, on which consumptionfastens as its lawful prey; here there was no hectic pulse, nohurried waste of the vital flame. Quietly and gently I made myobservations, addressed my questions, applied my stethoscope; andwhen I turned my face towards her mother's anxious, eager eyes,that face told my opinion; for her mother sprang forward, claspedmy hand, and said, through her struggling tears,—
"You smile! You see nothing to fear?"
"Fear! No, indeed! You will soon be again yourself, MissAshleigh, will you not?"
"Yes," she said, with her sweet laugh, "I shall be well now verysoon. But may I not have the window open; may I not go into thegarden? I so long for fresh air."
"No, no, darling," exclaimed Mrs. Ashleigh, "not while the eastwinds last. Dr. Jones said on no account. On no account, Dr.Fenwick, eh?"
"Will you take my arm, Miss Ashleigh, for a few turns up anddown the room?" said I. "We will then see how far we may rebelagainst Dr. Jones."
She rose with some little effort, but there was no cough. Atfirst her step was languid; it became lighter and more elasticafter a few moments.
"Let her come out," said I to Mrs. Ashleigh. "The wind is not inthe east, and, while we are out, pray bid your servant lower to thelast bar in the grate that fire,—only fit for Christmas."
"But—"
"Ah, no buts! He is a poor doctor who is not a sterndespot."
So the straw hat and mantle were sent for. Lilian was wrappedwith unnecessary care, and we all went forth into the garden.Involuntarily we took the way to the Monk's Well, and at every stepLilian seemed to revive under the bracing air and temperate sun. Wepaused by the well.
"You do not feel fatigued, Miss Ashleigh?"
"No."
"But your face seems changed. It is grown sadder."
"Not sadder."
"Sadder than when I first saw it,—saw it when you wereseated here!" I said this in a whisper. I felt her hand tremble asit lay on my arm.
"You saw me seated here!"
"Yes. I will tell you how some day."
Lilian lifted her eyes to mine, and there was in them that samesurprise which I had noticed on my first visit,—a surprisethat perplexed me, blended with no displeasure, but yet with asomething of vague alarm.
We soon returned to the house.
Mrs. Ashleigh made me a sign to follow her into thedrawing-room, leaving Mrs. Poyntz with Lilian.
"Well?" said she, tremblingly.
"Permit me to see Dr. Jones's prescriptions. Thank you. Ay, Ithought so. My dear madam, the mistake here has been in depressingnature instead of strengthening; in narcotics instead ofstimulants. The main stimulants which leave no reaction are air andlight. Promise me that I may have my own way for a week,—thatall I recommend will be implicitly heeded?"
"I promise. But that cough,—you noticed it?"
"Yes. The nervous system is terribly lowered, and nervousexhaustion is a strange impostor; it imitates all manner ofcomplaints with which it has no connection. The cough will soondisappear! But pardon my question. Mrs. Poyntz tells me that youconsulted a clairvoyants about your daughter. Does Miss Ashleighknow that you did so?"
"No; I did not tell her."
"I am glad of that. And pray, for Heaven's sake, guard heragainst all that may set her thinking on such subjects. Above all,guard her against concentring attention on any malady that yourfears erroneously ascribe to her. It is amongst the phenomena ofour organization that you cannot closely rivet your consciousnesson any part of the frame, however healthy, but it will soon beginto exhibit morbid sensibility. Try to fix all your attention onyour little finger for half an hour, and before the half hour isover the little finger will be uneasy, probably even painful. Howserious, then, is the danger to a young girl, at the age in whichimagination is most active, most intense, if you force upon her abelief that she is in danger of a mortal disease! It is apeculiarity of youth to brood over the thought of early death muchmore resignedly, much more complacently, than we do in matureryears. Impress on a young imaginative girl, as free from pulmonarytendencies as you and I are, the conviction that she must fade awayinto the grave, and though she may not actually die of consumption,you instil slow poison into her system. Hope is the natural alimentof youth. You impoverish nourishment where you discourage hope. Assoon as this temporary illness is over, reject for your daughterthe melancholy care which seems to her own mind to mark her outfrom others of her age. Rear her for the air, which is the kindestlife-giver; to sleep with open windows: to be out at sunrise.Nature will do more for her than all our drugs can do. You havebeen hitherto fearing Nature; now trust to her."
Here Mrs. Poyntz joined us, and having, while I had beenspeaking, written my prescription and some general injunctions, Iclosed my advice with an appeal to that powerful protectress.
"This, my dear madam, is a case in which I need your aid, and Iask it. Miss Ashleigh should not be left with no other companionthan her mother. A change of faces is often as salutary as a changeof air. If you could devote an hour or two this very evening to sitwith Miss Ashleigh, to talk to her with your usual cheerfulness,and—"
"Annie," interrupted Mrs. Poyntz, "I will come and drink teawith you at half-past seven, and bring my knitting; and perhaps, ifyou ask him, Dr. Fenwick will come too! He can be tolerablyentertaining when he likes it."
"It is too great a tax on his kindness, I fear," said Mrs.Ashleigh. "But," she added cordially, "I should be grateful indeedif he would spare us an hour of his time."
I murmured an assent which I endeavoured to make not toojoyous.
"So that matter is settled," said Mrs. Poyntz; "and now I shallgo to Mr. Vigors and prevent his further interference."
"Oh, but, Margaret, pray don't offend him,—a connection ofmy poor dear Gilbert's. And so tetchy! I am sure I do not know howyou'll manage to—"
"To get rid of him? Never fear. As I manage everything andeverybody," said Mrs. Poyntz, bluntly. So she kissed her friend onthe forehead, gave me a gracious nod, and, declining the offer ofmy carriage, walked with her usual brisk, decided tread down theshort path towards the town.
Mrs. Ashleigh timidly approached me, and again the furtive handbashfully insinuated the hateful fee.
"Stay," said I; "this is a case which needs the most constantwatching. I wish to call so often that I should seem the mostgreedy of doctors if my visits were to be computed at guineas. Letme be at ease to effect my cure; my pride of science is involved init. And when amongst all the young ladies of the Hill you can pointto none with a fresher bloom, or a fairer promise of healthfullife, than the patient you intrust to my care, why, then the feeand the dismissal. Nay, nay; I must refer you to our friend Mrs.Poyntz. It was so settled with her before she brought me here todisplace Dr. Jones." Therewith I escaped.
In less than a week Lilian was convalescent; in less than afortnight she regained her usual health,—nay, Mrs. Ashleighdeclared that she had never known her daughter appear so cheerfuland look so well. I had established a familiar intimacy at Abbots'House; most of my evenings were spent there. As horse exerciseformed an important part of my advice, Mrs. Ashleigh had purchaseda pretty and quiet horse for her daughter; and, except the weatherwas very unfavourable, Lilian now rode daily with Colonel Poyntz,who was a notable equestrian, and often accompanied by Miss JanePoyntz, and other young ladies of the Hill. I was generallyrelieved from my duties in time to join her as she returnedhomewards. Thus we made innocent appointments, openly, frankly, inher mother's presence, she telling me beforehand in what directionexcursions had been planned with Colonel Poyntz, and I promising tofall in with the party—if my avocations would permit. At mysuggestion, Mrs. Ashleigh now opened her house almost every eveningto some of the neighbouring families; Lilian was thus habituated tothe intercourse of young persons of her own age. Music and dancingand childlike games made the old house gay. And the Hill gratefullyacknowledged to Mrs. Poyntz, "that the Ashleighs were indeed agreat acquisition."
But my happiness was not uncheckered. In thus unselfishlysurrounding Lilian with others, I felt the anguish of that jealousywhich is inseparable from those earlier stages of love, when thelover as yet has won no right to that self-confidence which canonly spring from the assurance that he is loved.
In these social reunions I remained aloof from Lilian. I saw hercourted by the gay young admirers whom her beauty and her fortunedrew around her,—her soft face brightening in the exercise ofthe dance, which the gravity of my profession rather than my yearsforbade to join; and her laugh, so musically subdued, ravishing myear and fretting my heart as if the laugh were a mockery on mysombre self and my presumptuous dreams. But no, suddenly, shyly,her eyes would steal away from those about her, steal to the cornerin which I sat, as if they missed me, and, meeting my own gaze,their light softened before they turned away; and the colour on hercheek would deepen, and to her lip there came a smile differentfrom the smile that it shed on others. And then—andthen—all jealousy, all sadness vanished, and I felt the glorywhich blends with the growing belief that we are loved.
In that diviner epoch of man's mysterious passion, when ideas ofperfection and purity, vague and fugitive before, start forth andconcentre themselves round one virgin shape,—that rises outfrom the sea of creation, welcomed by the Hours and adorned by theGraces,—how the thought that this archetype of sweetness andbeauty singles himself from the millions, singles himself for herchoice, ennobles and lifts up his being! Though after-experiencemay rebuke the mortal's illusion, that mistook for a daughter ofHeaven a creature of clay like himself, yet for a while theillusion has grandeur. Though it comes from the senses which shalllater oppress and profane it, the senses at first shrink intoshade, awed and hushed by the presence that charms them. All thatis brightest and best in the man has soared up like long-dormantinstincts of Heaven, to greet and to hallow what to him seemslife's fairest dream of the heavenly! Take the wings from the imageof Love, and the god disappears from the form!
Thus, if at moments jealous doubt made my torture, so themoment's relief from it sufficed for my rapture. But I had a causefor disquiet less acute but less varying than jealousy.
Despite Lilian's recovery from the special illness which hadmore immediately absorbed my care, I remained perplexed as to itscause and true nature. To her mother I gave it the convenientepithet of "nervous;" but the epithet did not explain to myself allthe symptoms I classified by it. There was still, at times, when nocause was apparent or conjecturable, a sudden change in theexpression of her countenance, in the beat of her pulse; the eyewould become fixed, the bloom would vanish, the pulse would sinkfeebler and feebler till it could be scarcely felt; yet there wasno indication of heart disease, of which such sudden lowering oflife is in itself sometimes a warning indication. The change wouldpass away after a few minutes, during which she seemed unconscious,or, at least, never spoke—never appeared to heed what wassaid to her. But in the expression of her countenance there was nocharacter of suffering or distress; on the contrary, a wondrousserenity, that made her beauty more beauteous, her veryyouthfulness younger; and when this spurious or partial kind ofsyncope passed, she recovered at once without effort, withoutacknowledging that she had felt faint or unwell, but rather with asense of recruited vitality, as the weary obtain from a sleep. Forthe rest her spirits were more generally light and joyous than Ishould have premised from her mother's previous description. Shewould enter mirthfully into the mirth of young companions roundher: she had evidently quick perception of the sunny sides of life;an infantine gratitude for kindness; an infantine joy in thetrifles that amuse only those who delight in tastes pure andsimple. But when talk rose into graver and more contemplativetopics, her attention became earnest and absorbed; and sometimes arich eloquence, such as I have never before nor since heard fromlips so young, would startle me first into a wondering silence, andsoon into a disapproving alarm: for the thoughts she then utteredseemed to me too fantastic, too visionary, too much akin to thevagaries of a wild though beautiful imagination. And then I wouldseek to check, to sober, to distract fancies with which my reasonhad no sympathy, and the indulgence of which I regarded asinjurious to the normal functions of the brain.
When thus, sometimes with a chilling sentence, sometimes with ahalf-sarcastic laugh, I would repress outpourings frank and musicalas the songs of a forest-bird, she would look at me with a kind ofplaintive sorrow,—often sigh and shiver as she turned away.Only in those modes did she show displeasure; otherwise ever sweetand docile, and ever, if, seeing that I had pained her, I askedforgiveness, humbling herself rather to ask mine, and brighteningour reconciliation with her angel smile. As yet I had not dared tospeak of love; as yet I gazed on her as the captive gazes on theflowers and the stars through the gratings of his cell, murmuringto himself, "When shall the doors unclose?"
It was with a wrath suppressed in the presence of the fairambassadress, that Mr. Vigors had received from Mrs. Poyntz theintelligence that I had replaced Dr. Jones at Abbots' House notless abruptly than Dr. Jones had previously supplanted me. As Mrs.Poyntz took upon herself the whole responsibility of this change,Mr. Vigors did not venture to condemn it to her face; for theAdministrator of Laws was at heart no little in awe of the Autocratof Proprieties; as Authority, howsoever established, is in awe ofOpinion, howsoever capricious.
To the mild Mrs. Ashleigh the magistrate's anger was moredecidedly manifested. He ceased his visits; and in answer to a longand deprecatory letter with which she endeavoured to soften hisresentment and win him back to the house, he replied by anelaborate combination of homily and satire. He began by excusinghimself from accepting her invitations, on the ground that his timewas valuable, his habits domestic; and though ever willing tosacrifice both time and habits where he could do good, he owed itto himself and to mankind to sacrifice neither where his advice wasrejected and his opinion contemned. He glanced briefly, but nothastily, at the respect with which her late husband had deferred tohis judgment, and the benefits which that deference had enabled himto bestow. He contrasted the husband's deference with the widow'scontumely, and hinted at the evils which the contumely would notpermit him to prevent. He could not presume to say what women ofthe world might think due to deceased husbands, but even women ofthe world generally allowed the claims of living children, and didnot act with levity where their interests were concerned, stillless where their lives were at stake. As to Dr. Jones, he, Mr.Vigors, had the fullest confidence in his skill. Mrs. Ashleigh mustjudge for herself whether Mrs. Poyntz was as good an authority uponmedical science as he had no doubt she was upon shawls and ribbons.Dr. Jones was a man of caution and modesty; he did not indulge inthe hollow boasts by which charlatans decoy their dupes; but Dr.Jones had privately assured him that though the case was one thatadmitted of no rash experiments, he had no fear of the result ifhis own prudent system were persevered in. What might be theconsequences of any other system, Dr. Jones would not say, becausehe was too high-minded to express his distrust of the rival who hadmade use of underhand arts to supplant him. But Mr. Vigors wasconvinced, from other sources of information (meaning, I presume,the oracular prescience of his clairvoyants), that the time wouldcome when the poor young lady would herself insist on discardingDr. Fenwick, and when "that person" would appear in a verydifferent light to many who now so fondly admired and soreverentially trusted him. When that time arrived, he, Mr. Vigors,might again be of use; but, meanwhile, though he declined to renewhis intimacy at Abbots' House, or to pay unavailing visits of mereceremony, his interest in the daughter of his old friend remainedundiminished, nay, was rather increased by compassion; that heshould silently keep his eye upon her; and whenever anything to heradvantage suggested itself to him, he should not be deterred by theslight with which Mrs. Ashleigh had treated his judgment fromcalling on her, and placing before her conscience as a mother hisideas for her child's benefit, leaving to herself then, as now, theentire responsibility of rejecting the advice which he might say,without vanity, was deemed of some value by those who coulddistinguish between sterling qualities and specious pretences.
Mrs. Ashleigh's was that thoroughly womanly nature whichinstinctively leans upon others. She was diffident, trustful, meek,affectionate. Not quite justly had Mrs. Poyntz described her as"commonplace weak," for though she might be called weak, it was notbecause she was commonplace; she had a goodness of heart, asweetness of disposition, to which that disparaging definitioncould not apply. She could only be called commonplace inasmuch asin the ordinary daily affairs of life she had a great deal ofordinary daily commonplace good-sense. Give her a routine tofollow, and no routine could be better adhered to. In the allottedsphere of a woman's duties she never seemed in fault. No household,not even Mrs. Poyntz's, was more happily managed. The old Abbots'House had merged its original antique gloom in the softer characterof pleasing repose. All her servants adored Mrs. Ashleigh; allfound it a pleasure to please her; her establishment had theharmony of clockwork; comfort diffused itself round her like quietsunshine round a sheltered spot. To gaze on her pleasingcountenance, to listen to the simple talk that lapsed from herguileless lips, in even, slow, and lulling murmur, was in itself arespite from "eating cares." She was to the mind what the colour ofgreen is to the eye. She had, therefore, excellent sense in allthat relates to every-day life. There, she needed not to consultanother; there, the wisest might have consulted her with profit.But the moment anything, however trivial in itself, jarred on theroutine to which her mind had grown wedded, the moment an incidenthurried her out of the beaten track of woman's daily life, then herconfidence forsook her; then she needed a confidant, an adviser;and by that confidant or adviser she could be credulously lured orsubmissively controlled. Therefore, when she lost, in Mr. Vigors,the guide she had been accustomed to consult whenever she neededguidance, she turned; helplessly and piteously, first to Mrs.Poyntz, and then yet more imploringly to me, because a woman ofthat character is never quite satisfied without the advice of aman; and where an intimacy more familiar than that of his formalvisits is once established with a physician, confidence in himgrows fearless and rapid, as the natural result of sympathyconcentrated on an object of anxiety in common between himself andthe home which opens its sacred recess to his observant but tendereye. Thus Mrs. Ashleigh had shown me Mr. Vigors's letter, and,forgetting that I might not be as amiable as herself, besought meto counsel her how to conciliate and soften her lost husband'sfriend and connection. That character clothed him with dignity andawe in her soft forgiving eyes. So, smothering my own resentment,less perhaps at the tone of offensive insinuation against myselfthan at the arrogance with which this prejudiced intermeddlerimplied to a mother the necessity of his guardian watch over achild under her own care, I sketched a reply which seemed to meboth dignified and placatory, abstaining from all discussion, andconveying the assurance that Mrs. Ashleigh would be at all timesglad to hear, and disposed to respect, whatever suggestion soesteemed a friend of her husband would kindly submit to her for thewelfare of her daughter.
There all communication had stopped for about a month since thedate of my reintroduction to Abbots' House. One afternoon Iunexpectedly met Mr. Vigors at the entrance of the blind lane, I onmy way to Abbots' House, and my first glance at his face told methat he was coming from it, for the expression of that face wasmore than usually sinister; the sullen scowl was lit intosignificant menace by a sneer of unmistakable triumph. I felt atonce that he had succeeded in some machination against me, and withominous misgivings quickened my steps.
I found Mrs. Ashleigh seated alone in front of the house, undera large cedar-tree that formed a natural arbour in the centre ofthe sunny lawn. She was perceptibly embarrassed as I took my seatbeside her.
"I hope," said I, forcing a smile, "that Mr. Vigors has not beentelling you that I shall kill my patient, or that she looks muchworse than she did under Dr. Jones's care?"
"No," she said. "He owned cheerfully that Lilian had grown quitestrong, and said, without any displeasure, that he had heard howgay she had been, riding out and even dancing,—which is verykind in him, for he disapproves of dancing, on principle."
"But still I can see he has said something to vex or annoy you;and, to judge by his countenance when I met him in the lane, Ishould conjecture that that something was intended to lower theconfidence you so kindly repose in me."
"I assure you not; he did not mention your name, either to me orto Lilian. I never knew him more friendly; quite like old times. Heis a good man at heart, very, and was much attached to my poorhusband."
"Did Mr. Ashleigh profess a very high opinion of Mr.Vigors?"
"Well, I don't quite know that, because my dear Gilbert neverspoke to me much about him. Gilbert was naturally very silent. Buthe shrank from all trouble—all worldly affairs—and Mr.Vigors managed his estate, and inspected his steward's books, andprotected him through a long lawsuit which he had inherited fromhis father. It killed his father. I don't know what we should havedone without Mr. Vigors, and I am so glad he has forgiven me."
"Hem! Where is Miss Ashleigh? Indoors?"
"No; somewhere in the grounds. But, my dear Dr. Fenwick, do notleave me yet; you are so very, very kind, and somehow I have grownto look upon you quite as an old friend. Something has happenedwhich has put me out, quite put me out."
She said this wearily and feebly, closing her eyes as if shewere indeed put out in the sense of extinguished.
"The feeling of friendship you express," said I, withearnestness, "is reciprocal. On my side it is accompanied by apeculiar gratitude. I am a lonely man, by a lonely fireside, noparents, no near kindred, and in this town, since Dr. Faber leftit, without cordial intimacy till I knew you. In admitting me sofamiliarly to your hearth, you have given me what I have neverknown before since I came to man's estate,—a glimpse of thehappy domestic life; the charm and relief to eye, heart, and spiritwhich is never known but in households cheered by the face ofwoman. Thus my sentiment for you and yours is indeed that of an oldfriend; and in any private confidence you show me, I feel as if Iwere no longer a lonely man, without kindred, without home."
Mrs. Ashleigh seemed much moved by these words, which my hearthad forced from my lips; and, after replying to me with simpleunaffected warmth of kindness, she rose, took my arm, and continuedthus as we walked slowly to and fro the lawn: "You know, perhaps,that my poor husband left a sister, now a widow like myself, LadyHaughton."
"I remember that Mrs. Poyntz said you had such a sister-in-law,but I never heard you mention Lady Haughton till now. Well!"
"Well, Mr. Vigors has brought me a letter from her, and it isthat which has put me out. I dare say you have not heard me speakbefore of Lady Haughton, for I am ashamed to say I had almostforgotten her existence. She is many years older than my husbandwas; of a very different character. Only came once to see him afterour marriage. Hurt me by ridiculing him as a bookworm; offended himby looking a little down on me, as a nobody without spirit andfashion, which was quite true. And, except by a cold and unfeelingletter of formal condolence after I lost my dear Gilbert, I havenever heard from her since I have been a widow, till to-day. But,after all, she is my poor husband's sister, and his eldest sister,and Lilian's aunt; and, as Mr. Vigors says, 'Duty is duty.'"
Had Mrs. Ashleigh said "Duty is torture," she could not haveuttered the maxim with more mournful and despondentresignation.
"And what does this lady require of you, which Mr. Vigors deemsit your duty to comply with?"
"Dear me! What penetration! You have guessed the exact truth.But I think you will agree with Mr. Vigors. Certainly I have nooption; yes, I must do it."
"My penetration is in fault now. Do what? Pray explain."
"Poor Lady Haughton, six months ago, lost her only son, SirJames. Mr. Vigors says he was a very fine young man, of whom anymother would have been proud. I had heard he was wild; Mr. Vigorssays, however, that he was just going to reform, and marry a younglady whom his mother chose for him, when, unluckily, he would ridea steeplechase, not being quite sober at the time, and broke hisneck. Lady Haughton has been, of course, in great grief. She hasretired to Brighton; and she wrote to me from thence, and Mr.Vigors brought the letter. He will go back to her to-day."
"Will go back to Lady Haughton? What! Has he been to her? Is he,then, as intimate with Lady Haughton as he was with herbrother?"
"No; but there has been a long and constant correspondence. Shehad a settlement on the Kirby Estate,—a sum which was notpaid off during Gilbert's life; and a very small part of theproperty went to Sir James, which part Mr. Ashleigh Sumner, theheir-at-law to the rest of the estate, wished Mr. Vigors, as hisguardian, to buy during his minority, and as it was mixed up withLady Haughton's settlement her consent was necessary as well as SirJames's. So there was much negotiation, and, since then, AshleighSumner has come into the Haughton property, on poor Sir James'sdecease; so that complicated all affairs between Mr. Vigors andLady Haughton, and he has just been to Brighton to see her. Andpoor Lady Haughton, in short, wants me and Lilian to go and visither. I don't like it at all. But you said the other day you thoughtsea air might be good for Lilian during the heat of the summer, andshe seems well enough now for the change. What do you think?"
"She is well enough, certainly. But Brighton is not the place Iwould recommend for the summer; it wants shade, and is much hotterthan L——"
"Yes; but unluckily Lady Haughton foresaw that objection, andshe has a jointure-house some miles from Brighton, and near thesea. She says the grounds are well wooded, and the place isproverbially cool and healthy, not far from St. Leonard's Forest.And, in short, I have written to say we will come. So we must,unless, indeed, you positively forbid it."
"When do you think of going?"
"Next Monday. Mr. Vigors would make me fix the day. If you knewhow I dislike moving when I am once settled; and I do so dread LadyHaughton, she is so fine, and so satirical! But Mr. Vigors says sheis very much altered, poor thing! I should like to show you herletter, but I had just sent it to Margaret—Mrs.Poyntz—a minute or two before you came. She knows somethingof Lady Haughton. Margaret knows everybody. And we shall have to goin mourning for poor Sir James, I suppose; and Margaret will chooseit, for I am sure I can't guess to what extent we should besupposed to mourn. I ought to have gone in mourningbefore—poor Gilbert's nephew—but I am so stupid, and Ihad never seen him. And—But oh, this is kind! Margaretherself,—my dear Margaret!"
We had just turned away from the house, in our up-and-down walk;and Mrs. Poyntz stood immediately fronting us. "So, Anne, you haveactually accepted this invitation—and for Monday next?"
"Yes. Did I do wrong?"
"What does Dr. Fenwick say? Can Lilian go with safety?"
I could not honestly say she might not go with safety, but myheart sank like lead as I answered,—
"Miss Ashleigh does not now need merely medical care; but morethan half her cure has depended on keeping her spirits free fromdepression. She may miss the cheerful companionship of yourdaughter, and other young ladies of her own age. A very melancholyhouse, saddened by a recent bereavement, without other guests; ahostess to whom she is a stranger, and whom Mrs. Ashleigh herselfappears to deem formidable,—certainly these do not make thatchange of scene which a physician would recommend. When I spoke ofsea air being good for Miss Ashleigh, I thought of our own northerncoasts at a later time of the year, when I could escape myself fora few weeks and attend her. The journey to a northernwatering-place would be also shorter and less fatiguing; the airthere more invigorating."
"No doubt that would be better," said Mrs. Poyntz, dryly; "butso far as your objections to visiting Lady Haughton have beenstated, they are groundless. Her house will not be melancholy; shewill have other guests, and Lilian will find companions, young likeherself,—young ladies—and young gentlemen too!"
There was something ominous, something compassionate, in thelook which Mrs. Poyntz cast upon me, in concluding her speech,which in itself was calculated to rouse the fears of a lover.Lilian away from me, in the house of a worldly-fine lady—suchas I judged Lady Haughton to be—surrounded by younggentlemen, as well as young ladies, by admirers, no doubt, of ahigher rank and more brilliant fashion than she had yet known! Iclosed my eyes, and with strong effort suppressed a groan.
"My dear Annie, let me satisfy myself that Dr. Fenwick reallydoes consent to this journey. He will say to me what he may not toyou. Pardon me, then, if I take him aside for a few minutes. Let mefind you here again under this cedar-tree."
Placing her arm in mine, and without waiting for Mrs. Ashleigh'sanswer, Mrs. Poyntz drew me into the more sequestered walk thatbelted the lawn; and when we were out of Mrs. Ashleigh's sight andhearing, said,—
"From what you have now seen of Lilian Ashleigh, do you stilldesire to gain her as your wife?"
"Still? Oh, with an intensity proportioned to the fear withwhich I now dread that she is about to pass away from myeyes—from my life!"
"Does your judgment confirm the choice of your heart? Reflectbefore you answer."
"Such selfish judgment as I had before I knew her would notconfirm but oppose it. The nobler judgment that now expands all myreasonings, approves and seconds my heart. No, no; do not smile sosarcastically. This is not the voice of a blind and egotisticalpassion. Let me explain myself if I can. I concede to you thatLilian's character is undeveloped; I concede to you, that amidstthe childlike freshness and innocence of her nature, there is attimes a strangeness, a mystery, which I have not yet traced to itscause. But I am certain that the intellect is organically as soundas the heart, and that intellect and heart will ultimately—ifunder happy auspices—blend in that felicitous union whichconstitutes the perfection of woman. But it is because she does,and may for years, may perhaps always, need a more devoted,thoughtful care than natures less tremulously sensitive, that myjudgment sanctions my choice; for whatever is best for her is bestfor me. And who would watch over her as I should?"
"You have never yet spoken to Lilian as lovers speak?"
"Oh, no, indeed."
"And, nevertheless, you believe that your affection would not beunreturned?"
"I thought so once; I doubt now,—yet, in doubting, hope.But why do you alarm me with these questions? You, too, forebodethat in this visit I may lose her forever?"
"If you fear that, tell her so, and perhaps her answer maydispel your fear."
"What! now, already, when she has scarcely known me a month.Might I not risk all if too premature?"
"There is no almanac for love. With many women love is born themoment they know they are beloved. All wisdom tells us that amoment once gone is irrevocable. Were I in your place, I shouldfeel that I approached a moment that I must not lose. I have saidenough; now I shall rejoin Mrs. Ashleigh."
"Stay—tell me first what Lady Haughton's letter reallycontains to prompt the advice with which you so transport, and yetso daunt, me when you proffer it."
"Not now; later, perhaps,—not now. If you wish to seeLilian alone, she is by the Old Monk's Well; I saw her seated thereas I passed that way to the house."
"One word more,—only one. Answer this question frankly,for it is one of honour. Do you still believe that my suit to herdaughter would not be disapproved of by Mrs. Ashleigh?"
"At this moment I am sure it would not; a week hence I might notgive you the same answer."
So she passed on with her quick but measured tread, back throughthe shady walk, on to the open lawn, till the last glimpse of herpale gray robe disappeared under the boughs of the cedar-tree.Then, with a start, I broke the irresolute, tremulous suspense inwhich I had vainly endeavoured to analyze my own mind, solve my owndoubts, concentrate my own will, and went the opposite way,skirting the circle of that haunted ground,—as now, on oneside its lofty terrace, the houses of the neighbouring city camefull and close into view, divided from my fairy-land of life but bythe trodden murmurous thoroughfare winding low beneath the iviedparapets; and as now, again, the world of men abruptly vanishedbehind the screening foliage of luxuriant June.
At last the enchanted glade opened out from the verdure, itsborders fragrant with syringa and rose and woodbine; and there, bythe gray memorial of the gone Gothic age, my eyes seemed to closetheir unquiet wanderings, resting spell-bound on that image whichhad become to me the incarnation of earth's bloom and youth.
She stood amidst the Past, backed by the fragments of wallswhich man had raised to seclude him from human passion, locking,under those lids so downcast, the secret of the only knowledge Iasked from the boundless Future.
Ah! what mockery there is in that grand word, the world's fiercewar-cry,—Freedom! Who has not known one period of life, andthat so solemn that its shadows may rest over all life hereafter,when one human creature has over him a sovereignty more supreme andabsolute than Orient servitude adores in the symbols of diadem andsceptre? What crest so haughty that has not bowed before a handwhich could exalt or humble! What heart so dauntless that has nottrembled to call forth the voice at whose sound open the gates ofrapture or despair! That life alone is free which rules, andsuffices for itself. That life we forfeit when we love!
How did I utter it? By what words did my heart make itselfknown? I remember not. All was as a dream that falls upon arestless, feverish night, and fades away as the eyes unclose on thepeace of a cloudless heaven, on the bliss of a golden sun. A newmorrow seemed indeed upon the earth when I woke from a life-longyesterday,—her dear hand in mine, her sweet face bowed uponmy breast.
And then there was that melodious silence in which there is nosound audible from without; yet within us there is heard a lullingcelestial music, as if our whole being, grown harmonious with theuniverse, joined from its happy deeps in the hymn that unites thestars.
In that silence our two hearts seemed to make each otherunderstood, to be drawing nearer and nearer, blending by mysteriousconcord into the completeness of a solemn union, never henceforthto be rent asunder.
At length I said softly: "And it was here on this spot that Ifirst saw you,—here that I for the first time knew what powerto change our world and to rule our future goes forth from thecharm of a human face!"
Then Lilian asked me timidly, and without lifting her eyes, howI had so seen her, reminding me that I promised to tell her, andhad never yet done so.
And then I told her of the strange impulse that had led me intothe grounds, and by what chance my steps had been diverted down thepath that wound to the glade; how suddenly her form had shone uponmy eyes, gathering round itself the rose hues of the setting sun,and how wistfully those eyes had followed her own silent gaze intothe distant heaven.
As I spoke, her hand pressed mine eagerly, convulsively, and,raising her face from my breast, she looked at me with an intent,anxious earnestness. That look!—twice before it had thrilledand perplexed me.
"What is there in that look, oh, my Lilian, which tells me thatthere is something that startles you,—something you wish toconfide, and yet shrink from explaining? See how, already, I studythe fair book from which the seal has been lifted! but as yet youmust aid me to construe its language."
"If I shrink from explaining, it is only because I fear that Icannot explain so as to be understood or believed. But you have aright to know the secrets of a life which you would link to yourown. Turn your face aside from me; a reproving look, an increduloussmile, chill—oh, you cannot guess how they chill me, when Iwould approach that which to me is so serious and so solemnlystrange."
I turned my face away, and her voice grew firmer as, after abrief pause, she resumed,—
"As far back as I can remember in my infancy, there have beenmoments when there seems to fall a soft hazy veil between my sightand the things around it, thickening and deepening till it has thelikeness of one of those white fleecy clouds which gather on theverge of the horizon when the air is yet still, but the winds areabout to rise; and then this vapour or veil will suddenly open, asclouds open, and let in the blue sky."
"Go on," I said gently, for here she came to a stop. Shecontinued, speaking somewhat more hurriedly,—
"Then, in that opening, strange appearances present them selvesto me, as in a vision. In my childhood these were chieflylandscapes of wonderful beauty. I could but faintly describe themthen; I could not attempt to describe them now, for they are almostgone from my memory. My dear mother chid me for telling her what Isaw, so I did not impress it on my mind by repeating it. As I grewup, this kind of vision—if I may so call it—became muchless frequent, or much less distinct; I still saw the soft veilfall, the pale cloud form and open, but often what may then haveappeared was entirely forgotten when I recovered myself, waking asfrom a sleep. Sometimes, however, the recollection would be vividand complete; sometimes I saw the face of my lost father; sometimesI heard his very voice, as I had seen and heard him in my earlychildhood, when he would let me rest for hours beside him as hemused or studied, happy to be so quietly near him, for I loved him,oh, so dearly! and I remember him so distinctly, though I was onlyin my sixth year when he died. Much more recently—indeed,within the last few months—the images of things to come arereflected on the space that I gaze into as clearly as in a glass.Thus, for weeks before I came hither, or knew that such a placeexisted, I saw distinctly the old House, yon trees, this sward,this moss-grown Gothic fount; and, with the sight, an impressionwas conveyed to me that in the scene before me my old childlikelife would pass into some solemn change. So that when I came here,and recognized the picture in my vision, I took an affection forthe spot,—an affection not without awe, a powerful,perplexing interest, as one who feels under the influence of a fateof which a prophetic glimpse has been vouchsafed. And in thatevening, when you first saw me, seated here—"
"Yes, Lilian, on that evening—"
"I saw you also, but in my vision—yonder, far in the deepsof space,—and—and my heart was stirred as it had neverbeen before; and near where your image grew out from the cloud Isaw my father's face, and I heard his voice, not in my ear, but asin my heart, whispering—"
"Yes, Lilian—whispering—what?"
"These words,—only these,—'Ye will need oneanother.' But then, suddenly, between my upward eyes and the twoforms they had beheld, there rose from the earth, obscuring theskies, a vague, dusky vapour, undulous, and coiling like a vastserpent,—nothing, indeed, of its shape and figure definite,but of its face one abrupt glare; a flash from two dread luminouseyes, and a young head, like the Medusa's, changing, more rapidlythan I could have drawn breath, into a grinning skull. Then myterror made me bow my head, and when I raised it again, all that Ihad seen was vanished. But the terror still remained, even when Ifelt my mother's arm round me and heard her voice. And then, when Ientered the house, and sat down again alone, the recollection ofwhat I had seen—those eyes, that face, that skull—grewon me stronger and stronger till I fainted, and remember no more,until my eyes, opening, saw you by my side, and in my wonder therewas not terror. No, a sense of joy, protection, hope, yet stillshadowed by a kind of fear or awe, in recognizing the countenancewhich had gleamed on me from the skies before the dark vapour hadrisen, and while my father's voice had murmured, 'Ye will need oneanother.' And now—and now—will you love me less thatyou know a secret in my being which I have told to noother,—cannot construe to myself? Only—only, at least,do not mock me; do not disbelieve me! Nay, turn from me no longernow: now I ask to meet your eyes. Now, before our hands can joinagain, tell me that you do not despise me as untruthful, do notpity me as insane."
"Hush, hush!" I said, drawing her to my breast. "Of all you tellme we will talk hereafter. The scales of our science have noweights fine enough for the gossamer threads of a maiden's purefancies. Enough for me—for us both—if out from all suchillusions start one truth, told to you, lovely child, from theheavens; told to me, ruder man, on the earth; repeated by eachpulse of this heart that woos you to hear and to trust,—nowand henceforth through life unto death, 'Each has need of theother,'—I of you, I of you! my Lilian! my Lilian!"
In spite of the previous assurance of Mrs. Poyntz, it was notwithout an uneasy apprehension that I approached the cedar-tree,under which Mrs. Ashleigh still sat, her friend beside her. Ilooked on the fair creature whose arm was linked in mine. So young,so singularly lovely, and with all the gifts of birth and fortunewhich bend avarice and ambition the more submissively to youth andbeauty, I felt as if I had wronged what a parent might justly deemher natural lot.
"Oh, if your mother should disapprove!" said I, falteringly.Lilian leaned on my arm less lightly. "If I had thought so," shesaid with her soft blush, "should I be thus by your side?"
So we passed under the boughs of the dark tree, and Lilian leftme and kissed Mrs. Ashleigh's cheek; then, seating herself on theturf, laid her head on her mother's lap. I looked on the Queen ofthe Hill, whose keen eye shot over me. I thought there was amomentary expression of pain or displeasure on her countenance; butit passed. Still there seemed to me something of irony, as well asof triumph or congratulation, in the half-smile with which shequitted her seat, and in the tone with which she whispered, as sheglided by me to the open sward, "So, then, it is settled."
She walked lightly and quickly down the lawn. When she was outof sight I breathed more freely. I took the seat which she hadleft, by Mrs. Ashleigh's side, and said, "A little while ago Ispoke of myself as a man without kindred, without home, and now Icome to you and ask for both."
Mrs. Ashleigh looked at me benignly, then raised her daughter'sface from her lap, and whispered, "Lilian;" and Lilian's lipsmoved, but I did not hear her answer. Her mother did. She tookLilian's hand, simply placed it in mine, and said, "As she chooses,I choose; whom she loves, I love."
From that evening till the day Mrs. Ashleigh and Lilian went onthe dreaded visit, I was always at their house, when my avocationsallowed me to steal to it; and during those few days, the happiestI had ever known, it seemed to me that years could not have moredeepened my intimacy with Lilian's exquisite nature, made me morereverential of its purity, or more enamoured of its sweetness. Icould detect in her but one fault, and I rebuked myself forbelieving that it was a fault. We see many who neglect the minorduties of life, who lack watchful forethought and considerate carefor others, and we recognize the cause of this failing in levity oregotism. Certainly, neither of those tendencies of character couldbe ascribed to Lilian. Yet still in daily trifles there wassomething of that neglect, some lack of that care and forethought.She loved her mother with fondness and devotion, yet it neveroccurred to her to aid in those petty household cares in which hermother centred so much of habitual interest. She was full oftenderness and pity to all want and suffering, yet many a younglady on the Hill was more actively beneficent,—visiting thepoor in their sickness, or instructing their children in the InfantSchools. I was persuaded that her love for me was deep andtruthful; it was clearly void of all ambition; doubtless she wouldhave borne, unflinching and contented, whatever the world considersto be a sacrifice and privation,—yet I should never haveexpected her to take her share in the troubles of ordinary life. Icould never have applied to her the homely but significant name ofhelpmate. I reproach myself while I write for noticing suchdefect—if defect it were—in what may be called thepractical routine of our positive, trivial, human existence. Nodoubt it was this that had caused Mrs. Poyntz's harsh judgmentagainst the wisdom of my choice. But such chiller shade uponLilian's charming nature was reflected from no inert, unamiableself-love. It was but the consequence of that self-absorption whichthe habit of revery had fostered. I cautiously abstained from allallusion to those visionary deceptions, which she had confided tome as the truthful impressions of spirit, if not of sense. To meany approach to what I termed "superstition" was displeasing; anyindulgence of fantasies not within the measured and beaten track ofhealthful imagination more than displeased me in her,—italarmed. I would not by a word encourage her in persuasions which Ifelt it would be at present premature to reason against, and cruelindeed to ridicule. I was convinced that of themselves these mistsround her native intelligence, engendered by a solitary and musingchildhood, would subside in the fuller daylight of wedded life. Sheseemed pained when she saw how resolutely I shunned a subject dearto her thoughts. She made one or two timid attempts to renew it,but my grave looks sufficed to check her. Once or twice indeed, onsuch occasions, she would turn away and leave me, but she soon cameback; that gentle heart could not bear one unkindlier shade betweenitself and what it loved. It was agreed that our engagement shouldbe, for the present, confided only to Mrs. Poyntz. When Mrs.Ashleigh and Lilian returned, which would be in a few weeks atfurthest, it should be proclaimed; and our marriage could takeplace in the autumn, when I should be most free for a brief holidayfrom professional toils.
So we parted-as lovers part. I felt none of those jealous fearswhich, before we were affianced, had made me tremble at the thoughtof separation, and had conjured up irresistible rivals. But it waswith a settled, heavy gloom that I saw her depart. From earth wasgone a glory; from life a blessing.
During the busy years of my professional career, I had snatchedleisure for some professional treatises, which had made more orless sensation, and one of them, entitled "The Vital Principle; itsWaste and Supply," had gained a wide circulation among the generalpublic. This last treatise contained the results of certainexperiments, then new in chemistry, which were adduced in supportof a theory I entertained as to the re-invigoration of the humansystem by principles similar to those which Liebig has applied tothe replenishment of an exhausted soil,—namely, the givingback to the frame those essentials to its nutrition, which it haslost by the action or accident of time; or supplying that specialpabulum or energy in which the individual organism isconstitutionally deficient; and neutralizing or counterbalancingthat in which it super-abounds,—a theory upon which someeminent physicians have more recently improved with signal success.But on these essays, slight and suggestive, rather than dogmatic, Iset no value. I had been for the last two years engaged on a workof much wider range, endeared to me by a far bolderambition,—a work upon which I fondly hoped to found anenduring reputation as a severe and original physiologist. It wasan Inquiry into Organic Life, similar in comprehensiveness ofsurvey to that by which the illustrious Muller, of Berlin, hasenriched the science of our age; however inferior, alas! to thataugust combination of thought and learning in the judgment whichchecks presumption, and the genius which adorns speculation. But atthat day I was carried away by the ardour of composition, and Iadmired my performance because I loved my labour. This work hadbeen entirely laid aside for the last agitated month; now thatLilian was gone, I resumed it earnestly, as the sole occupationthat had power and charm enough to rouse me from the aching senseof void and loss.
The very night of the day she went, I reopened my manuscript. Ihad left off at the commencement of a chapter Upon Knowledge asderived from our Senses. As my convictions on this head werefounded on the well-known arguments of Locke and Condillac againstinnate ideas, and on the reasonings by which Hume has resolved thecombination of sensations into a general idea to an impulse arisingmerely out of habit, so I set myself to oppose, as a dangerousconcession to the sentimentalities or mysticism of apseudo-philosophy, the doctrine favoured by most of our recentphysiologists, and of which some of the most eminent of Germanmetaphysicians have accepted the substance, though refining into asubtlety its positive form,—I mean the doctrine which Mullerhimself has expressed in these words:—
"That innate ideas may exist cannot in the slightest degree be denied: it is, indeed, a fact. All the ideas of animals, which are induced by instinct, are innate and immediate: something presented to the mind, a desire to attain which is at the same time given. The new-born lamb and foal have such innate ideas, which lead them to follow their mother and suck the teats. Is it not in some measure the same with the intellectual ideas of man?" (1)
To this question I answered with an indignant "No!" A "Yes"would have shaken my creed of materialism to the dust. I wrote onrapidly, warmly. I defined the properties and meted the limits ofnatural laws, which I would not admit that a Deity himself couldalter. I clamped and soldered dogma to dogma in the links of mytinkered logic, till out from my page, to my own complacent eye,grew Intellectual Man, as the pure formation of his materialsenses; mind, or what is called soul, born from and nurtured bythem alone; through them to act, and to perish with the machinethey moved. Strange, that at the very time my love for Lilian mighthave taught me that there are mysteries in the core of the feelingswhich my analysis of ideas could not solve, I should so stubbornlyhave opposed as unreal all that could be referred to the spiritual!Strange, that at the very time when the thought that I might losefrom this life the being I had known scarce a month had just beforeso appalled me, I should thus complacently sit down to prove that,according to the laws of the nature which my passion obeyed, I mustlose for eternity the blessing I now hoped I had won to my life!But how distinctly dissimilar is man in his conduct from man in hissystems! See the poet reclined under forest boughs, conning odes tohis mistress; follow him out into the world; no mistress ever livedfor him there!(2) See the hard man of science, so austere in hispassionless problems; follow him now where the brain rests from itstoil, where the heart finds its Sabbath—what child is sotender, so yielding, and soft?
But I had proved to my own satisfaction that poet and sage aredust, and no more, when the pulse ceases to beat. And on thatconsolatory conclusion my pen stopped.
Suddenly, beside me I distinctly heard a sigh,—acompassionate, mournful sigh. The sound was unmistakable. I startedfrom my seat, looked round, amazed to discover no one,—noliving thing! The windows were closed, the night was still. Thatsigh was not the wail of the wind. But there, in the darker angleof the room, what was that? A silvery whiteness, vaguely shaped asa human form, receding, fading, gone! Why, I know not—for noface was visible, no form, if form it were, more distinct than thecolourless outline,—why, I know not, but I cried aloud,"Lilian! Lilian!" My voice came strangely back to my own ear; Ipaused, then smiled and blushed at my folly. "So I, too, havelearned what is superstition," I muttered to myself. "And here isan anecdote at my own expense (as Muller frankly tells us anecdotesof the illusions which would haunt his eyes, shut oropen),—an anecdote I may quote when I come to my chapter onthe Cheats of the Senses and Spectral Phantasms." I went on with mybook, and wrote till the lights waned in the gray of the dawn. AndI said then, in the triumph of my pride, as I laid myself down torest, "I have written that which allots with precision man's placein the region of nature; written that which will found a school,form disciples; and race after race of those who cultivate truththrough pure reason shall accept my bases if they enlarge mybuilding." And again I heard the sigh, but this time it caused nosurprise. "Certainly," I murmured, "a very strange thing is thenervous system!" So I turned on my pillow, and, wearied out, fellasleep.
(1) Muller's "Elements of Physiology," vol. ii. p. 134.Translated by Dr. Baley.
(2) Cowley, who wrote so elaborate a series of amatory poems, issaid "never to have been in love but once, and then he never hadresolution to tell his passion."—Johnson's "Lives of thePoets:" COWLEY.
The next day, the last of the visiting patients to whom myforenoons were devoted had just quitted me, when I was summoned inhaste to attend the steward of a Sir Philip Derval not residing athis family seat, which was about five miles from L——.It was rarely indeed that persons so far from the town, when of nohigher rank than this applicant, asked my services.
But it was my principle to go wherever I was summoned; myprofession was not gain, it was healing, to which gain was theincident, not the essential. This case the messenger reported asurgent. I went on horseback, and rode fast; but swiftly as Icantered through the village that skirted the approach to SirPhilip Derval's park, the evident care bestowed on theaccommodation of the cottagers forcibly struck me. I felt that Iwas on the lands of a rich, intelligent, and beneficent proprietor.Entering the park, and passing before the manor-house, the contrastbetween the neglect and the decay of the absentee's stately Halland the smiling homes of his villagers was disconsolatelymournful.
An imposing pile, built apparently by Vanbrugh, with decoratedpilasters, pompous portico, and grand perron (or double flight ofstairs to the entrance), enriched with urns and statues, butdiscoloured, mildewed, chipped, half-hidden with unpruned creepersand ivy. Most of the windows were closed with shutters, decayingfor want of paint; in some of the casements the panes were broken;the peacock perched on the shattered balustrade, that fenced agarden overgrown with weeds. The sun glared hotly on the place, andmade its ruinous condition still more painfully apparent. I wasglad when a winding in the park-road shut the house from my sight.Suddenly I emerged through a copse of ancient yew-trees, and beforeme there gleamed, in abrupt whiteness, a building evidentlydesigned for the family mausoleum, classical in its outline, withthe blind iron door niched into stone walls of massive thickness,and surrounded by a funereal garden of roses and evergreens, fencedwith an iron rail, party-gilt.
The suddenness with which this House of the Dead came upon meheightened almost into pain, if not into awe, the dismal impressionwhich the aspect of the deserted home in its neighbourhood hadmade. I spurred my horse, and soon arrived at the door of mypatient, who lived in a fair brick house at the other extremity ofthe park.
I found my patient, a man somewhat advanced in years, but of arobust conformation, in bed: he had been seized with a fit, whichwas supposed to be apoplectic, a few hours before; but was alreadysensible, and out of immediate danger. After I had prescribed a fewsimple remedies, I took aside the patient's wife, and went with herto the parlour below stairs, to make some inquiry about herhusband's ordinary regimen and habits of life. These seemedsufficiently regular; I could discover no apparent cause for theattack, which presented symptoms not familiar to my experience."Has your husband ever had such fits before?"
"Never!"
"Had he experienced any sudden emotion? Had he heard anyunexpected news; or had anything happened to put him out?"
The woman looked much disturbed at these inquiries. I pressedthem more urgently. At last she burst into tears, and clasping myhand, said, "Oh, doctor, I ought to tell you—I sent for youon purpose—yet I fear you will not believe me: my good manhas seen a ghost!"
"A ghost!" said I, repressing a smile. "Well, tell me all, thatI may prevent the ghost coming again."
The woman's story was prolix. Its substance was this. Herhusband, habitually an early riser, had left his bed that morningstill earlier than usual, to give directions about some cattle thatwere to be sent for sale to a neighbouring fair. An hour afterwardshe had been found by a shepherd, near the mausoleum, apparentlylifeless. On being removed to his own house, he had recoveredspeech, and bidding all except his wife leave the room, he thentold her that on walking across the park towards the cattle-sheds,he had seen what appeared to him at first a pale light by the irondoor of the mausoleum. On approaching nearer, this light changedinto the distinct and visible form of his master, Sir PhilipDerval, who was then abroad,—supposed to be in the East,where he had resided for many years. The impression on thesteward's mind was so strong, that he called out, "Oh, Sir Philip!"when looking still more intently, he perceived that the face wasthat of a corpse. As he continued to gaze, the apparition seemedgradually to recede, as if vanishing into the sepulchre itself. Heknew no more; he became unconscious. It was the excess of the poorwoman's alarm, on hearing this strange tale, that made her resolveto send for me instead of the parish apothecary. She fancied soastounding a cause for her husband's seizure could only be properlydealt with by some medical man reputed to have more than ordinarylearning; and the steward himself objected to the apothecary in theimmediate neighbourhood, as more likely to annoy him by gossip thana physician from a comparative distance.
I took care not to lose the confidence of the good wife byparading too quickly my disbelief in the phantom her husbanddeclared that he had seen; but as the story itself seemed at onceto decide the nature of the fit to be epileptic, I began to tellher of similar delusions which, in my experience, had occurred tothose subjected to epilepsy, and finally soothed her into theconviction that the apparition was clearly reducible to naturalcauses. Afterwards, I led her on to talk about Sir Philip Derval,less from any curiosity I felt about the absent proprietor thanfrom a desire to re-familiarize her own mind to his image as aliving man. The steward had been in the service of Sir Philip'sfather, and had known Sir Philip himself from a child. He waswarmly attached to his master, whom the old woman described as aman of rare benevolence and great eccentricity, which last sheimputed to his studious habits. He had succeeded to the title andestates as a minor. For the first few years after attaining hismajority, he had mixed much in the world. When at Derval Court hishouse had been filled with gay companions, and was the scene oflavish hospitality; but the estate was not in proportion to thegrandeur of the mansion, still less to the expenditure of theowner. He had become greatly embarrassed; and some lovedisappointment (so it was rumoured) occurring simultaneously withhis pecuniary difficulties, he had suddenly changed his way oflife, shut himself up from his old friends, lived in seclusion,taking to books and scientific pursuits, and as the old woman saidvaguely and expressively, "to odd ways." He had gradually by aneconomy that, towards himself, was penurious, but which did notpreclude much judicious generosity to others, cleared off hisdebts; and, once more rich, he had suddenly quitted the country,and taken to a life of travel. He was now about forty-eight yearsold, and had been eighteen years abroad. He wrote frequently to hissteward, giving him minute and thoughtful instructions in regard tothe employment, comforts, and homes of the peasantry, butperemptorily ordering him to spend no money on the grounds andmansion, stating as a reason why the latter might be allowed tofall into decay, his intention to pull it down whenever he returnedto England.
I stayed some time longer than my engagements well warranted atmy patient's house, not leaving till the sufferer, after a quietsleep, had removed from his bed to his armchair, taken food, andseemed perfectly recovered from his attack.
Riding homeward, I mused on the difference that education makes,even pathologically, between man and man. Here was a brawnyinhabitant of rural fields, leading the healthiest of lives, notconscious of the faculty we call imagination, stricken down almostto Death's door by his fright at an optical illusion, explicable,if examined, by the same simple causes which had impressed me thenight before with a moment's belief in a sound and aspectre,—me who, thanks to sublime education, went so quietlyto sleep a few minutes after, convinced that no phantom, theghostliest that ear ever heard or eye ever saw, can be anythingelse but a nervous phenomenon.
That evening I went to Mrs. Poyntz's; it was one of her ordinary"reception nights," and I felt that she would naturally expect myattendance as "a proper attention."
I joined a group engaged in general conversation, of which Mrs.Poyntz herself made the centre, knitting as usual,—rapidlywhile she talked, slowly when she listened.
Without mentioning the visit I had paid that morning, I turnedthe conversation on the different country places in theneighbourhood, and then incidentally asked, "What sort of a man isSir Philip Derval? Is it not strange that he should suffer so finea place to fall into decay?" The answers I received added little tothe information I had already obtained. Mrs. Poyntz knew nothing ofSir Philip Derval, except as a man of large estates, whose rentalhad been greatly increased by a rise in the value of property hepossessed in the town of L——, and which lay contiguousto that of her husband. Two or three of the older inhabitants ofthe Hill had remembered Sir Philip in his early days, when he wasgay, high-spirited, hospitable, lavish. One observed that the onlyperson in L—— whom he had admitted to his subsequentseclusion was Dr. Lloyd, who was then without practice, and whom hehad employed as an assistant in certain chemical experiments.
Here a gentleman struck into the conversation. He was a stranger tome and to L——, a visitor to one of the dwellers on the Hill, who hadasked leave to present him to its queen as a great traveller and anaccomplished antiquary. Said this gentleman: "Sir Philip Derval? I know him. I met him in theEast. He was then still, I believe, very fond of chemical science; aclever, odd, philanthropical man; had studied medicine, or at leastpractised it; was said to have made many marvellous cures. I becameacquainted with him in Aleppo. He had come to that town, not muchfrequented by English travellers, in order to inquire into the murder oftwo men, of whom one was his friend and the other his countryman."
"This is interesting," said Mrs. Poyntz, dryly. "We who live onthis innocent Hill all love stories of crime; murder is thepleasantest subject you could have hit on. Pray give us thedetails."
"So encouraged," said the traveller, good-humouredly, "I willnot hesitate to communicate the little I know. In Aleppo there hadlived for some years a man who was held by the natives in greatreverence. He had the reputation of extraordinary wisdom, but wasdifficult of access; the lively imagination of the Orientalsinvested his character with the fascinations of fable,—inshort, Haroun of Aleppo was popularly considered a magician. Wildstories were told of his powers, of his preternatural age, of hishoarded treasures. Apart from such disputable titles to homage,there seemed no question, from all I heard, that his learning wasconsiderable, his charities extensive, his manner of lifeirreproachably ascetic. He appears to have resembled those Arabiansages of the Gothic age to whom modern science is largelyindebted,—a mystic enthusiast, but an earnest scholar. Awealthy and singular Englishman, long resident in another part ofthe East, afflicted by some languishing disease, took a journey toAleppo to consult this sage, who, among his other acquirements, washeld to have discovered rare secrets in medicine,—hiscountrymen said in 'charms.' One morning, not long after theEnglishman's arrival, Haroun was found dead in his bed, apparentlystrangled, and the Englishman, who lodged in another part of thetown, had disappeared; but some of his clothes, and a crutch onwhich he habitually supported himself, were found a few milesdistant from Aleppo, near the roadside. There appeared no doubtthat he, too, had been murdered, but his corpse could not bediscovered. Sir Philip Derval had been a loving disciple of thisSage of Aleppo, to whom he assured me he owed not only thatknowledge of medicine which, by report, Sir Philip possessed, butthe insight into various truths of nature, on the promulgation ofwhich, it was evident, Sir Philip cherished the ambition to found aphilosophical celebrity for himself."
"Of what description were those truths of nature?" I asked,somewhat sarcastically.
"Sir, I am unable to tell you, for Sir Philip did not inform me,nor did I much care to ask; for what may be revered as truths inAsia are usually despised as dreams in Europe. To return to mystory: Sir Philip had been in Aleppo a little time before themurder; had left the Englishman under the care of Haroun. Hereturned to Aleppo on hearing the tragic events I have related, andwas busy in collecting such evidence as could be gleaned, andinstituting inquiries after our missing countryman at the time Imyself chanced to arrive in the city. I assisted in his researches,but without avail. The assassins remained undiscovered. I do notmyself doubt that they were mere vulgar robbers. Sir Philip had adarker suspicion of which he made no secret to me; but as I confessthat I thought the suspicion groundless, you will pardon me if I donot repeat it. Whether since I left the East the Englishman'sremains have been discovered, I know not. Very probably; for Iunderstand that his heirs have got hold of what fortune heleft,—less than was generally supposed. But it was reportedthat he had buried great treasures, a rumour, however absurd, notaltogether inconsistent with his character."
"What was his character?" asked Mrs. Poyntz.
"One of evil and sinister repute. He was regarded with terror bythe attendants who had accompanied him to Aleppo. But he had livedin a very remote part of the East, little known to Europeans, and,from all I could learn, had there established an extraordinarypower, strengthened by superstitious awe. He was said to havestudied deeply that knowledge which the philosophers of old called'occult,' not, like the Sage of Aleppo, for benevolent, but formalignant ends. He was accused of conferring with evil spirits, andfilling his barbaric court (for he lived in a kind of savageroyalty) with charmers and sorcerers. I suspect, after all, that hewas only, like myself, an ardent antiquary, and cunningly made useof the fear he inspired in order to secure his authority, andprosecute in safety researches into ancient sepulchres or temples.His great passion was, indeed, in excavating such remains, in hisneighbourhood; with what result I know not, never having penetratedso far into regions infested by robbers and pestiferous withmalaria. He wore the Eastern dress, and always carried jewels abouthim. I came to the conclusion that for the sake of these jewels hewas murdered, perhaps by some of his own servants (and, indeed, twoat least of his suite were missing), who then at once buried hisbody, and kept their own secret. He was old, very infirm; couldnever have got far from the town without assistance."
"You have not yet told us his name," said Mrs. Poyntz.
"His name was Grayle."
"Grayle!" exclaimed Mrs. Poyntz, dropping her work. "LouisGrayle?"
"Yes; Louis Grayle. You could not have known him?"
"Known him! No; but I have often heard my father speak of him.Such, then, was the tragic end of that strong dark creature, forwhom, as a young girl in the nursery, I used to feel a kind offearful admiring interest?"
"It is your turn to narrate now," said the traveller.
And we all drew closer round our hostess, who remained silentsome moments, her brow thoughtful, her work suspended.
"Well," said she at last, looking round us with a lofty air,which seemed half defying, "force and courage are alwaysfascinating, even when they are quite in the wrong. I go with theworld, because the world goes with me; if it did not—" Hereshe stopped for a moment, clenched the firm white hand, and thenscornfully waved it, left the sentence unfinished, and broke intoanother.
"Going with the world, of course we must march over those whostand against it. But when one man stands single-handed against ourmarch, we do not despise him; it is enough to crush. I am very gladI did not see Louis Grayle when I was a girl of sixteen." Again shepaused a moment, and resumed: "Louis Grayle was the only son of ausurer, infamous for the rapacity with which he had acquiredenormous wealth. Old Grayle desired to rear his heir as agentleman; sent him to Eton. Boys are always aristocratic; hisbirth was soon thrown in his teeth; he was fierce; he struck boysbigger than himself,—fought till he was half killed. Myfather was at school with him; described him as a tiger-whelp. Oneday he—still a fag—struck a sixth-form boy. Sixth-formboys do not fight fags; they punish them. Louis Grayle was orderedto hold out his hand to the cane; he received the blow, drew forthhis schoolboy knife, and stabbed the punisher. After that, he leftEton. I don't think he was publicly expelled—too mere a childfor that honour—but he was taken or sent away; educated withgreat care under the first masters at home. When he was of age toenter the University, old Grayle was dead. Louis was sent by hisguardians to Cambridge, with acquirements far exceeding the averageof young men, and with unlimited command of money. My father was atthe same college, and described him again,—haughty,quarrelsome, reckless, handsome, aspiring, brave. Does that kind ofcreature interest you, my dears?" (appealing to the ladies).
"La!" said Miss Brabazon; "a horrid usurer's son!"
"Ay, true; the vulgar proverb says it is good to be born with asilver spoon in one's mouth: so it is when one has one's own familycrest on it; but when it is a spoon on which people recognize theirfamily crest, and cry out, 'Stolen from our plate chest,' it is aheritage that outlaws a babe in his cradle. However, young men atcollege who want money are less scrupulous about descent than boysat Eton are. Louis Grayle found, while at college, plenty ofwellborn acquaintances willing to recover from him some of theplunder his father had extorted from theirs. He was too wild todistinguish himself by academical honours, but my father said thatthe tutors of the college declared there were not sixundergraduates in the University who knew as much hard and dryscience as wild Louis Grayle. He went into the world, no doubt,hoping to shine; but his father's name was too notorious to admitthe son into good society. The Polite World, it is true, does notexamine a scutcheon with the nice eye of a herald, nor look uponriches with the stately contempt of a stoic; still the Polite Worldhas its family pride and its moral sentiment. It does not like tobe cheated,—I mean, in money matters; and when the son of aman who has emptied its purse and foreclosed on its acres rides byits club-windows, hand on haunch, and head in the air, no lion hasa scowl more awful, no hyena a laugh more dread, than that sameeasy, good-tempered, tolerant, polite, well-bred World which is sopleasant an acquaintance, so languid a friend, and—soremorseless an—enemy. In short, Louis Grayle claimed theright to be courted,—he was shunned; to be admired,—hewas loathed. Even his old college acquaintances were shamed out ofknowing him. Perhaps he could have lived through all this had hesought to glide quietly into position; but he wanted the tact ofthe well-bred, and strove to storm his way, not to steal it.Reduced for companions to needy parasites, he braved and he shockedall decorous opinion by that ostentation of excess, which madeRichelieus and Lauzuns the rage. But then Richelieus and Lauzunswere dukes! He now very naturally took the Polite World intohate,—gave it scorn for scorn. He would ally himself withDemocracy; his wealth could not get him into a club, but it wouldbuy him into parliament; he could not be a Lauzun, nor, perhaps, aMirabeau, but he might be a Danton. He had plenty of knowledge andaudacity, and with knowledge and audacity a good hater is sure tobe eloquent. Possibly, then, this poor Louis Grayle might have madea great figure, left his mark on his age and his name in history;but in contesting the borough, which he was sure to carry, he hadto face an opponent in a real fine gentleman whom his father hadruined, cool and highbred, with a tongue like a rapier, a sneerlike an adder. A quarrel of course; Louis Grayle sent a challenge.The fine gentleman, known to be no coward (fine gentlemen neverare), was at first disposed to refuse with contempt. But Grayle hadmade himself the idol of the mob; and at a word from Grayle, thefine gentleman might have been ducked at a pump, or tossed in ablanket,—that would have made him ridiculous; to be shot atis a trifle, to be laughed at is serious. He therefore condescendedto accept the challenge, and my father was his second.
"It was settled, of course, according to English custom, thatboth combatants should fire at the same time, and by signal. Theantagonist fired at the right moment; his ball grazed LouisGrayle's temple. Louis Grayle had not fired. He now seemed to theseconds to take slow and deliberate aim. They called out to him notto fire; they were rushing to prevent him, when the trigger waspulled, and his opponent fell dead on the field. The fight was,therefore, considered unfair; Louis Grayle was tried for his life:he did not stand the trial in person.(1) He escaped to theContinent; hurried on to some distant uncivilized lands; could notbe traced; reappeared in England no more. The lawyer who conductedhis defence pleaded skilfully. He argued that the delay in firingwas not intentional, therefore not criminal,—the effect ofthe stun which the wound in the temple had occasioned. The judgewas a gentleman, and summed up the evidence so as to direct thejury to a verdict against the low wretch who had murdered agentleman; but the jurors were not gentlemen, and Grayle's advocatehad of course excited their sympathy for a son of the people, whoma gentleman had wantonly insulted. The verdict was manslaughter;but the sentence emphatically marked the aggravated nature of thehomicide,—three years' imprisonment. Grayle eluded theprison, but he was a man disgraced and an exile,—his ambitionblasted, his career an outlaw's, and his age not yet twenty-three.My father said that he was supposed to have changed his name; noneknew what had become of him. And so this creature, brilliant anddaring, whom if born under better auspices we might now be allfawning on, cringing to,—after living to old age, no oneknows how,—dies murdered at Aleppo, no one, you say, knows bywhom."
"I saw some account of his death in the papers about three yearsago," said one of the party; "but the name was misspelled, and Ihad no idea that it was the same man who had fought the duel whichMrs. Colonel Poyntz has so graphically described. I have a veryvague recollection of the trial; it took place when I was a boy,more than forty years since. The affair made a stir at the time,but was soon forgotten."
"Soon forgotten," said Mrs. Poyntz; "ay, what is not? Leave yourplace in the world for ten minutes, and when you come back somebodyelse has taken it; but when you leave the world for good, whoremembers that you had ever a place even in the parishregister?"
"Nevertheless," said I, "a great poet has said, finely andtruly,
"'The sun of Homer shines upon us still.'"
"But it does not shine upon Homer; and learned folks tell methat we know no more who and what Homer was, if there was ever asingle Homer at all, or rather, a whole herd of Homers, than weknow about the man in the moon,—if there be one man there, ormillions of men. Now, my dear Miss Brabazon, it will be very kindin you to divert our thoughts into channels less gloomy. Somepretty French air—Dr. Fenwick, I have something to say toyou." She drew me towards the window. "So Annie Ashleigh writes meword that I am not to mention your engagement. Do you think itquite prudent to keep it a secret?"
"I do not see how prudence is concerned in keeping it secret oneway or the other,—it is a mere matter of feeling. Most peoplewish to abridge, as far as they can, the time in which theirprivate arrangements are the topic of public gossip."
"Public gossip is sometimes the best security for the duecompletion of private arrangements. As long as a girl is not knownto be engaged, her betrothed must be prepared for rivals. Announcethe engagement, and rivals are warned off."
"I fear no rivals."
"Do you not? Bold man! I suppose you will write to Lilian?"
"Certainly."
"Do so, and constantly. By-the-way, Mrs. Ashleigh, before shewent, asked me to send her back Lady Haughton's letter ofinvitation. What for,—to show to you?"
"Very likely. Have you the letter still? May I see it?"
"Not just at present. When Lilian or Mrs. Ashleigh writes toyou, come and tell me how they like their visit, and what otherguests form the party."
Therewith she turned away and conversed apart with thetraveller.
Her words disquieted me, and I felt that they were meant to doso, wherefore I could not guess. But there is no language on earthwhich has more words with a double meaning than that spoken by theClever Woman, who is never so guarded as when she appears to befrank.
As I walked home thoughtfully, I was accosted by a young man,the son of one of the wealthiest merchants in the town. I hadattended him with success some months before, in a rheumatic fever:he and his family were much attached to me.
"Ah, my dear Fenwick, I am so glad to see you; I owe you anobligation of which you are not aware,—an exceedinglypleasant travelling-companion. I came with him to-day from London,where I have been sight-seeing and holidaymaking for the lastfortnight."
"I suppose you mean that you kindly bring me a patient?"
"No, only an admirer. I was staying at Fenton's Hotel. It sohappened one day that I had left in the coffee-room your last workon the Vital Principle, which, by the by, the bookseller assures meis selling immensely among readers as non-professional as myself.Coming into the coffee-room again, I found a gentleman reading thebook. I claimed it politely; he as politely tendered his excuse fortaking it. We made acquaintance on the spot. The next day we wereintimate. He expressed great interest and curiosity about yourtheory and your experiments. I told him I knew you. You may guessif I described you as less clever in your practice than you are inyour writings; and, in short, he came with me to L——,partly to see our flourishing town, principally on my promise tointroduce him to you. My mother, you know, has what she calls adejeuner tomorrow,—dejeuner and dance. You will bethere?"
"Thank you for reminding me of her invitation. I will availmyself of it if I can. Your new friend will be present? Who andwhat is he,—a medical student?"
"No, a mere gentleman at ease, but seems to have a good deal ofgeneral information. Very young, apparently very rich, wonderfullygood-looking. I am sure you will like him; everybody must."
"It is quite enough to prepare me to like him that he is afriend of yours." And so we shook hands and parted.
(1) Mrs. Poyntz here makes a mistake in law which, though veryevident, her listeners do not seem to have noticed. Her mistakewill be referred to later.
It was late in the afternoon of the following day before I wasable to join the party assembled at the merchant's house; it was avilla about two miles out of the town, pleasantly situated amidstflower-gardens celebrated in the neighbourhood for their beauty.The breakfast had been long over; the company was scattered overthe lawn,—some formed into a dance on the smooth lawn; someseated under shady awnings; others gliding amidst parterres, inwhich all the glow of colour took a glory yet more vivid under theflush of a brilliant sunshine; and the ripple of a soft westernbreeze. Music, loud and lively, mingled with the laughter of happychildren, who formed much the larger number of the party.
Standing at the entrance of an arched trellis, that led from thehardier flowers of the lawn to a rare collection of tropical plantsunder a lofty glass dome (connecting, as it were, the familiarvegetation of the North with that of the remotest East), was a formthat instantaneously caught and fixed my gaze. The entrance of thearcade was covered with parasite creepers, in prodigal luxuriance,of variegated gorgeous tints,—scarlet, golden, purple; andthe form, an idealized picture of man's youth fresh from the handof Nature, stood literally in a frame of blooms.
Never have I seen human face so radiant as that young man's.There was in the aspect an indescribable something that literallydazzled. As one continued to gaze, it was with surprise; one wasforced to acknowledge that in the features themselves there was nofaultless regularity; nor was the young man's stature imposing,about the middle height. But the effect of the whole was not lesstranscendent. Large eyes, unspeakably lustrous; a most harmoniouscolouring; an expression of contagious animation and joyousness;and the form itself so critically fine, that the welded strength ofits sinews was best shown in the lightness and grace of itsmovements.
He was resting one hand carelessly on the golden locks of achild that had nestled itself against his knees, looking up to hisface in that silent loving wonder with which children regardsomething too strangely beautiful for noisy admiration; he himselfwas conversing with the host, an old gray-haired, gouty man,propped on his crutched stick, and listening with a look ofmournful envy. To the wealth of the old man all the flowers in thatgarden owed their renewed delight in the summer air and sun. Oh,that his wealth could renew to himself one hour of the youth whoseincarnation stood beside him, Lord, indeed, of Creation; itssplendour woven into his crown of beauty, its enjoyments subject tohis sceptre of hope and gladness.
I was startled by the hearty voice of the merchant's son. "Ah,my dear Fenwick, I was afraid you would not come,—you arelate. There is the new friend of whom I spoke to you last night;let me now make you acquainted with him." He drew my arm in his,and led me up to the young man, where he stood under the archingflowers, and whom he then introduced to me by the name ofMargrave.
Nothing could be more frankly cordial than Mr. Margrave'smanner. In a few minutes I found myself conversing with himfamiliarly, as if we had been reared in the same home, and sportedtogether in the same playground. His vein of talk was peculiar,off-hand, careless, shifting from topic to topic with a brightrapidity.
He said that he liked the place; proposed to stay in it someweeks; asked my address, which I gave to him; promised to call soonat an early hour, while my time was yet free from professionalvisits. I endeavoured, when I went away, to analyze to myself thefascination which this young stranger so notably exercised over allwho approached him; and it seemed to me, ever seeking to findmaterial causes for all moral effects, that it rose from thecontagious vitality of that rarest of all rare gifts inhighly-civilized circles,—perfect health; that health whichis in itself the most exquisite luxury; which, finding happiness inthe mere sense of existence, diffuses round it, like an atmosphere,the harmless hilarity of its bright animal being. Health, to theutmost perfection, is seldom known after childhood; health to theutmost cannot be enjoyed by those who overwork the brain, or admitthe sure wear and tear of the passions. The creature I had justseen gave me the notion of youth in the golden age of thepoets,—the youth of the careless Arcadian, before nymph orshepherdess had vexed his heart with a sigh.
The house I occupied at L—— was a quaint,old-fashioned building, a corner-house. One side, in which was thefront entrance, looked upon a street which, as there were no shopsin it, and it was no direct thoroughfare to the busy centres of thetown, was always quiet, and at some hours of the day almostdeserted. The other side of the house fronted a lane; opposite toit was the long and high wall of the garden to a Young Ladies'Boarding-school. My stables adjoined the house, abutting on a rowof smaller buildings, with little gardens before them, chieflyoccupied by mercantile clerks and retired tradesmen. By the lanethere was a short and ready access both to the high turnpike-road,and to some pleasant walks through green meadows and along thebanks of a river.
This house I had inhabited since my arrival at L——,and it had to me so many attractions, in a situation sufficientlycentral to be convenient for patients, and yet free from noise, andfavourable to ready outlet into the country for such foot or horseexercise as my professional avocations would allow me to carve formyself out of what the Latin poet calls the "solid day," that I hadrefused to change it for one better suited to my increased income;but it was not a house which Mrs. Ashleigh would have liked forLilian. The main objection to it in the eyes of the "genteel" was,that it had formerly belonged to a member of the healing professionwho united the shop of an apothecary to the diploma of a surgeon;but that shop had given the house a special attraction to me; forit had been built out on the side of the house which fronted thelane, occupying the greater portion of a small gravel court, fencedfrom the road by a low iron palisade, and separated from the bodyof the house itself by a short and narrow corridor thatcommunicated with the entrance-hall. This shop I turned into a rudestudy for scientific experiments, in which I generally spent someearly hours of the morning, before my visiting patients began toarrive. I enjoyed the stillness of its separation from the rest ofthe house; I enjoyed the glimpse of the great chestnut-trees, whichovertopped the wall of the school-garden; I enjoyed the ease withwhich, by opening the glazed sash-door, I could get out, ifdisposed for a short walk, into the pleasant fields; and socompletely had I made this sanctuary my own, that not only myman-servant knew that I was never to be disturbed when in it,except by the summons of a patient, but even the housemaid wasforbidden to enter it with broom or duster, except upon specialinvitation. The last thing at night, before retiring to rest, itwas the man-servant's business to see that the sash-window wasclosed, and the gate to the iron palisade locked; but during thedaytime I so often went out of the house by that private way thatthe gate was then very seldom locked, nor the sash-door bolted fromwithin. In the town of L—— there was littleapprehension of house-robberies,—especially in thedaylight,—and certainly in this room, cut off from the mainbuilding, there was nothing to attract a vulgar cupidity. A few ofthe apothecary's shelves and cases still remained on the walls,with, here and there, a bottle of some chemical preparation forexperiment; two or three worm-eaten, wooden chairs; two or threeshabby old tables; an old walnut-tree bureau without a lock, intowhich odds and ends were confusedly thrust, and sundry ugly-lookinginventions of mechanical science, were, assuredly, not the articleswhich a timid proprietor would guard with jealous care from thechances of robbery. It will be seen later why I have been thusprolix in description. The morning after I had met the youngstranger by whom I had been so favourably impressed, I was up asusual, a little before the sun, and long before any of my servantswere astir. I went first into the room I have mentioned, and whichI shall henceforth designate as my study, opened the window,unlocked the gate, and sauntered for some minutes up and down thesilent lane skirting the opposite wall, and overhung by thechestnut-trees rich in the garniture of a glorious summer; then,refreshed for work, I re-entered my study, and was soon absorbed inthe examination of that now well-known machine, which was then, tome at least, a novelty,—invented, if I remember right, byDubois-Reymond, so distinguished by his researches into themysteries of organic electricity. It is a wooden cylinder fixedagainst the edge of a table; on the table two vessels filled withsalt and water are so placed that, as you close your hands on thecylinder, the forefinger of each hand can drop into the water; eachof the vessels has a metallic plate, and communicates by wires witha galvanometer with its needle. Now the theory is, that if youclutch the cylinder firmly with the right hand, leaving the leftperfectly passive, the needle in the galvanometer will move fromwest to south; if, in like manner, you exert the left arm, leavingthe right arm passive, the needle will deflect from west to north.Hence, it is argued that the electric current is induced throughthe agency of the nervous system, and that, as human Will producesthe muscular contraction requisite, so is it human Will that causesthe deflection of the needle. I imagine that if this theory weresubstantiated by experiment, the discovery might lead to somesublime and unconjectured secrets of science. For human Will, thusactively effective on the electric current, and all matter, animateor inanimate, having more or less of electricity, a vast fieldbecame opened to conjecture. By what series of patient experimentaldeduction might not science arrive at the solution of problemswhich the Newtonian law of gravitation does not suffice to solve;and—But here I halt. At the date which my story has reached,my mind never lost itself long in the Cloudland of Guess.
I was dissatisfied with my experiment. The needle stirred,indeed, but erratically, and not in directions which, according tothe theory, should correspond to my movement. I was about todismiss the trial with some uncharitable contempt of the foreignphilosopher's dogmas, when I heard a loud ring at my street-door.While I paused to conjecture whether my servant was yet up toattend to the door, and which of my patients was the most likely tosummon me at so unseasonable an hour, a shadow darkened my window.I looked up, and to my astonishment beheld the brilliant face ofMr. Margrave. The sash to the door was already partially opened; heraised it higher, and walked into the room. "Was it you who rang atthe street-door, and at this hour?" said I.
"Yes; and observing, after I had rung, that all the shutterswere still closed, I felt ashamed of my own rash action, and madeoff rather than brave the reproachful face of some injuredhousemaid, robbed of her morning dreams. I turned down that prettylane,—lured by the green of the chestnut-trees,—caughtsight of you through the window, took courage, and here I am! Youforgive me?" While thus speaking, he continued to move along thelittered floor of the dingy room, with the undulating restlessnessof some wild animal in the confines of its den, and he now went on,in short fragmentary sentences, very slightly linked together, butsmoothed, as it were, into harmony by a voice musical and fresh asa sky lark's warble. "Morning dreams, indeed! dreams that waste thelife of such a morning. Rosy magnificence of a summer dawn! Do younot pity the fool who prefers to lie a bed, and to dream ratherthan to live? What! and you, strong man, with those noble limbs, inthis den! Do you not long for a rush through the green of thefields, a bath in the blue of the river?"
Here he came to a pause, standing, still in the gray light ofthe growing day, with eyes whose joyous lustre forestalled thesun's, and lips which seemed to laugh even in repose.
But presently those eyes, as quick as they were bright, glancedover the walls, the floor, the shelves, the phials, the mechanicalinventions, and then rested full on my cylinder fixed to the table.He approached, examined it curiously, asked what it was. Iexplained. To gratify him I sat down and renewed my experiment,with equally ill success. The needle, which should have moved fromwest to south, describing an angle of from thirty degrees to fortyor even fifty degrees, only made a few troubled, undecidedoscillations.
"Tut," cried the young man, "I see what it is; you have a woundin your right hand."
That was true; I had burned my band a few days before in achemical experiment, and the sore had not healed.
"Well," said I, "and what does that matter?"
"Everything; the least scratch in the skin of the hand produceschemical actions on the electric current, independently of yourwill. Let me try."
He took my place, and in a moment the needle in the galvanometerresponded to his grasp on the cylinder, exactly as the inventivephilosopher had stated to be the due result of the experiment.
I was startled.
"But how came you, Mr. Margrave, to be so well acquainted with ascientific process little known, and but recently discovered?"
"I well acquainted! not so. But I am fond of all experimentsthat relate to animal life. Electricity, especially, is full ofinterest."
On that I drew him out (as I thought), and he talked volubly. Iwas amazed to find this young man, in whose brain I had conceivedthought kept one careless holiday, was evidently familiar with thephysical sciences, and especially with chemistry, which was my ownstudy by predilection. But never had I met with a student in whom aknowledge so extensive was mixed up with notions so obsolete or socrotchety. In one sentence he showed that he had mastered some latediscovery by Faraday or Liebig; in the next sentence he was talkingthe wild fallacies of Cardan or Van Helmont. I burst out laughingat some paradox about sympathetic powders, which he enounced as ifit were a recognized truth.
"Pray tell me," said I, "who was your master in physics; for acleverer pupil never had a more crack-brained teacher."
"No," he answered, with his merry laugh, "it is not theteacher's fault. I am a mere parrot; just cry out a few scraps oflearning picked up here and there. But, however, I am fond of allresearches into Nature; all guesses at her riddles. To tell you thetruth, one reason why I have taken to you so heartily is not onlythat your published work caught my fancy in the dip which I tookinto its contents (pardon me if I say dip, I never do more than dipinto any book), but also because young —— tells me thatwhich all whom I have met in this town confirm; namely, that youare one of those few practical chemists who are at once exceedinglycautious and exceedingly bold,—willing to try every newexperiment, but submitting experiment to rigid tests. Well, I havean experiment running wild in this giddy head of mine, and I wantyou, some day when at leisure, to catch it, fix it as you havefixed that cylinder, make something of it. I am sure you can."
"What is it?"
"Something akin to the theories in your work. You wouldreplenish or preserve to each special constitution the specialsubstance that may fail to the equilibrium of its health. But youown that in a large proportion of cases the best cure of disease isless to deal with the disease itself than to support and stimulatethe whole system, so as to enable Nature to cure the disease andrestore the impaired equilibrium by her own agencies. Thus, if youfind that in certain cases of nervous debility a substance likenitric acid is efficacious, it is because the nitric acid has avirtue in locking up, as it were, the nervous energy,—thatis, preventing all undue waste. Again, in some cases of what iscommonly called feverish cold, stimulants like ammonia assistNature itself to get rid of the disorder that oppresses its normalaction; and, on the same principle, I apprehend, it is contendedthat a large average of human lives is saved in those hospitalswhich have adopted the supporting system of ample nourishment andalcoholic stimulants."
"Your medical learning surprises me," said I, smiling; "andwithout pausing to notice where it deals somewhat superficiallywith disputable points in general, and my own theory in particular,I ask you for the deduction you draw from your premises."
"It is simply this: that to all animate bodies, however various,there must be one principle in common,—the vital principleitself. What if there be one certain means of recruiting thatprinciple; and what if that secret can be discovered?"
"Pshaw! The old illusion of the mediaeval empirics."
"Not so. But the mediaeval empirics were great discoverers. Yousneer at Van Helmont, who sought, in water, the principle of allthings; but Van Helmont discovered in his search those invisiblebodies called gases. Now the principle of life must be certainlyascribed to a gas.(1) And what ever is a gas chemistry should notdespair of producing! But I can argue no longer now,—nevercan argue long at a stretch; we are wasting the morning; and, joy!the sun is up! See! Out! come out! out! and greet the greatLifegiver face to face."
I could not resist the young man's invitation. In a few minuteswe were in the quiet lane under the glinting chestnut-trees.Margrave was chanting, low, a wild tune,—words in a strangelanguage.
"What words are those,—no European language, I think; forI know a little of most of the languages which are spoken in ourquarter of the globe, at least by its more civilized races."
"Civilized race! What is civilization? Those words were utteredby men who founded empires when Europe itself was not civilized!Hush, is it not a grand old air?" and lifting his eyes towards thesun, he gave vent to a voice clear and deep as a mighty bell! Theair was grand; the words had a sonorous swell that suited it, andthey seemed to me jubilant and yet solemn. He stopped abruptly as apath from the lane had led us into the fields, already half-bathedin sunlight, dews glittering on the hedgerows.
"Your song," said I, "would go well with the clash of cymbals orthe peal of the organ. I am no judge of melody, but this strikes meas that of a religious hymn."
"I compliment you on the guess. It is a Persianfire-worshipper's hymn to the sun. The dialect is very differentfrom modern Persian. Cyrus the Great might have chanted it on hismarch upon Babylon."
"And where did you learn it?"
"In Persia itself."
"You have travelled much, learned much,—and are so youngand so fresh. Is it an impertinent question if I ask whether yourparents are yet living, or are you wholly lord of yourself?"
"Thank you for the question,—pray make my answer known inthe town. Parents I have not,—never had."
"Never had parents!"
"Well, I ought rather to say that no parents ever owned me. I ama natural son, a vagabond, a nobody. When I came of age I receivedan anonymous letter, informing me that a sum—I need not saywhat, but more than enough for all I need—was lodged at anEnglish banker's in my name; that my mother had died in my infancy;that my father was also dead—but recently; that as I was achild of love, and he was unwilling that the secret of my birthshould ever be traced, he had provided for me, not by will, but inhis life, by a sum consigned to the trust of the friend who nowwrote to me; I need give myself no trouble to learn more. Faith, Inever did! I am young, healthy, rich,—yes, rich! Now you knowall, and you had better tell it, that I may win no man's courtesyand no maiden's love upon false pretences. I have not even a right,you see, to the name I bear. Hist! let me catch that squirrel."
With what a panther-like bound he sprang! The squirrel eludedhis grasp, and was up the oak-tree; in a moment he was up theoak-tree too. In amazement I saw him rising from bough to bough;saw his bright eyes and glittering teeth through the green leaves.Presently I heard the sharp piteous cry of the squirrel, echoed bythe youth's merry laugh; and down, through that maze of green,Hargrave came, dropping on the grass and bounding up, as Mercurymight have bounded with his wings at his heels.
"I have caught him. What pretty brown eyes!"
Suddenly the gay expression of his face changed to that of asavage; the squirrel had wrenched itself half-loose, and bittenhim. The poor brute! In an instant its neck was wrung, its bodydashed on the ground; and that fair young creature, every featurequivering with rage, was stamping his foot on his victim again andagain! It was horrible. I caught him by the arm indignantly. Heturned round on me like a wild beast disturbed from itsprey,—his teeth set, his hand lifted, his eyes like balls offire.
"Shame!" said I, calmly; "shame on you!"
He continued to gaze on me a moment or so, his eye glaring, hisbreath panting; and then, as if mastering himself with aninvoluntary effort, his arm dropped to his side, and he said quitehumbly, "I beg your pardon; indeed I do. I was beside myself for amoment; I cannot bear pain;" and he looked in deep compassion forhimself at his wounded hand. "Venomous brute!" And he stamped againon the body of the squirrel, already crushed out of shape.
I moved away in disgust, and walked on.
But presently I felt my arm softly drawn aside, and a voice,dulcet as the coo of a dove, stole its way into my ears. There wasno resisting the charm with which this extraordinary mortal couldfascinate even the hard and the cold; nor them, perhaps, the least.For as you see in extreme old age, when the heart seems to haveshrunk into itself, and to leave but meagre and nipped affectionsfor the nearest relations if grown up, the indurated egotismsoftens at once towards a playful child; or as you see in middlelife, some misanthrope, whose nature has been soured by wrong andsorrow, shrink from his own species, yet make friends with inferiorraces, and respond to the caress of a dog,—so, for theworldling or the cynic, there was an attraction in the freshness ofthis joyous favourite of Nature,—an attraction like that of abeautiful child, spoilt and wayward, or of a graceful animal, halfdocile, half fierce.
"But," said I, with a smile, as I felt all displeasure gone,"such indulgence of passion for such a trifle is surely unworthy astudent of philosophy!"
"Trifle," he said dolorously. "But I tell you it is pain; painis no trifle. I suffer. Look!"
I looked at the hand, which I took in mine. The bite no doubthad been sharp; but the hand that lay in my own was that which theGreek sculptor gives to a gladiator; not large (the extremities arenever large in persons whose strength comes from the justproportion of all the members, rather than the factitious andpartial force which continued muscular exertion will give to onepart of the frame, to the comparative weakening of the rest), butwith the firm-knit joints, the solid fingers, the finished nails,the massive palm, the supple polished skin, in which we recognizewhat Nature designs the human hand to be,—the skilled, swift,mighty doer of all those marvels which win Nature herself from thewilderness.
"It is strange," said I, thoughtfully; "but your susceptibilityto suffering confirms my opinion, which is different from thepopular belief,—namely, that pain is most acutely felt bythose in whom the animal organization being perfect, and the senseof vitality exquisitely keen, every injury or lesion finds thewhole system rise, as it were, to repel the mischief andcommunicate the consciousness of it to all those nerves which arethe sentinels to the garrison of life. Yet my theory is scarcelyborne out by general fact. The Indian savages must have a health asperfect as yours; a nervous system as fine,—witness theirmarvellous accuracy of ear, of eye, of scent, probably also oftouch; yet they are indifferent to physical pain; or must I mortifyyour pride by saying that they have some moral quality defective inyou which enables them to rise superior to it?"
"The Indian savages," said Margrave, sullenly, "have not ahealth as perfect as mine, and in what you call vitality—theblissful consciousness of life—they are as sticks and stonescompared to me."
"How do you know?"
"Because I have lived with them. It is a fallacy to suppose thatthe savage has a health superior to that of the civilizedman,—if the civilized man be but temperate; and even if not,he has the stamina that can resist for years the effect of excesseswhich would destroy the savage in a month. As to the savage's fineperceptions of sense, such do not come from exquisite equilibriumof system, but are hereditary attributes transmitted from race torace, and strengthened by training from infancy. But is a pointerstronger and healthier than a mastiff, because the pointer throughlong descent and early teaching creeps stealthily to his game andstands to it motionless? I will talk of this later; now I suffer!Pain, pain! Has life any ill but pain?"
It so happened that I had about me some roots of the white lily,which I meant, before returning home, to leave with a patientsuffering from one of those acute local inflammations, in whichthat simple remedy often affords great relief. I cut up one ofthese roots, and bound the cooling leaves to the wounded hand withmy handkerchief.
"There," said I. "Fortunately if you feel pain more sensiblythan others, you will recover from it more quickly." And in a fewminutes my companion felt perfectly relieved, and poured out hisgratitude with an extravagance of expression and a beaming delightof countenance which positively touched me.
"I almost feel," said I, "as I do when I have stilled aninfant's wailing, and restored it smiling to its mother'sbreast."
"You have done so. I am an infant, and Nature is my mother. Oh,to be restored to the full joy of life, the scent of wild flowers,the song of birds, and this air—summer air—summerair!"
I know not why it was, but at that moment, looking at him andhearing him, I rejoiced that Lilian was not at L——."But I came out to bathe. Can we not bathe in that stream?"
"No. You would derange the bandage round your hand; and for allbodily ills, from the least to the gravest, there is nothing likeleaving Nature at rest the moment we have hit on the means whichassist her own efforts at cure."
"I obey, then; but I so love the water."
"You swim, of course?"
"Ask the fish if it swim. Ask the fish if it can escape me! Idelight to dive down—down; to plunge after the startledtrout, as an otter does; and then to get amongst those cool,fragrant reeds and bulrushes, or that forest of emerald weed whichone sometimes finds waving under clear rivers. Man! man! could youlive but an hour of my life you would know how horrible a thing itis to die!"
"Yet the dying do not think so; they pass away calm and smiling,as you will one day."
"I—I! die one day—die!" and he sank on the grass,and buried his face amongst the herbage, sobbing aloud.
Before I could get through half a dozen words I meant to soothe,he had once more bounded up, dashed the tears from his eyes, andwas again singing some wild, barbaric chant. Abstracting itselffrom the appeal to its outward sense by melodies of which thelanguage was unknown, my mind soon grew absorbed in meditativeconjectures on the singular nature, so wayward, so impulsive, whichhad forced intimacy on a man grave and practical as myself.
I was puzzled how to reconcile so passionate a childishness, soundisciplined a want of self-control, with an experience of mankindso extended by travel, with an education desultory and irregularindeed, but which must, at some time or other, have beenfamiliarized to severe reasonings and laborious studies. InMargrave there seemed to be wanting that mysterious something whichis needed to keep our faculties, however severally brilliant,harmoniously linked together,—as the string by which a childmechanically binds the wildflowers it gathers, shaping them atchoice into the garland or the chain.
(1) "According to the views we have mentioned, we must ascribelife to a gas, that is, to an aeriform body."—Liebig:"Organic Chemistry," Mayfair's translation, p.363.—It isperhaps not less superfluous to add that Liebig does not supportthe views "according to which life must be ascribed to a gas," thanit would be to state, had Dugald Stewart been quoted as writing,"According to the views we have mentioned the mind is but a bundleof impressions," that Dugald Stewart was not supporting, butopposing, the views of David Hume. The quotation is merely meant toshow, in the shortest possible compass, that there are viewsentertained by speculative reasoners of our day which, according toLiebig, would lead to the inference at which Margrave so boldlyarrives. Margrave is, however, no doubt, led to his belief by hisreminiscences of Van Helmont, to whose discovery of gas he isreferring. Van Helmont plainly affirms "that the arterial spirit ofour life is of the nature of a gas;" and in the same chapter (onthe fiction of elementary complexions and mixtures) says, "Seeingthat the spirit of our life, since it is a gas, is most mightilyand swiftly affected by any other gas," etc. He repeats the samedogma in his treatise on "Long Life," and indeed very generallythroughout his writings, observing, in his chapter on the VitalAir, that the spirit of life is a salt, sharp vapour, made of thearterial blood, etc. Liebig, therefore, in confuting some modernnotions as to the nature of contagion by miasma, is leading theirreasonings back to that assumption in the Brawn of physiologicalscience by which the discoverer of gas exalted into the principleof life the substance to which he first gave the name, now sofamiliarly known. It is nevertheless just to Van Helmont to addthat his conception of the vital principle was very far from beingas purely materialistic as it would seem to those unacquainted withhis writings; for he carefully distinguishes that principle of lifewhich he ascribes to a gas, and by which he means the sensuousanimal life, from the intellectual immortal principle of soul. VanHelmont, indeed, was a sincere believer of Divine Revelation. "TheLord Jesus is the way, the truth, and the life," says with earnesthumility this daring genius, in that noble chapter "On thecompleting of the mind by the 'prayer of silence,' and the lovingoffering tip of the heart, soul, and strength to the obedience ofthe Divine will," from which some of the most eloquent of recentphilosophers, arguing against materialism, have borrowed largely insupport and in ornament of their lofty cause.
My intercourse with Margrave grew habitual and familiar. He cameto my house every morning before sunrise; in the evenings we wereagain brought together: sometimes in the houses to which we wereboth invited, sometimes at his hotel, sometimes in my own home.
Nothing more perplexed me than his aspect of extremeyouthfulness, contrasted with the extent of the travels, which, ifhe were to be believed, had left little of the known worldunexplored. One day I asked him bluntly how old he was.
"How old do I look? How old should you suppose me to be?"
"I should have guessed you to be about twenty, till you spoke ofhaving come of age some years ago."
"Is it a sign of longevity when a man looks much younger than heis?"
"Conjoined with other signs, certainly!"
"Have I the other signs?"
"Yes, a magnificent, perhaps a matchless, constitutionalorganization. But you have evaded my question as to your age; wasit an impertinence to put it?"
"No. I came of age—let me see—three years ago."
"So long since? Is it possible? I wish I had your secret!"
"Secret! What secret?"
"The secret of preserving so much of boyish freshness in thewear and tear of man-like passions and man-like thoughts."
"You are still young yourself,—under forty?"
"Oh, yes! some years under forty."
"And Nature gave you a grander frame and a finer symmetry offeature than she bestowed on me."
"Pooh! pooh! You have the beauty that must charm the eyes ofwoman, and that beauty in its sunny forenoon of youth. Happy man!if you love and wish to be sure that you are loved again."
"What you call love—the unhealthy sentiment, the feverishfolly—left behind me, I think forever, when—"
"Ay, indeed,—when?"
"I came of age!"
"Hoary cynic! and you despise love! So did I once. Your time maycome."
"I think not. Does any animal, except man, love its fellowshe-animal as man loves woman?"
"As man loves woman? No, I suppose not."
"And why should the subject animals be wiser than their king?But to return: you would like to have my youth and my carelessenjoyment of youth?"
"Can you ask,—who would not?" Margrave looked at me for amoment with unusual seriousness, and then, in the abrupt changescommon to his capricious temperament, began to sing softly one ofhis barbaric chants,—a chant different from any I had heardhim sing before, made, either by the modulation of his voice or thenature of the tune, so sweet that, little as music generallyaffected me, this thrilled to my very heart's core. I drew closerand closer to him, and murmured when he paused,—
"Is not that a love-song?"
"No;" said he, "it is the song by which the serpent-charmercharms the serpent."
Increased intimacy with my new acquaintance did not diminish thecharm of his society, though it brought to light some startlingdefects, both in his mental and moral organization. I have beforesaid that his knowledge, though it had swept over a wide circuitand dipped into curious, unfrequented recesses, was desultory anderratic. It certainly was not that knowledge, sustained andaspiring, which the poet assures us is "the wing on which we mountto heaven." So, in his faculties themselves there were singularinequalities, or contradictions. His power of memory in some thingsseemed prodigious, but when examined it was seldom accurate; itcould apprehend, but did not hold together with a binding graspwhat metaphysicians call "complex ideas." He thus seemed unable toput it to any steadfast purpose in the sciences of which itretained, vaguely and loosely, many recondite principles. For thesublime and beautiful in literature he had no taste whatever. Apassionate lover of nature, his imagination had no response to thearts by which nature is expressed or idealized; wholly unaffectedby poetry or painting. Of the fine arts, music alone attracted andpleased him. His conversation was often eminently suggestive,touching on much, whether in books or mankind, that set onethinking; but I never remember him to have uttered any of thoselofty or tender sentiments which form the connecting links betweenyouth and genius; for if poets sing to the young, and the younghail their own interpreters in poets, it is because the tendency ofboth is to idealize the realities of life,—finding everywherein the real a something that is noble or fair, and making the fairyet fairer, and the noble nobler still.
In Margrave's character there seemed no special vices, nospecial virtues; but a wonderful vivacity, joyousness, animalgood-humour. He was singularly temperate, having a dislike to wine,perhaps from that purity of taste which belongs to healthabsolutely perfect. No healthful child likes alcohol; no animal,except man, prefers wine to water.
But his main moral defect seemed to me in a want of sympathy,even where he professed attachment. He who could feel so acutelyfor himself, be unmanned by the bite of a squirrel, and sob at thethought that he should one day die, was as callous to thesufferings of another as a deer who deserts and butts from him awounded comrade.
I give an instance of this hardness of heart where I should haveleast expected to find it in him.
He had met and joined me as I was walking to visit a patient onthe outskirts of the town, when we fell in with a group ofchildren, just let loose for an hour or two from their day-school.Some of these children joyously recognized him as having playedwith them at their homes; they ran up to him, and he seemed as gladas themselves at the meeting.
He suffered them to drag him along with them, and became asmerry and sportive as the youngest of the troop.
"Well," said I, laughing, "if you are going to play atleap-frog, pray don't let it be on the high road, or you will berun over by carts and draymen; see that meadow just in front to theleft,—off with you there!"
"With all my heart," cried Margrave, "while you pay your visit.Come along, boys."
A little urchin, not above six years old, but who was lame,began to cry; he could not run,—he should be left behind.
Margrave stooped. "Climb on my shoulder, little one, and I'll beyour horse."
The child dried its tears, and delightedly obeyed. "Certainly,"said I to myself, "Margrave, after all, must have a nature asgentle as it is simple. What other young man, so courted by all theallurements that steal innocence from pleasure, would stop in thethoroughfares to play with children?"
The thought had scarcely passed through my mind when I heard ascream of agony. Margrave had leaped the railing that divided themeadow from the road, and, in so doing, the poor child, perched onhis shoulder, had, perhaps from surprise or fright, loosened itshold and fallen heavily; its cries were piteous. Margrave clappedhis hands to his ears, uttered an exclamation of anger, and noteven stopping to lift up the boy, or examine what the hurt was,called to the other children to come on, and was soon rolling withthem on the grass, and pelting them with daisies. When I came up,only one child remained by the sufferer,-his little brother, a yearolder than himself. The child had fallen on his arm, which was notbroken, but violently contused. The pain must have been intense. Icarried the child to his home, and had to remain there some time. Idid not see Margrave till the next morning. When he then called, Ifelt so indignant that I could scarcely speak to him. When at lastI rebuked him for his inhumanity, he seemed surprised; withdifficulty remembered the circumstance, and then merely said, as ifit were the most natural confession in the world,
"Oh, nothing so discordant as a child's wail. I hate discords. Iam pleased with the company of children; but they must be childrenwho laugh and play. Well, why do you look at me so sternly? Whathave I said to shock you?"
"Shock me! you shock manhood itself! Go; I cannot talk to younow. I am busy."
But he did not go; and his voice was so sweet, and his ways sowinning, that disgust insensibly melted into that sort offorgiveness one accords (let me repeat the illustration) to thedeer that forsakes its comrade. The poor thing knows no better. Andwhat a graceful beautiful thing this was!
The fascination—I can give it no other name—whichMargrave exercised, was not confined to me; it wasuniversal,—old, young, high, low, man, woman, child, all feltit. Never in Low Town had stranger, even the most distinguished byfame, met with a reception so cordial, so flattering. His frankconfession that he was a natural son, far from being to his injury,served to interest people more in him, and to prevent all thoseinquiries in regard to his connections and antecedents which wouldotherwise have been afloat. To be sure, he was evidentlyrich,—at least he had plenty of money. He lived in the bestrooms in the principal hotel; was very hospitable; entertained thefamilies with whom he had grown intimate; made them bring theirchildren,—music and dancing after dinner. Among the houses inwhich he had established familiar acquaintance was that of themayor of the town, who had bought Dr. Lloyd's collection ofsubjects in natural history. To that collection the mayor had addedlargely by a very recent purchase. He had arranged these variousspecimens, which his last acquisitions had enriched by theinteresting carcasses of an elephant and a hippopotamus, in a largewooden building contiguous to his dwelling, which had beenconstructed by a former proprietor (a retired fox-hunter) as ariding-house; and being a man who much affected the diffusion ofknowledge, he proposed to open this museum to the admiration of thegeneral public, and, at his death, to bequeath it to the Athenaeumor Literary Institute of his native town. Margrave, seconded by theinfluence of the mayor's daughters, had scarcely been three days atL—— before he had persuaded this excellent andpublic-spirited functionary to inaugurate the opening of his museumby the popular ceremony of a ball. A temporary corridor shouldunite the drawing-rooms, which were on the ground floor, with thebuilding that contained the collection; and thus the fete would beelevated above the frivolous character of a fashionable amusement,and consecrated to the solemnization of an intellectual institute.Dazzled by the brilliancy of this idea, the mayor announced hisintention to give a ball that should include the surroundingneighbourhood, and be worthy, in all expensive respects, of thedignity of himself and the occasion. A night had been fixed for theball,—a night that became memorable indeed to me! Theentertainment was anticipated with a lively interest, in which eventhe Hill condescended to share. The Hill did not much patronizemayors in general; but when a Mayor gave a ball for a purpose sopatriotic, and on a scale so splendid, the Hill liberallyacknowledged that Commerce was, on the whole, a thing which theEminence might, now and then, condescend to acknowledge withoutabsolutely derogating from the rank which Providence had assignedto it amongst the High Places of earth. Accordingly, the Hill waspermitted by its Queen to honour the first magistrate of Low Townby a promise to attend his ball. Now, as this festivity hadoriginated in the suggestion of Margrave, so, by a naturalassociation of ideas, every one, in talking of the ball, talkedalso of Margrave.
The Hill had at first affected to ignore a stranger whose debuthad been made in the mercantile circle of Low Town. But the Queenof the Hill now said, sententiously, "This new man in a few dayshas become a Celebrity. It is the policy of the Hill to adoptCelebrities, if the Celebrities pay respect to the Proprieties. Dr.Fenwick is requested to procure Mr. Margrave the advantage of beingknown to the Hill."
I found it somewhat difficult to persuade Margrave to accept theHill's condescending overture. He seemed to have a dislike to allsocieties pretending to aristocratic distinction,—a dislikeexpressed with a fierceness so unwonted, that it made one supposehe had, at some time or other, been subjected to mortification bythe supercilious airs that blow upon heights so elevated. However,he yielded to my instances, and accompanied me one evening to Mrs.Poyntz's house. The Hill was encamped there for the occasion. Mrs.Poyntz was exceedingly civil to him, and after a few commonplacespeeches, hearing that he was fond of music, consigned him to thecaressing care of Miss Brabazon, who was at the head of the musicaldepartment in the Queen of the Hill's administration.
Mrs. Poyntz retired to her favourite seat near the window,inviting me to sit beside her; and while she knitted in silence, insilence my eye glanced towards Margrave, in the midst of the groupassembled round the piano.
Whether he was in more than usually high spirits, or whether hewas actuated by a malign and impish desire to upset the establishedlaws of decorum by which the gayeties of the Hill were habituallysubdued into a serene and somewhat pensive pleasantness, I knownot; but it was not many minutes before the orderly aspect of theplace was grotesquely changed.
Miss Brabazon having come to the close of a complicated anddreary sonata, I heard Margrave abruptly ask her if she could playthe Tarantella, that famous Neapolitan air which is founded on thelegendary belief that the bite of the tarantula excites anirresistible desire to dance. On that highbred spinster'sconfession that she was ignorant of the air, and had not even heardof the legend, Margrave said, "Let me play it to you, withvariations of my own." Miss Brabazon graciously yielded her placeat the instrument. Margrave seated himself,—there was greatcuriosity to hear his performance. Margrave's fingers rushed overthe keys, and there was a general start, the prelude was so unlikeany known combination of harmonious sounds. Then he began achant—song I can scarcely call it—words certainly notin Italian, perhaps in some uncivilized tongue, perhaps inimpromptu gibberish. And the torture of the instrument nowcommenced in good earnest: it shrieked, it groaned, wilder andnoisier. Beethoven's Storm, roused by the fell touch of a Germanpianist, were mild in comparison; and the mighty voice, dominatingthe anguish of the cracking keys, had the full diapason of achorus. Certainly I am no judge of music, but to my ear the discordwas terrific,—to the ears of better informed amateurs itseemed ravishing. All were spellbound; even Mrs. Poyntz paused fromher knitting, as the Fates paused from their web at the lyre ofOrpheus. To this breathless delight, however, soon succeeded ageneral desire for movement. To my amazement, I beheld these formalmatrons and sober fathers of families forming themselves into adance, turbulent as a children's ball at Christmas; and when,suddenly desisting from his music, Margrave started up, caught theskeleton hand of lean Miss Brabazon, and whirled her into thecentre of the dance, I could have fancied myself at a witch'ssabbat. My eye turned in scandalized alarm towards Mrs. Poyntz.That great creature seemed as much astounded as myself. Her eyeswere fixed on the scene in a stare of positive stupor. For thefirst time, no doubt, in her life, she was overcome, deposed,dethroned. The awe of her presence was literally whirled away. Thedance ceased as suddenly as it had begun. Darting from thegalvanized mummy whom he had selected as his partner, Margrave shotto Mrs. Poyntz's side, and said, "Ten thousand pardons for quittingyou so soon, but the clock warns me that I have an engagementelsewhere." In another moment he was gone.
The dance halted, people seemed slowly returning to theirsenses, looking at each other bashfully and ashamed.
"I could not help it, dear," sighed Miss Brabazon at last,sinking into a chair, and casting her deprecating, fainting eyesupon the hostess.
"It is witchcraft," said fat Mrs. Bruce, wiping herforehead.
"Witchcraft!" echoed Mrs. Poyntz; "it does indeed look like it.An amazing and portentous exhibition of animal spirits, and not tobe endured by the Proprieties. Where on earth can that young savagehave come from?"
"From savage lands," said I,—"so he says."
"Do not bring him here again," said Mrs. Poyntz. "He would soonturn the Hill topsy-turvy. But how charming! I should like to seemore of him," she added, in an under voice, "if he would call on mesome morning, and not in the presence of those for whoseProprieties I am responsible. Jane must be out in her ride with thecolonel."
Margrave never again attended the patrician festivities of theHill. Invitations were poured upon him, especially by Miss Brabazonand the other old maids, but in vain.
"Those people," said he, "are too tamed and civilized for me;and so few young persons among them. Even that girl Jane is onlyyoung on the surface; inside, as old as the World or her mother. Ilike youth, real youth,—I am young, I am young!"
And, indeed, I observed he would attach himself to some youngperson, often to some child, as if with cordial and special favour,yet for not more than an hour or so, never distinguishing them bythe same preference when he next met them. I made that remark tohim, in rebuke of his fickleness, one evening when he had found meat work on my Ambitious Book, reducing to rule and measure the Lawsof Nature.
"It is not fickleness," said he,—"it is necessity."
"Necessity! Explain yourself."
"I seek to find what I have not found," said he; "it is mynecessity to seek it, and among the young; and disappointed in one,I turn to the other. Necessity again. But find it at last Imust."
"I suppose you mean what the young usually seek in the young;and if, as you said the other day, you have left love behind you,you now wander back to re-find it."
"Tush! If I may judge by the talk of young fools, love may befound every day by him who looks out for it. What I seek is amongthe rarest of all discoveries. You might aid me to find it, and inso doing aid yourself to a knowledge far beyond all that yourformal experiments can bestow."
"Prove your words, and command my services," said I, smilingsomewhat disdainfully.
"You told me that you had examined into the alleged phenomena ofanimal magnetism, and proved some persons who pretend to the giftwhich the Scotch call second sight to be bungling impostors. Youwere right. I have seen the clairvoyants who drive their trade inthis town; a common gipsy could beat them in their own calling. Butyour experience must have shown you that there are certaintemperaments in which the gift of the Pythoness is stored, unknownto the possessor, undetected by the common observer; but the signsof which should be as apparent to the modern physiologist, as theywere to the ancient priest."
"I at least, as a physiologist, am ignorant of the signs: whatare they?"
"I should despair of making you comprehend them by mere verbaldescription. I could guide your observation to distinguish themunerringly were living subjects before us. But not one in a millionhas the gift to an extent available for the purposes to which thewise would apply it. Many have imperfect glimpses; few, few indeed,the unveiled, lucent sight. They who have but the imperfectglimpses mislead and dupe the minds that consult them, because,being sometimes marvellously right, they excite a credulous beliefin their general accuracy; and as they are but translators ofdreams in their own brain, their assurances are no more to betrusted than are the dreams of commonplace sleepers. But where thegift exists to perfection, he who knows how to direct and to profitby it should be able to discover all that he desires to know forthe guidance and preservation of his own life. He will beforewarned of every danger, forearmed in the means by which dangeris avoided. For the eye of the true Pythoness matter has noobstruction, space no confines, time no measurement."
"My dear Margrave, you may well say that creatures so gifted arerare; and, for my part, I would as soon search for a unicorn, as,to use your affected expression, for a Pythoness."
"Nevertheless, whenever there come across the course of yourpractice some young creature to whom all the evil of the world isas yet unknown, to whom the ordinary cares and duties of the worldare strange and unwelcome; who from the earliest dawn of reason hasloved to sit apart and to muse; before whose eyes visions passunsolicited; who converses with those who are not dwellers on theearth, and beholds in the space landscapes which the earth does notreflect—"
"Margrave, Margrave! of whom do you speak?"
"Whose frame, though exquisitely sensitive, has still a healthand a soundness in which you recognize no disease; whose mind has atruthfulness that you know cannot deceive you, and a simpleintelligence too clear to deceive itself; who is moved to amysterious degree by all the varying aspects of externalnature,—innocently joyous, or unaccountably sad,—when,I say, such a being comes across your experience, inform me; andthe chances are that the true Pythoness is found."
I had listened with vague terror, and with more than oneexclamation of amazement, to descriptions which brought LilianAshleigh before me; and I now sat mute, bewildered, breathless,gazing upon Margrave, and rejoicing that, at least, Lilian he hadnever seen.
He returned my own gaze steadily, searchingly, and then,breaking into a slight laugh, resumed:—
"You call my word 'Pythoness' affected. I know of no better. Myrecollections of classic anecdote and history are confused and dim;but somewhere I have read or heard that the priests of Delphi wereaccustomed to travel chiefly into Thrace or Thessaly, in search ofthe virgins who might fitly administer their oracles, and that theoracles gradually ceased in repute as the priests became unable todiscover the organization requisite in the priestesses, andsupplied by craft and imposture, or by such imperfect fragmentarydevelopments as belong now to professional clairvoyants, the giftswhich Nature failed to afford. Indeed, the demand was one that masthave rapidly exhausted so limited a supply. The constant strainupon faculties so wearying to the vital functions in theirrelentless exercise, under the artful stimulants by which thepriests heightened their power, was mortal, and no Pythoness everretained her life more than three years from the time that her giftwas elaborately trained and developed."
"Pooh! I know of no classical authority for the details you soconfidently cite. Perhaps some such legends may be found in theAlexandrian Platonists, but those mystics are no authority on sucha subject. After all;" I added, recovering from my first surprise,or awe, "the Delphic oracles were proverbially ambiguous, and theirresponses might be read either way,—a proof that the priestsdictated the verses, though their arts on the unhappy priestessmight throw her into real convulsions, and the real convulsions,not the false gift, might shorten her life. Enough of such idlesubjects! Yet no! one question more. If you found your Pythoness,what then?"
"What then? Why, through her aid I might discover the process ofan experiment which your practical science would assist me tocomplete."
"Tell me of what kind is your experiment; and precisely becausesuch little science as I possess is exclusively practical, I mayassist you without the help of the Pythoness."
Margrave was silent for some minutes, passing his hand severaltimes across his forehead, which was a frequent gesture of his, andthen rising, he answered, in listless accents,—
"I cannot say more now, my brain is fatigued; and you are notyet in the right mood to hear me. By the way, how close andreserved you are with me!"
"How so?"
"You never told me that you were engaged to be married. Youleave me, who thought to have won your friendship, to hear whatconcerns you so intimately from a comparative stranger."
"Who told you?"
"That woman with eyes that pry and lips that scheme, to whosehouse you took me."
"Mrs. Poyntz! is it possible? When?"
"This afternoon. I met her in the street; she stopped me, and,after some unmeaning talk, asked if I had seen you lately; if I didnot find you very absent and distracted: no wonder;—you werein love. The young lady was away on a visit, and wooed by adangerous rival."
"Wooed by a dangerous rival!"
"Very rich, good-looking, young. Do you fear him? You turnpale."
"I do not fear, except so far as he who loves truly, loveshumbly, and fears not that another may be preferred, but thatanother may be worthier of preference than himself. But that Mrs.Poyntz should tell you all this does amaze me. Did she mention thename of the young lady?"
"Yes; Lilian Ashleigh. Henceforth be more frank with me. Whoknows? I may help you. Adieu!"
When Margrave had gone, I glanced at the clock,—not yetnine. I resolved to go at once to Mrs. Poyntz. It was not anevening on which she received, but doubtless she would see me. Sheowed me an explanation. How thus carelessly divulge a secret shehad been enjoined to keep; and this rival, of whom I was ignorant?It was no longer a matter of wonder that Margrave should havedescribed Lilian's peculiar idiosyncrasies in his sketch of hisfabulous Pythoness. Doubtless Mrs. Poyntz had, with unpardonablelevity of indiscretion, revealed all of which she disapproved in mychoice. But for what object? Was this her boasted friendship forme? Was it consistent with the regard she professed for Mrs.Ashleigh and Lilian? Occupied by these perplexed and indignantthoughts, I arrived at Mrs. Poyntz's house, and was admitted to herpresence. She was fortunately alone; her daughter and the colonelhad gone to some party on the Hill. I would not take the hand sheheld out to me on entrance; seated myself in stern displeasure, andproceeded at once to inquire if she had really betrayed to Mr.Margrave the secret of my engagement to Lilian.
"Yes, Allen Fenwick; I have this day told, not only Mr.Margrave, but every person I met who is likely to tell it to someone else, the secret of your engagement to Lilian Ashleigh. I neverpromised to conceal it; on the contrary, I wrote word to AnneAshleigh that I would therein act as my own judgment counselled me.I think my words to you were that 'public gossip was sometimes thebest security for the completion of private engagements.'"
"Do you mean that Mrs. or Miss Ashleigh recoils from theengagement with me, and that I should meanly compel them both tofulfil it by calling in the public to censurethem—if—if—Oh, madam, this is worldly artificeindeed!"
"Be good enough to listen to me quietly. I have never yet showedyou the letter to Mrs. Ashleigh, written by Lady Haughton, anddelivered by Mr. Vigors. That letter I will now show to you; butbefore doing so I must enter into a preliminary explanation. LadyHaughton is one of those women who love power, and cannot obtain itexcept through wealth and station,—by her own intellect neverobtain it. When her husband died she was reduced from an income oftwelve thousand a year to a jointure of twelve hundred, but withthe exclusive guardianship of a young son, a minor, and adequateallowances for the charge; she continued, therefore, to preside asmistress over the establishments in town and country; still had theadministration of her son's wealth and rank. She stinted hiseducation, in order to maintain her ascendancy over him. He becamea brainless prodigal, spendthrift alike of health and fortune.Alarmed, she saw that, probably, he would die young and a beggar;his only hope of reform was in marriage. She reluctantly resolvedto marry him to a penniless, well-born, soft-minded young lady whomshe knew she could control; just before this marriage was to takeplace he was killed by a fall from his horse. The Haughton estatepassed to his cousin, the luckiest young man alive,—the sameAshleigh Sumner who had already succeeded, in default of maleissue, to poor Gilbert Ashleigh's landed possessions. Over thisyoung man Lady Haughton could expect no influence. She would be astranger in his house. But she had a niece! Mr. Vigors assured herthe niece was beautiful. And if the niece could become Mrs.Ashleigh Sumner, then Lady Haughton would be a less unimportantNobody in the world, because she would still have her nearestrelation in a Somebody at Haughton Park. Mr. Vigors has his ownpompous reasons for approving an alliance which he might help toaccomplish. The first step towards that alliance was obviously tobring into reciprocal attraction the natural charms of the younglady and the acquired merits of the young gentleman. Mr. Vigorscould easily induce his ward to pay a visit to Lady Haughton, andLady Haughton had only to extend her invitations to her niece;hence the letter to Mrs. Ashleigh, of which Mr. Vigors was thebearer, and hence my advice to you, of which you can now understandthe motive. Since you thought Lilian Ashleigh the only woman youcould love, and since I thought there were other women in the worldwho might do as well for Ashleigh Sumner, it seemed to me fair forall parties that Lilian should not go to Lady Haughton's inignorance of the sentiments with which she had inspired you. A girlcan seldom be sure that she loves until she is sure that she isloved. And now," added Mrs. Poyntz, rising and walking across theroom to her bureau,—"now I will show you Lady Haughton'sinvitation to Mrs. Ashleigh. Here it is!"
I ran my eye over the letter, which she thrust into my hand,resuming her knitting-work while I read.
The letter was short, couched in conventional terms of hollowaffection. The writer blamed herself for having so long neglectedher brother's widow and child; her heart had been wrapped up toomuch in the son she had lost; that loss had made her turn to theties of blood still left to her; she had heard much of Lilian fromtheir common friend, Mr. Vigors; she longed to embrace so charminga niece. Then followed the invitation and the postscript. Thepostscript ran thus, so far as I can remember:—
"Whatever my own grief at my irreparable bereavement, I am no egotist; I keep my sorrow to myself. You will find some pleasant guests at my house, among others our joint connection, young Ashleigh Sumner."
"Woman's postscripts are proverbial for their significance,"said Mrs. Poyntz, when I had concluded the letter and laid it onthe table; "and if I did not at once show you this hypocriticaleffusion, it was simply because at the name Ashleigh Sumner itsobject became transparent, not perhaps to poor Anne Ashleigh nor toinnocent Lilian, but to my knowledge of the parties concerned, asit ought to be to that shrewd intelligence which you derive partlyfrom nature, partly from the insight into life which a truephysician cannot fail to acquire. And if I know anything of you,you would have romantically said, had you seen the letter at first,and understood its covert intention, 'Let me not shackle the choiceof the woman I love, and to whom an alliance so coveted in the eyesof the world might, if she were left free, be proffered.'"
"I should not have gathered from the postscript all that you seein it; but had its purport been so suggested to me, you are right,I should have so said. Well, and as Mr. Margrave tells me that youinformed him that I have a rival, I am now to conclude that therival is Mr. Ashleigh Sumner?"
"Has not Mrs. Ashleigh or Lilian mentioned him in writing toyou?"
"Yes, both; Lilian very slightly, Mrs. Ashleigh with somepraise, as a young man of high character, and very courteous toher."
"Yet, though I asked you to come and tell me who were the guestsat Lady Haughton's, you never did so."
"Pardon me; but of the guests I thought nothing, and lettersaddressed to my heart seemed to me too sacred to talk about. AndAshleigh Sumner then courts Lilian! How do you know?"
"I know everything that concerns me; and here, the explanationis simple. My aunt, Lady Delafield, is staying with Lady Haughton.Lady Delafield is one of the women of fashion who shine by theirown light; Lady Haughton shines by borrowed light, and borrowsevery ray she can find."
"And Lady Delafield writes you word—"
"That Ashleigh Sumner is caught by Lilian's beauty."
"And Lilian herself—"
"Women like Lady Delafield do not readily believe that any girlcould refuse Ashleigh Sumner; considered in himself, he is steadyand good-looking; considered as owner of Kirby Hall and HaughtonPark, he has, in the eyes of any sensible mother, the virtues ofCato and the beauty of Antinous."
I pressed my hand to my heart; close to my heart lay a letterfrom Lilian, and there was no word in that letter which showed thather heart was gone from mine. I shook my head gently, and smiled inconfiding triumph.
Mrs. Poyntz surveyed me with a bent brow and a compressedlip.
"I understand your smile," she said ironically. "Very likelyLilian may be quite untouched by this young man's admiration, butAnne Ashleigh may be dazzled by so brilliant a prospect for herdaughter; and, in short, I thought it desirable to let yourengagement be publicly known throughout the town to-day. Thatinformation will travel; it will reach Ashleigh Sumner through Mr.Vigors, or others in this neighbourhood, with whom I know that hecorresponds. It will bring affairs to a crisis, and before it maybe too late. I think it well that Ashleigh Sumner should leave thathouse; if he leave it for good, so much the better. And, perhaps,the sooner Lilian returns to L—— the lighter your ownheart will be."
"And for these reasons you have published the secretof—"
"Your engagement? Yes. Prepare to be congratulated wherever yougo. And now if you hear either from mother or daughter thatAshleigh Sumner has proposed, and been, let us say, refused, I donot doubt that, in the pride of your heart, you will come and tellme."
"Rely upon it, I will; but before I take leave, allow me to askwhy you described to a young man like Mr. Margrave—, whosewild and strange humours you have witnessed and notapproved—any of those traits of character in Miss Ashleighwhich distinguish her from other girls of her age?"
"I? You mistake. I said nothing to him of her character. Imentioned her name, and said she was beautiful, that was all."
"Nay, you said that she was fond of musing, of solitude; that inher fancies she believed in the reality of visions which might flitbefore her eyes as they flit before the eyes of all imaginativedreamers."
"Not a word did I say to Mr. Margrave of such peculiarities inLilian; not a word more than what I have told you, on myhonour!"
Still incredulous, but disguising my incredulity with thatconvenient smile by which we accomplish so much of the politedissimulation indispensable to the decencies of civilized life, Itook my departure, returned home, and wrote to Lilian.
The conversation with Mrs. Poyntz left my mind restless anddisquieted. I had no doubt, indeed, of Lilian's truth; but could Ibe sure that the attentions of a young man, with advantages offortune so brilliant, would not force on her thoughts the contrastof the humbler lot and the duller walk of life in which she hadaccepted as companion a man removed from her romantic youth less bydisparity of years than by gravity of pursuits? And would my suitnow be as welcomed as it had been by a mother even so unworldly asMrs. Ashleigh? Why, too, should both mother and daughter have leftme so unprepared to hear that I had a rival; why not have impliedsome consoling assurance that such rivalry need not cause me alarm?Lilian's letters, it is true, touched but little on any of thepersons round her; they were filled with the outpourings of aningenuous heart, coloured by the glow of a golden fancy. They werewritten as if in the wide world we two stood apart alone,consecrated from the crowd by the love that, in linking ustogether, had hallowed each to the other. Mrs. Ashleigh's letterswere more general and diffusive,—detailed the habits of thehousehold, sketched the guests, intimated her continued fear ofLady Haughton, but had said nothing more of Mr. Ashleigh Sumnerthan I had repeated to Mrs. Poyntz. However, in my letter to LilianI related the intelligence that had reached me, and impatiently Iawaited her reply.
Three days after the interview with Mrs. Poyntz, and two daysbefore the long-anticipated event of the mayor's ball, I wassummoned to attend a nobleman who had lately been added to my listof patients, and whose residence was about twelve miles fromL——. The nearest way was through Sir Philip Derval'spark. I went on horseback, and proposed to stop on the way toinquire after the steward, whom I had seen but once since his fit,and that was two days after it, when he called himself at my houseto thank me for my attendance, and to declare that he was quiterecovered.
As I rode somewhat fast through the park, I came, however, uponthe steward, just in front of the house. I reined in my horse andaccosted him. He looked very cheerful.
"Sir," said he, in a whisper, "I have heard from Sir Philip; hisletter is dated since—since-my good woman told you what Isaw,—well, since then. So that it must have been all adelusion of mine, as you told her. And yet,well—well—we will not talk of it, doctor; but I hopeyou have kept the secret. Sir Philip would not like to hear of it,if he comes back."
"Your secret is quite safe with me. But is Sir Philip likely tocome back?"
"I hope so, doctor. His letter is dated Paris, and that's nearerhome than he has been for many years; and—but bless me! someone is coming out of the house,—a young gentleman! Who can itbe?"
I looked, and to my surprise I saw Margrave descending thestately stairs that led from the front door. The steward turnedtowards him, and I mechanically followed, for I was curious to knowwhat had brought Margrave to the house of the long-absenttraveller.
It was easily explained. Mr. Margrave had heard atL—— much of the pictures and internal decorations ofthe mansion. He had, by dint of coaxing (he said, with hisenchanting laugh), persuaded the old housekeeper to show him therooms.
"It is against Sir Philip's positive orders to show the house toany stranger, sir; and the housekeeper has done very wrong," saidthe steward.
"Pray don't scold her. I dare say Sir Philip would not haverefused me a permission he might not give to every idle sightseer.Fellow-travellers have a freemasonry with each other; and I havebeen much in the same far countries as himself. I heard of himthere, and could tell you more about him, I dare say, than you knowyourself."
"You, sir! pray do then."
"The next time I come," said Margrave, gayly; and, with a nod tome, he glided off through the trees of the neighbouring grove,along the winding footpath that led to the lodge.
"A very cool gentleman," muttered the steward; "but whatpleasant ways he has! You seem to know him, sir. Who is he, may Iask?"
"Mr. Margrave,—a visitor at L——, and he hasbeen a great traveller, as he says; perhaps he met Sir Philipabroad."
"I must go and hear what he said to Mrs. Gates; excuse me, sir,but I am so anxious about Sir Philip."
"If it be not too great a favour, may I be allowed the sameprivilege granted to Mr. Margrave? To judge by the outside of thehouse, the inside must be worth seeing; still, if it be against SirPhilip's positive orders—"
"His orders were, not to let the Court become ashow-house,—to admit none without my consent; but I should beungrateful indeed, doctor, if I refused that consent to you."
I tied my horse to the rusty gate of the terrace-walk, andfollowed the steward up the broad stairs of the terrace. The greatdoors were unlocked. We entered a lofty hall with a domed ceiling;at the back of the hall the grand staircase ascended by a doubleflight. The design was undoubtedly Vanbrugh's,—an architectwho, beyond all others, sought the effect of grandeur less in spacethan in proportion; but Vanbrugh's designs need the relief ofcostume and movement, and the forms of a more pompous generation,in the bravery of velvets and laces, glancing amid those gildedcolumns, or descending with stately tread those broad palatialstairs. His halls and chambers are so made for festival and throng,that they become like deserted theatres, inexpressibly desolate, aswe miss the glitter of the lamps and the movement of theactors.
The housekeeper had now appeared,—a quiet, timid oldwoman. She excused herself for admitting Margrave—not veryintelligibly. It was plain to see that she had, in truth, beenunable to resist what the steward termed his "pleasant ways."
As if to escape from a scolding, she talked volubly all thetime, bustling nervously through the rooms, along which I followedher guidance with a hushed footstep. The principal apartments wereon the ground-floor, or rather, a floor raised some ten or fifteenfeet above the ground; they had not been modernized since the datein which they were built. Hangings of faded silk; tables of raremarble, and mouldered gilding; comfortless chairs at drill againstthe walls; pictures, of which connoisseurs alone could estimate thevalue, darkened by dust or blistered by sun and damp, made ageneral character of discomfort. On not one room, on not one nook,still lingered some old smile of home.
Meanwhile, I gathered from the housekeeper's rambling answers toquestions put to her by the steward, as I moved on, glancing at thepictures, that Margrave's visit that day was not his first. He hadbeen to the house twice before,—his ostensible excuse that hewas an amateur in pictures (though, as I had before observed, forthat department of art he had no taste); but each time he hadtalked much of Sir Philip. He said that though not personally knownto him, he had resided in the same towns abroad, and had friendsequally intimate with Sir Philip; but when the steward inquired ifthe visitor had given any information as to the absentee, it becamevery clear that Margrave had been rather asking questions thanvolunteering intelligence.
We had now come to the end of the state apartments, the last ofwhich was a library. "And," said the old woman, "I don't wonder thegentleman knew Sir Philip, for he seemed a scholar, and looked veryhard over the books, especially those old ones by the fireplace,which Sir Philip, Heaven bless him, was always poring into."
Mechanically I turned to the shelves by the fireplace, andexamined the volumes ranged in that department. I found theycontained the works of those writers whom we may class togetherunder the title of mystics,—Iamblichus and Plotinus;Swedenborg and Behmen; Sandivogius, Van Helmont, Paracelsus,Cardan. Works, too, were there, by writers less renowned, onastrology, geomancy, chiromancy, etc. I began to understand amongwhat class of authors Margrave had picked up the strange notionswith which he was apt to interpolate the doctrines of practicalphilosophy.
"I suppose this library was Sir Philip's usual sitting-room?"said I.
"No, sir; he seldom sat here. This was his study;" and the oldwoman opened a small door, masked by false book backs. I followedher into a room of moderate size, and evidently of much earlierdate than the rest of the house. "It is the only room left of anolder mansion," said the steward in answer to my remark. "I haveheard it was spared on account of the chimneypiece. But there is aLatin inscription which will tell you all about it. I don't knowLatin myself."
The chimneypiece reached to the ceiling. The frieze of the lowerpart rested on rude stone caryatides; the upper part was formed ofoak panels very curiously carved in the geometrical designsfavoured by the taste prevalent in the reigns of Elizabeth andJames, but different from any I had ever seen in the drawings ofold houses,—and I was not quite unlearned in such matters,for my poor father was a passionate antiquary in all that relatesto mediaeval art. The design in the oak panels was composed oftriangles interlaced with varied ingenuity, and enclosed incircular bands inscribed with the signs of the Zodiac.
On the stone frieze supported by the caryatides, immediatelyunder the woodwork, was inserted a metal plate, on which waswritten, in Latin, a few lines to the effect that "in this room,Simon Forman, the seeker of hidden truth, taking refuge from unjustpersecution, made those discoveries in nature which he committed,for the benefit of a wiser age, to the charge of his protector andpatron, the worshipful Sir Miles Derval, knight."
Forman! The name was not quite unfamiliar to me; but it was notwithout an effort that my memory enabled me to assign it to one ofthe most notorious of those astrologers or soothsayers whom thesuperstition of an earlier age alternately persecuted andhonoured.
The general character of the room was more cheerful than thestatelier chambers I had hitherto passed through, for it had stillthe look of habitation,—the armchair by the fireplace; thekneehole writing-table beside it; the sofa near the recess of alarge bay-window, with book-prop and candlestick screwed to itsback; maps, coiled in their cylinders, ranged under the cornice;low strong safes, skirting two sides of the room, and apparentlyintended to hold papers and title-deeds, seals carefully affixed totheir jealous locks. Placed on the top of these old-fashionedreceptacles were articles familiar to modern use,—afowling-piece here, fishing-rods there, two or three simpleflower-vases, a pile of music books, a box of crayons. All in thisroom seemed to speak of residence and ownership,—of theidiosyncrasies of a lone single man, it is true, but of a man ofone's own time,—a country gentleman of plain habits but notuncultivated tastes.
I moved to the window; it opened by a sash upon a large balcony,from which a wooden stair wound to a little garden, not visible infront of the house, surrounded by a thick grove of evergreens,through which one broad vista was cut, and that vista was closed bya view of the mausoleum.
I stepped out into the garden,—a patch of sward with afountain in the centre, and parterres, now more filled with weedsthan flowers. At the left corner was a tall wooden summer-house orpavilion,—its door wide open. "Oh, that's where Sir Philipused to study many a long summer's night," said the steward.
"What! in that damp pavilion?"
"It was a pretty place enough then, sir; but it is veryold,—they say as old as the room you have just left."
"Indeed, I must look at it, then."
The walls of this summer-house had once been painted in thearabesques of the Renaissance period; but the figures were nowscarcely traceable. The woodwork had started in some places, andthe sunbeams stole through the chinks and played on the floor,which was formed from old tiles quaintly tessellated and intriangular patterns; similar to those I had observed in thechimneypiece. The room in the pavilion was large, furnished withold worm-eaten tables and settles. "It was not only here that SirPhilip studied, but sometimes in the room above," said thesteward.
"How do you get to the room above? Oh, I see; a stair case inthe angle." I ascended the stairs with some caution, for they werecrooked and decayed; and, on entering the room above, comprehendedat once why Sir Philip had favoured it.
The cornice of the ceiling rested on pilasters, within which thecompartments were formed into open unglazed arches, surrounded by arailed balcony. Through these arches, on three sides of the room,the eye commanded a magnificent extent of prospect. On the fourthside the view was bounded by the mausoleum. In this room was alarge telescope; and on stepping into the balcony, I saw that awinding stair mounted thence to a platform on the top of thepavilion,—perhaps once used as an observatory by Formanhimself.
"The gentleman who was here to-day was very much pleased withthis look-out, sir," said the housekeeper. "Who would not be? Isuppose Sir Philip has a taste for astronomy."
"I dare say, sir," said the steward, looking grave; "he likesmost out-of-the-way things."
The position of the sun now warned me that my time pressed, andthat I should have to ride fast to reach my new patient at the hourappointed. I therefore hastened back to my horse, and spurred on,wondering whether, in the chain of association which so subtlylinks our pursuits in manhood to our impressions in childhood, itwas the Latin inscription on the chimneypiece that had originallybiassed Sir Philip Derval's literary taste towards the mysticjargon of the books at which I had contemptuously glanced.
I did not see Margrave the following day, but the next morning,a little after sunrise, he walked into my study, according to hisordinary habit.
"So you know something about Sir Philip Derval?" said I. "Whatsort of a man is he?"
"Hateful!" cried Margrave; and then checking himself, burst outinto his merry laugh. "Just like my exaggerations! I am notacquainted with anything to his prejudice. I came across his trackonce or twice in the East. Travellers are always apt to be jealousof each other."
"You are a strange compound of cynicism and credulity; but Ishould have fancied that you and Sir Philip would have beencongenial spirits, when I found, among his favourite books, VanHelmont and Paracelsus. Perhaps you, too, study Swedenborg, or,worse still, Ptolemy and Lilly?"
"Astrologers? No! They deal with the future! I live for the day;only I wish the day never had a morrow!"
"Have you not, then that vague desire for the somethingbeyond,—that not unhappy, but grand discontent with thelimits of the immediate Present, from which man takes his passionfor improvement and progress, and from which some sentimentalphilosophers have deduced an argument in favour of his destinedimmortality?"
"Eh!" said Margrave, with as vacant a stare as that of a peasantwhom one has addressed in Hebrew. "What farrago of words is this? Ido not comprehend you."
"With your natural abilities," I asked with interest, "do younever feel a desire for fame?"
"Fame? Certainly not. I cannot even understand it!"
"Well, then, would you have no pleasure in the thought that youhad rendered a service to humanity?"
Margrave looked bewildered; after a moment's pause, he took fromthe table a piece of bread that chanced to be there, opened thewindow, and threw the crumbs into the lane. The sparrows gatheredround the crumbs.
"Now," said Margrave, "the sparrows come to that dull pavementfor the bread that recruits their lives in this world; do youbelieve that one sparrow would be silly enough to fly to ahouse-top for the sake of some benefit to other sparrows, or to bechirruped about after he was dead? I care for science as thesparrow cares for bread,—it may help me to something good formy own life; and as for fame and humanity, I care for them as thesparrow cares for the general interest and posthumous approbationof sparrows!"
"Margrave, there is one thing in you that perplexes me more thanall else—human puzzle as you are—in your manyeccentricities and self-contradictions."
"What is that one thing in me most perplexing?"
"This: that in your enjoyment of Nature you have all thefreshness of a child, but when you speak of Man and his objects inthe world, you talk in the vein of some worn-out and hoary cynic.At such times, were I to close my eyes, I should say to myself,'What weary old man is thus venting his spleen against the ambitionwhich has failed, and the love which has forsaken him?' Outwardlythe very personation of youth, and revelling like a butterfly inthe warmth of the sun and the tints of the herbage, why have younone of the golden passions of the young,—their bright dreamsof some impossible love, their sublime enthusiasm for someunattainable glory? The sentiment you have just clothed in theillustration by which you place yourself on a level with thesparrows is too mean and too gloomy to be genuine at your age.Misanthropy is among the dismal fallacies of gray beards. No man,till man's energies leave him, can divorce himself from the bondsof our social kind."
"Our kind! Your kind, possibly; but I—" He swept his handover his brow, and resumed, in strange, absent, and wistfulaccents: "I wonder what it is that is wanting here, and of which atmoments I have a dim reminiscence." Again he paused, and gazing onme, said with more appearance of friendly interest than I had everbefore remarked in his countenance, "You are not looking well.Despite your great physical strength, you suffer like your ownsickly patients."
"True! I suffer at this moment, but not from bodily pain."
"You have some cause of mental disquietude?"
"Who in this world has not?"
"I never have."
"Because you own you have never loved. Certainly, you never seemto care for any one but yourself; and in yourself you find anunbroken sunny holiday,—high spirits, youth, health, beauty,wealth. Happy boy!"
At that moment my heart was heavy within me.
Margrave resumed,—
"Among the secrets which your knowledge places at the command ofyour art, what would you give for one which would enable you todefy and to deride a rival where you place your affections, whichcould lock to yourself, and imperiously control, the will of thebeing whom you desire to fascinate, by an influence paramount,transcendent?"
"Love has that secret," said I,—"and love alone."
"A power stronger than love can suspend, can change love itself.But if love be the object or dream of your life, love is the rosyassociate of youth and beauty. Beauty soon fades, youth soondeparts. What if in nature there were means by which beauty andyouth can be fixed into blooming duration,—means that couldarrest the course, nay, repair the effects, of time on the elementsthat make up the human frame?"
"Silly boy! Have the Rosicrucians bequeathed to you aprescription for the elixir of life?"
"If I had the prescription I should not ask your aid to discoverits ingredients."
"And is it in the hope of that notable discovery you havestudied chemistry, electricity, and magnetism? Again I say, Sillyboy!"
Margrave did not heed my reply. His face was overcast, gloomy,troubled.
"That the vital principle is a gas," said he, abruptly, "I amfully convinced. Can that gas be the one which combines caloricwith oxygen?"
"Phosoxygen? Sir Humphrey Davy demonstrates that gas not to be,as Lavoisier supposed, caloric, but light, combined with oxygen;and he suggests, not indeed that it is the vital principle itself,but the pabulum of life to organic beings." (1)
"Does he?" said Margrave, his, face clearing up. "Possibly,possibly, then, here we approach the great secret of secrets. Lookyou, Allen Fenwick: I promise to secure to you unfailing securityfrom all the jealous fears that now torture your heart; if you carefor that fame which to me is not worth the scent of a flower, thebalm of a breeze, I will impart to you a knowledge which, in thehands of ambition, would dwarf into commonplace the boasted wondersof recognized science. I will do all this, if, in return, but forone month you will give yourself up to my guidance in whateverexperiments I ask, no matter how wild they may seem to you."
"My dear Margrave, I reject your bribes as I would reject themoon and the stars which a child might offer to me in exchange fora toy; but I may give the child its toy for nothing, and I may testyour experiments for nothing some day when I have leisure."
I did not hear Margrave's answer, for at that moment my servantentered with letters. Lilian's hand! Tremblingly, breathlessly, Ibroke the seal. Such a loving, bright, happy letter; so sweet inits gentle chiding of my wrongful fears! It was implied rather thansaid that Ashleigh Sumner had proposed and been refused. He had nowleft the house. Lilian and her mother were coming back; in a fewdays we should meet. In this letter were inclosed a few lines fromMrs. Ashleigh. She was more explicit about my rival than Lilian hadbeen. If no allusion to his attentions had been made to me before,it was from a delicate consideration for myself. Mrs. Ashleigh saidthat "the young man had heard from L—— of ourengagement, and—disbelieved it;" but, as Mrs. Poyntz had soshrewdly predicted, hurried at once to the avowal of his ownattachment, and the offer of his own hand. On Lilian's refusal hispride had been deeply mortified. He had gone away manifestly inmore anger than sorrow.
"Lady Delafield, dear Margaret Poyntz's aunt, had been most kind in trying to soothe Lady Haughton's disappointment, which was rudely expressed,—so rudely," added Mrs. Ashleigh, "that it gives us an excuse to leave sooner than had been proposed,—which I am very glad of. Lady Delafield feels much for Mr. Sumner; has invited him to visit her at a place she has near Worthing. She leaves to-morrow in order to receive him; promises to reconcile him to our rejection, which, as he was my poor Gilbert's heir, and was very friendly at first, would be a great relief to my mind. Lilian is well, and so happy at the thoughts of coming back."
When I lifted my eyes from these letters I was as a new man, andthe earth seemed a new earth. I felt as if I had realizedMargrave's idle dreams,—as if youth could never fade, lovecould never grow cold.
"You care for no secrets of mine at this moment," said Margrave,abruptly.
"Secrets!" I murmured; "none now are worth knowing. I am loved!I am loved!"
"I bide my time," said Margrave; and as my eyes met his, I sawthere a look I had never seen in those eyes before, sinister,wrathful, menacing. He turned away, went out through the sash-doorof the study; and as he passed towards the fields under theluxuriant chestnut-trees, I heard his musical, barbaricchant,—the song by which the serpent-charmer charms theserpent,—sweet, so sweet, the very birds on the boughs hushedtheir carol as if to listen.
(1) See Sir Humphrey Davy on Heat, Light, and the Combinationsof Light
I called that day on Mrs. Poyntz, and communicated to her thepurport of the glad news I had received.
She was still at work on the everlasting knitting, her firmfingers linking mesh into mesh as she listened; and when I haddone, she laid her skein deliberately down, and said, in herfavourite characteristic formula,—
"So at last?—that is settled!"
She rose and paced the room as men are apt to do in reflection,women rarely need such movement to aid their thoughts; her eyeswere fixed on the floor, and one hand was lightly pressed on thepalm of the other,—the gesture of a musing reasoner who isapproaching the close of a difficult calculation.
At length she paused, fronting me, and said dryly,—
"Accept my congratulations. Life smiles on you now; guard thatsmile, and when we meet next, may we be even firmer friends than weare now!"
"When we meet next,—that will be to-night—you surelygo to the mayor's great ball? All the Hill descends to Low Townto-night."
"No; we are obliged to leave L—— this afternoon; inless than two hours we shall be gone,—a family engagement. Wemay be weeks away; you will excuse me, then, if I take leave of youso unceremoniously. Stay, a motherly word of caution. That friendof yours, Mr. Margrave! Moderate your intimacy with him; andespecially after you are married. There is in that stranger, ofwhom so little is known, a something which I cannotcomprehend,—a something that captivates and yet revolts. Ifind him disturbing my thoughts, perplexing my conjectures,haunting my fancies,—I, plain woman of the world! Lilian isimaginative; beware of her imagination, even when sure of herheart. Beware of Margrave. The sooner he quits L—— thebetter, believe me, for your peace of mind. Adieu! I must preparefor our journey."
"That woman," muttered I, on quitting her house, "seems to havesome strange spite against my poor Lilian, ever seeking to rouse myown distrust of that exquisite nature which has just given me suchproof of its truth. And yet—and yet—is that woman sowrong here? True! Margrave with his wild notions, his strangebeauty!—true—true—he might dangerously encouragethat turn for the mystic and visionary which distresses me inLilian. Lilian should not know him. How induce him to leaveL——? Ah, those experiments on which he asks myassistance! I might commence them when he comes again, and theninvent some excuse to send him for completer tests to the famouschemists of Paris or Berlin."
It is the night of the mayor's ball! The guests are assemblingfast; county families twelve miles round have been invited, as wellas the principal families of the town. All, before proceeding tothe room set apart for the dance, moved in procession through themuseum,—homage to science before pleasure!
The building was brilliantly lighted, and the effect wasstriking, perhaps because singular and grotesque. There, amidststands of flowers and evergreens, lit up with coloured lamps, weregrouped the dead representatives of races all inferior—somedeadly—to man. The fancy of the ladies had been permitted todecorate and arrange these types of the animal world. The tigerglared with glass eyes from amidst artificial reeds and herbage, asfrom his native jungle; the grisly white bear peered from a mimiciceberg. There, in front, stood the sage elephant, facing a hideoushippopotamus; whilst an anaconda twined its long spire round thestem of some tropical tree in zinc. In glass cases, brought intofull light by festooned lamps, were dread specimens of the reptilerace,—scorpion and vampire, and cobra capella, with insectsof gorgeous hues, not a few of them with venomed stings.
But the chief boast of the collection was in the varieties ofthe Genus Simia,—baboons and apes, chimpanzees, with theirhuman visage, mockeries of man, from the dwarf monkeys perched onboughs lopped from the mayor's shrubberies, to the formidableourangoutang, leaning on his huge club.
Every one expressed to the mayor admiration, to each otherantipathy, for this unwonted and somewhat ghastly, thoughinstructive, addition to the revels of a ballroom.
Margrave, of course, was there, and seemingly quite at home,gliding from group to group of gayly-dressed ladies, and brilliantwith a childish eagerness to play off the showman. Many of thesegrim fellow-creatures he declared he had seen, played, or foughtwith. He had something true or false to say about each. In his highspirits he contrived to make the tiger move, and imitated the hissof the terribly anaconda. All that he did had its grace, its charm;and the buzz of admiration and the flattering glances of ladies'eyes followed him wherever he moved.
However, there was a general feeling of relief when the mayorled the way from the museum into the ballroom. In provincialparties guests arrive pretty much within the same hour, and so fewwho had once paid their respects to the apes and serpents, thehippopotamus and the tiger, were disposed to repeat the visit, thatlong before eleven o'clock the museum was as free from theintrusion of human life as the wilderness in which its deadoccupants had been born.
I had gone my round through the rooms, and, little disposed tobe social, had crept into the retreat of a window-niche, pleased tothink myself screened by its draperies,—not that I wasmelancholy, far from it; for the letter I had received that morningfrom Lilian had raised my whole being into a sovereignty ofhappiness high beyond the reach of the young pleasure-hunters,whose voices and laughter blended with that vulgar music.
To read her letter again I had stolen to my nook, and now, surethat none saw me kiss it, I replaced it in my bosom. I lookedthrough the parted curtain; the room was comparatively empty; butthere, through the open folding-doors, I saw the gay crowd gatheredround the dancers, and there again, at right angles, a vista alongthe corridor afforded a glimpse of the great elephant in thedeserted museum.
Presently I heard, close beside me, my host's voice.
"Here's a cool corner, a pleasant sofa, you can have it all toyourself. What an honour to receive you under my roof, and on thisinteresting occasion! Yes, as you say, there are great changes inL—— since you left us. Society has much improved. Imust look about and find some persons to introduce to you. Clever!oh, I know your tastes. We have a wonderful man,—a newdoctor. Carries all before him; very high character, too; good oldfamily, greatly looked up to, even apart from his profession.Dogmatic a little,—a Sir Oracle,—'Lets no dog bark;'you remember the quotation,—Shakspeare. Where on earth is he?My dear Sir Philip, I am sure you would enjoy hisconversation."
Sir Philip! Could it be Sir Philip Derval to whom the mayor wasgiving a flattering yet scarcely propitiatory description ofmyself? Curiosity combined with a sense of propriety in not keepingmyself an unsuspected listener; I emerged from the curtain, butsilently, and reached the centre of the room before the mayorperceived me. He then came up to me eagerly, linked his arm inmine, and leading me to a gentleman seated on a sofa, close by thewindow I had quitted, said,—
"Doctor, I must present you to Sir Philip Derval, just returnedto England, and not six hours in L——. If you would liketo see the museum again, Sir Philip, the doctor, I am sure, willaccompany you."
"No, I thank you; it is painful to me at present to see, evenunder your roof, the collection which my poor dear friend, Dr.Lloyd, was so proudly beginning to form when I left theseparts."
"Ay, Sir Philip, Dr. Lloyd was a worthy man in his way, butsadly duped in his latter years; took to mesmerism, only think! Butour young doctor here showed him up, I can tell you."
Sir Philip, who had acknowledged my first introduction to hisacquaintance by the quiet courtesy with which a well-bred man goesthrough a ceremony that custom enables him to endure with equalease and indifference, now evinced by a slight change of manner howlittle the mayor's reference to my dispute with Dr. Lloyd advancedme in his good opinion. He turned away with a bow more formal thanhis first one, and said calmly,
"I regret to hear that a man so simple-minded and so sensitiveas Dr. Lloyd should have provoked an encounter in which I can wellconceive him to have been worsted. With your leave, Mr. Mayor, Iwill look into your ballroom. I may perhaps find there some oldacquaintances."
He walked towards the dancers, and the mayor, linking his arm inmine, followed close behind, saying in his loud heartytones,—
"Come along, you too, Dr. Fenwick, my girls are there; you havenot spoken to them yet."
Sir Philip, who was then half way across the room, turned roundabruptly, and, looking me full in the face, said,—
"Fenwick, is your name Fenwick,—Allen Fenwick?"
"That is my name, Sir Philip."
"Then permit me to shake you by the hand; you are no stranger,and no mere acquaintance to me. Mr. Mayor, we will look into yourballroom later; do not let us keep you now from your otherguests."
The mayor, not in the least offended by being thus summarilydismissed, smiled, walked on, and was soon lost amongst thecrowd.
Sir Philip, still retaining my hand, reseated himself on thesofa, and I took my place by his side. The room was still deserted;now and then a straggler from the ballroom looked in for a moment,and then sauntered back to the central place of attraction.
"I am trying to guess," said I, "how my name should be known toyou. Possibly you may, in some visit to the Lakes, have known myfather?"
"No; I know none of your name but yourself,—if, indeed, asI doubt not, you are the Allen Fenwick to whom I owe no smallobligation. You were a medical student at Edinburgh in the year——?"
"Yes."
"So! At that time there was also at Edinburgh a young man, namedRichard Strahan. He lodged in a fourth flat in the Old Town."
"I remember him very well."
"And you remember, also, that a fire broke out at night in thehouse in which he lodged; that when it was discovered there seemedno hope of saving him. The flames wrapped the lower part of thehouse; the staircase had given way. A boy, scarcely so old ashimself, was the only human being in the crowd who dared to scalethe ladder that even then scarcely reached the windows from whichthe smoke rolled in volumes; that boy penetrated into the room,found the inmate almost insensible, rallied, supported, dragged himto the window, got him on the ladder,—saved his life then:and his life later, by nursing with a woman's tenderness, throughthe fever caused by terror and excitement, the fellow-creature hehad rescued by a man's daring. The name of that gallant student wasAllen Fenwick, and Richard Strahan is my nearest living relation.Are we friends now?"
I answered confusedly. I had almost forgotten the circumstancesreferred to. Richard Strahan had not been one of my more intimatecompanions, and I had never seen nor heard of him since leavingcollege. I inquired what had become of him.
"He is at the Scotch Bar," said Sir Philip, "and of coursewithout practice. I understand that he has fair average abilities,but no application. If I am rightly informed, he is, however, athoroughly honourable, upright man, and of an affectionate andgrateful disposition."
"I can answer for all you have said in his praise. He had thequalities you name too deeply rooted in youth to have lost themnow."
Sir Philip remained for some moments in a musing silence; and Itook advantage of that silence to examine him with more minuteattention than I had done before, much as the first sight of himhad struck me.
He was somewhat below the common height,—so delicatelyformed that one might call him rather fragile than slight. But inhis carriage and air there was remarkable dignity. His countenancewas at direct variance with his figure; for as delicacy was theattribute of the last, so power was unmistakably the characteristicof the first. He looked fully the age his steward had ascribed tohim,—about forty-eight; at a superficial glance, more, forhis hair was prematurely white,—not gray, but white as snow.But his eyebrows were still jet black, and his eyes, equally dark,were serenely bright. His forehead was magnificent,—lofty andspacious, and with only one slight wrinkle between the brows. Hiscomplexion was sunburnt, showing no sign of weak health. Theoutline of his lips was that which I have often remarked in menaccustomed to great dangers, and contracting in such dangers thehabit of self-reliance,—firm and quiet, compressed without aneffort. And the power of this very noble countenance was notintimidating, not aggressive; it was mild, it was benignant. A manoppressed by some formidable tyranny, and despairing to find aprotector, would, on seeing that face, have said, "Here is one whocan protect me, and who will!"
Sir Philip was the first to break the silence.
"I have so many relations scattered over England, thatfortunately not one of them can venture to calculate on my propertyif I die childless, and therefore not one of them can feel himselfinjured when, a few weeks hence, he shall read in the newspapersthat Philip Derval is married. But for Richard Strahan at least,though I never saw him, I must do something before the newspapersmake that announcement. His sister was very dear to me."
"Your neighbours, Sir Philip, will rejoice at your marriage,since, I presume, it may induce you to settle amongst them atDerval Court."
"At Derval Court! No! I shall not settle there." Again he pauseda moment or so, and then went on: "I have long lived a wanderinglife, and in it learned much that the wisdom of cities cannotteach. I return to my native land with a profound conviction thatthe happiest life is the life most in common with all. I have goneout of my way to do what I deemed good, and to avert or mitigatewhat appeared to me evil. I pause now and ask myself, whether themost virtuous existence be not that in which virtue flowsspontaneously from the springs of quiet everyday action; when a mandoes good without restlessly seeking it, does good unconsciously,simply because he is good and he lives. Better, perhaps, for me, ifI had thought so long ago! And now I come back to England with theintention of marrying, late in life though it be, and with suchhopes of happiness as any matter-of-fact man may form. But my hopewill not be at Derval Court. I shall reside either in London or itsimmediate neighbourhood, and seek to gather round me minds by whichI can correct, if I cannot confide to them, the knowledge I myselfhave acquired."
"Nay, if, as I have accidentally heard, you are fond ofscientific pursuits, I cannot wonder, that after so long an absencefrom England, you should feel interest in learning what newdiscoveries have been made, what new ideas are unfolding the germsof discoveries yet to be. But, pardon me, if in answer to yourconcluding remark, I venture to say that no man can hope to correctany error in his own knowledge, unless he has the courage toconfide the error to those who can correct. La Place has said,'Tout se tient dans le chaine immense des verites;' and the mistakewe make in some science we have specially cultivated is often onlyto be seen by the light of a separate science as speciallycultivated by another. Thus, in the investigation of truth, frankexposition to congenial minds is essential to the earnestseeker."
"I am pleased with what you say," said Sir Philip, "and I shallbe still more pleased to find in you the very confidant I require.But what was your controversy with my old friend, Dr. Lloyd? Do Iunderstand our host rightly, that it related to what in Europe hasof late days obtained the name of mesmerism?"
I had conceived a strong desire to conciliate the good opinionof a man who had treated me with so singular and so familiar akindness, and it was sincerely that I expressed my regret at theacerbity with which I had assailed Dr. Lloyd; but of his theoriesand pretensions I could not disguise my contempt. I enlarged on theextravagant fallacies involved in a fabulous "clairvoyance," whichalways failed when put to plain test by sober-minded examiners. Idid not deny the effects of imagination on certain nervousconstitutions. "Mesmerism could cure nobody; credulity could curemany. There was the well-known story of the old woman tried as awitch; she cured agues by a charm. She owned the impeachment, andwas ready to endure gibbet or stake for the truth of hertalisman,—more than a mesmerist would for the truth of hispasses! And the charm was a scroll of gibberish sewn in an old bagand given to the woman in a freak by the judge himself when a youngscamp on the circuit. But the charm cured? Certainly; just asmesmerism cures. Fools believed in it. Faith, that moves mountains,may well cure agues."
Thus I ran on, supporting my views with anecdote and facts, towhich Sir Philip listened with placid gravity.
When I had come to an end he said: "Of mesmerism, as practisedin Europe, I know nothing except by report. I can well understandthat medical men may hesitate to admit it amongst the legitimateresources of orthodox pathology; because, as I gather from what youand others say of its practice, it must, at the best, be far toouncertain in its application to satisfy the requirements ofscience. Yet an examination of its pretensions may enable you toperceive the truth that lies hid in the powers ascribed towitchcraft; benevolence is but a weak agency compared to malignity;magnetism perverted to evil may solve half the riddles of sorcery.On this, however, I say no more at present. But as to that whichyou appear to reject as the most preposterous and incrediblepretension of the mesmerists, and which you designate by the word'clairvoyance,' it is clear to me that you have never yourselfwitnessed even those very imperfect exhibitions which you decide atonce to be imposture. I say imperfect, because it is only a limitednumber of persons whom the eye or the passes of the mesmerist caneffect; and by such means, unaided by other means, it is rarelyindeed that the magnetic sleep advances beyond the first vagueshadowy twilight-dawn of that condition to which only in its fullerdevelopments I would apply the name of 'trance.' But still tranceis as essential a condition of being as sleep or as waking, havingprivileges peculiar to itself. By means within the range of thescience that explores its nature and its laws, trance, unlike theclairvoyance you describe, is producible in every human being,however unimpressible to mere mesmerism."
"Producible in every human being! Pardon me if I say that I willgive any enchanter his own terms who will produce that effect uponme."
"Will you? You consent to have the experiment tried onyourself?"
"Consent most readily."
"I will remember that promise. But to return to the subject. Bythe word 'trance' I do not mean exclusively the spiritual trance ofthe Alexandrian Platonists. There is one kind of trance,—thatto which all human beings are susceptible,—in which the soulhas no share: for of this kind of trance, and it was of this Ispoke, some of the inferior animals are susceptible; and,therefore, trance is no more a proof of soul than is theclairvoyance of the mesmerists, or the dream of our ordinary sleep,which last has been called a proof of soul, though any man who haskept a dog must have observed that dogs dream as vividly as we do.But in this trance there is an extraordinary cerebral activity, aprojectile force given to the mind, distinct from the soul, bywhich it sends forth its own emanations to a distance in spite ofmaterial obstacles, just as a flower, in an altered condition ofatmosphere, sends forth the particles of its aroma. This should notsurprise you. Your thought travels over land and sea in your wakingstate; thought, too, can travel in trance, and in trance mayacquire an intensified force. There is, however, another kind oftrance which is truly called spiritual, a trance much more rare,and in which the soul entirely supersedes the mere action of themind."
"Stay!" said I; "you speak of the soul as something distinctfrom the mind. What the soul may be, I cannot pretend toconjecture; but I cannot separate it from the intelligence!"
"Can you not? A blow on the brain can destroy the intelligence!Do you think it can destroy the soul?
'From Marlbro's eyes the tears of dotage flow, And Swift expires, a driveller and a show.'
"Towards the close of his life even Kant's giant intellect lefthim. Do you suppose that in these various archetypes ofintellectual man the soul was worn out by the years that loosenedthe strings, or made tuneless the keys, of the perishing instrumenton which the mind must rely for all notes of its music? If youcannot distinguish the operations of the mind from the essence ofthe soul, I know not by what rational inductions you arrive at theconclusion that the soul is imperishable."
I remained silent. Sir Philip fixed on me his dark eyes quietlyand searchingly, and, after a short pause, said,—
"Almost every known body in nature is susceptible of threeseveral states of existence,—the solid, the liquid, theaeriform. These conditions depend on the quantity of heat theycontain. The same object at one moment may be liquid; at the nextmoment solid; at the next aeriform. The water that flows beforeyour gaze may stop consolidated into ice, or ascend into air as avapour. Thus is man susceptible of three states ofexistence,—the animal, the mental, the spiritual; andaccording as he is brought into relation or affinity with thatoccult agency of the whole natural world, which we familiarly callheat, and which no science has yet explained, which no scale canweigh, and no eye discern, one or the other of these three statesof being prevails, or is subjected."
I still continued silent, for I was unwilling discourteously tosay to a stranger so much older than myself, that he seemed to meto reverse all the maxims of the philosophy to which he madepretence, in founding speculations audacious and abstruse uponunanalogous comparisons that would have been fantastic even in apoet. And Sir Philip, after another pause, resumed with a halfsmile,—
"After what I have said, it will perhaps not very much surpriseyou when I add that but for my belief in the powers I ascribe totrance, we should not be known to each other at this moment."
"How? Pray explain!"
"Certain circumstances, which I trust to relate to you in detailhereafter, have imposed on me the duty to discover, and to bringhuman laws to bear upon, a creature armed with terrible powers ofevil. This monster, for without metaphor, monster it is, not manlike ourselves, has, by arts superior to those of ordinaryfugitives, however dexterous in concealment, hitherto for yearseluded my research. Through the trance of an Arab child, who, inher waking state, never heard of his existence, I have learned thatthis being is in England, is in L——. I am here toencounter him. I expect to do so this very night, and under thisvery roof."
"Sir Philip!"
"And if you wonder, as you well may, why I have been talking toyou with this startling unreserve, know that the same Arab child,on whom I thus implicitly rely, informs me that your life is mixedup with that of the being I seek to unmask and disarm,—to bedestroyed by his arts or his agents, or to combine in the causes bywhich the destroyer himself shall be brought to destruction."
"My life!—your Arab child named me, Allen Fenwick?"
"My Arab child told me that the person in whom I should thusnaturally seek an ally was he who had saved the life of the manwhom I then meant for my heir, if I died unmarried and childless.She told me that I should not be many hours in this town, which shedescribed minutely, before you would be made known to me. Shedescribed this house, with yonder lights, and yon dancers. In hertrance she saw us sitting together, as we now sit. I accepted theinvitation of our host, when he suddenly accosted me on enteringthe town, confident that I should meet you here, without evenasking whether a person of your name were a resident in the place;and now you know why I have so freely unbosomed myself of much thatmight well make you, a physician, doubt the soundness of myunderstanding. The same infant, whose vision has been realized upto this moment, has warned me also that I am here at great peril.What that peril may be I have declined to learn, as I have everdeclined to ask from the future what affects only my own life onthis earth. That life I regard with supreme indifference, consciousthat I have only to discharge, while it lasts, the duties for whichit is bestowed on me, to the best of my imperfect power; and awarethat minds the strongest and souls the purest may fall into thesloth habitual to predestinarians, if they suffer the action due tothe present hour to be awed and paralyzed by some grim shadow onthe future! It is only where, irrespectively of aught that canmenace myself, a light not struck out of my own reason can guide meto disarm evil or minister to good, that I feel privileged to availmyself of those mirrors on which things, near and far, reflectthemselves calm and distinct as the banks and the mountain peak arereflected in the glass of a lake. Here, then, under this roof, andby your side, I shall behold him who—Lo! the moment hascome,—I behold him now!"
As he spoke these last words, Sir Philip had risen, and,startled by his action and voice, I involuntarily rose too. Restingone hand on my shoulder, he pointed with the other towards thethreshold of the ballroom. There, the prominent figure of a gaygroup—the sole male amidst a fluttering circle of silks andlawn, of flowery wreaths, of female loveliness and femalefrippery—stood the radiant image of Margrave. His eyes werenot turned towards us. He was looking down, and his light laughcame soft, yet ringing, through the general murmur.
I turned my astonished gaze back to Sir Philip; yes,unmistakably it was on Margrave that his look was fixed. Impossibleto associate crime with the image of that fair youth! Eccentricnotions, fantastic speculations, vivacious egotism, defectivebenevolence,—yes. But crime! No! impossible!
"Impossible," I said aloud. As I spoke, the group had moved on.Margrave was no longer in sight. At the same moment some otherguests came from the ballroom, and seated themselves near us.
Sir Philip looked round, and, observing the deserted museum atthe end of the corridor, drew me into it.
When we were alone, he said in a voice quick and low, butdecided,—
"It is of importance that I should convince you at once of thenature of that prodigy which is more hostile to mankind than thewolf is to the sheepfold. No words of mine could at present sufficeto clear your sight from the deception which cheats it. I mustenable you to judge for yourself. It must be now and here. He willlearn this night, if he has not learned already, that I am in thetown. Dim and confused though his memories of myself may be, theyare memories still; and he well knows what cause he has to dreadme. I must put another in possession of his secret. Another, and atonce! For all his arts will be brought to bear against me, and Icannot foretell their issue. Go, then; enter that giddy crowd,select that seeming young man, bring him hither. Take care only notto mention my name; and when here, turn the key in the door, so asto prevent interruption,—five minutes will suffice."
"Am I sure that I guess whom you mean? The young light-heartedman, known in this place under the name of Margrave? The young manwith the radiant eyes, and the curls of a Grecian statue?"
"The same; him whom I pointed out. Quick, bring him hither."
My curiosity was too much roused to disobey. Had I conceivedthat Margrave, in the heat of youth, had committed some offencewhich placed him in danger of the law and in the power of SirPhilip Derval, I possessed enough of the old borderer's black-mailloyalty to have given the man whose hand I had familiarly clasped ahint and a help to escape. But all Sir Philip's talk had been soout of the reach of common-sense, that I rather expected to see himconfounded by some egregious illusion than Margrave exposed to anywell-grounded accusation. All, then, that I felt as I walked intothe ballroom and approached Margrave was that curiosity which, Ithink, any one of my readers will acknowledge that, in my position,he himself would have felt.
Margrave was standing near the dancers, not joining them, buttalking with a young couple in the ring. I drew him aside.
"Come with me for a few minutes into the museum; I wish to talkto you."
"What about,—an experiment?"
"Yes, an experiment."
"Then I am at your service."
In a minute more, he had followed me into the desolate deadmuseum. I looked round, but did not see Sir Philip.
MARGRAVE threw himself on a seat just under the great anaconda;I closed and locked the door. When I had done so, my eye fell onthe young man's face, and I was surprised to see that it had lostits colour; that it showed great anxiety, great distress; that hishands were visibly trembling.
"What is this?" he said in feeble tones, and raising himselfhalf from his seat as if with great effort. "Help me up! come away!Something in this room is hostile to me, hostile, overpowering!What can it be?"
"Truth and my presence," answered a stern, low voice; and SirPhilip Derval, whose slight form the huge bulk of the dead elephanthad before obscured from my view, came suddenly out from the shadowinto the full rays of the lamps which lit up, as if for Man'srevel, that mocking catacomb for the playmates of Nature which heenslaves for his service or slays for his sport. As Sir Philipspoke and advanced, Margrave sank back into his seat, shrinking,collapsing, nerveless; terror the most abject expressed in hisstaring eyes and parted lips. On the other hand, the simple dignityof Sir Philip Derval's bearing, and the mild power of hiscountenance, were alike inconceivably heightened. A change had comeover the whole man, the more impressive because whollyundefinable.
Halting opposite Margrave he uttered some words in a languageunknown to me, and stretched one hand over the young man's head.Margrave at once became stiff and rigid, as if turned to stone. SirPhilip said to me,—
"Place one of those lamps on the floor,—there, by hisfeet."
I took down one of the coloured lamps from the mimic tree roundwhich the huge anaconda coiled its spires, and placed it as I wastold.
"Take the seat opposite to him, and watch."
I obeyed.
Meanwhile, Sir Philip had drawn from his breast-pocket a smallsteel casket, and I observed, as he opened it, that the interiorwas subdivided into several compartments, each with its separatelid; from one of these he took and sprinkled over the flame of thelamp a few grains of a powder, colourless and sparkling as diamonddust. In a second or so, a delicate perfume, wholly unfamiliar tomy sense, rose from the lamp.
"You would test the condition of trance; test it, and in thespirit."
And, as he spoke, his hand rested lightly on my head. Hitherto,amidst a surprise not unmixed with awe, I had preserved a certaindefiance, a certain distrust. I had been, as it were, on myguard.
But as those words were spoken, as that hand rested on my head,as that perfume arose from the lamp, all power of will deserted me.My first sensation was that of passive subjugation; but soon I wasaware of a strange intoxicating effect from the odour of the lamp,round which there now played a dazzling vapour. The room swambefore me. Like a man oppressed by a nightmare, I tried to move, tocry out, feeling that to do so would suffice to burst the thrallthat bound me: in vain.
A time that seemed to me inexorably long, but which, as I foundafterwards, could only have occupied a few seconds, elapsed in thispreliminary state, which, however powerless, was not without avague luxurious sense of delight. And then suddenly camepain,—pain, that in rapid gradations passed into a rendingagony. Every bone, sinew, nerve, fibre of the body, seemed as ifwrenched open, and as if some hitherto unconjectured Presence inthe vital organization were forcing itself to light with all thepangs of travail. The veins seemed swollen to bursting, the heartlabouring to maintain its action by fierce spasms. I feel in thisdescription how language fails me. Enough that the anguish I thenendured surpassed all that I have ever experienced of physicalpain. This dreadful interval subsided as suddenly as it hadcommenced. I felt as if a something undefinable by any name hadrushed from me, and in that rush that a struggle was over. I wassensible of the passive bliss which attends the release fromtorture, and then there grew on me a wonderful calm, and, in thatcalm, a consciousness of some lofty intelligence immeasurablybeyond that which human memory gathers from earthly knowledge. Isaw before me the still rigid form of Margrave, and my sightseemed, with ease, to penetrate through its covering of flesh, andto survey the mechanism of the whole interior being.
"View that tenement of clay which now seems so fair, as it waswhen I last beheld it, three years ago, in the house of Haroun ofAleppo!"
I looked, and gradually, and as shade after shade falls on themountain side, while the clouds gather, and the sun vanishes atlast, so the form and face on which I looked changed from exuberantyouth into infirm old age,—the discoloured wrinkled skin, thebleared dim eye, the flaccid muscles, the brittle sapless bones.Nor was the change that of age alone; the expression of thecountenance had passed into gloomy discontent, and in every furrowa passion or a vice had sown the seeds of grief.
And the brain now opened on my sight, with all its labyrinth ofcells. I seemed to have the clew to every winding in the maze.
I saw therein a moral world, charred and ruined, as, in somefable I have read, the world of the moon is described to be; yetwithal it was a brain of magnificent formation. The powers abusedto evil had been originally of rare order,—imagination, andscope, the energies that dare, the faculties that discover. But themoral part of the brain had failed to dominate themental,—defective veneration of what is good or great;cynical disdain of what is right and just; in fine, a greatintellect first misguided, then perverted, and now falling with thedecay of the body into ghastly but imposing ruins,—such wasthe world of that brain as it had been three years ago. And stillcontinuing to gaze thereon, I observed three separate emanations oflight,—the one of a pale red hue, the second of a pale azure,the third a silvery spark.
The red light, which grew paler and paler as I looked, undulatedfrom the brain along the arteries, the veins, the nerves. And Imurmured to myself, "Is this the principle of animal life?"
The azure light equally permeated the frame, crossing anduniting with the red, but in a separate and distinct ray, exactlyas, in the outer world, a ray of light crosses or unites with a rayof heat, though in itself a separate individual agency. And again Imurmured to myself, "Is this the principle of intellectual being,directing or influencing that of animal life; with it, yet not ofit?"
But the silvery spark! What was that? Its centre seemed thebrain; but I could fix it to no single organ. Nay, wherever Ilooked through the system, it reflected itself as a star reflectsitself upon water. And I observed that while the red light wasgrowing feebler and feebler, and the azure light was confused,irregular,—now obstructed, now hurrying, now almostlost,—the silvery spark was unaltered, undisturbed. Soindependent was it of all which agitated and vexed the frame, thatI became strangely aware that if the heart stopped in its action,and the red light died out; if the brain were paralyzed, thatenergetic mind smitten into idiotcy, and the azure light wanderingobjectless as a meteor wanders over the morass,—still thatsilver spark would shine the same, indestructible by aught thatshattered its tabernacle. And I murmured to myself, "Can thatstarry spark speak the presence of the soul? Does the silver lightshine within creatures to which no life immortal has been promisedby Divine Revelation?"
Involuntarily I turned my sight towards the dead forms in themotley collection, and lo, in my trance or my vision, life returnedto them all!—to the elephant and the serpent; to the tiger,the vulture, the beetle, the moth; to the fish and the polypus, andto yon mockery of man in the giant ape.
I seemed to see each as it lived in its native realm of earth,or of air, or of water; and the red light played more or less warmthrough the structure of each, and the azure light, though dullerof hue, seemed to shoot through the red, and communicate to thecreatures an intelligence far inferior indeed to that of man, butsufficing to conduct the current of their will, and influence thecunning of their instincts. But in none, from the elephant to themoth, from the bird in which brain was the largest to the hybrid inwhich life seemed to live as in plants,—in none was visiblethe starry silver spark. I turned my eyes from the creaturesaround, back again to the form cowering under the huge anaconda,and in terror at the animation which the carcasses took in theawful illusions of that marvellous trance; for the tiger moved asif scenting blood, and to the eyes of the serpent the dreadfascination seemed slowly returning.
Again I gazed on the starry spark in the form of the man. And Imurmured to myself, "But if this be the soul, why is it soundisturbed and undarkened by the sins which have left such traceand such ravage in the world of the brain?" And gazing yet moreintently on the spark, I became vaguely aware that it was not thesoul, but the halo around the soul, as the star we see in heaven isnot the star itself, but its circle of rays; and if the lightitself was undisturbed and undarkened, it was because no sins donein the body could annihilate its essence, nor affect the eternityof its duration. The light was clear within the ruins of itslodgment, because it might pass away, but could not beextinguished.
But the soul itself in the heart of the light reflected back onmy own soul within me its ineffable trouble, humiliation, andsorrow; for those ghastly wrecks of power placed at its sovereigncommand it was responsible, and, appalled by its own sublime fateof duration, was about to carry into eternity the account of itsmission in time. Yet it seemed that while the soul was still there,though so forlorn and so guilty, even the wrecks around it weremajestic. And the soul, whatever sentence it might merit, was notamong the hopelessly lost; for in its remorse and its shame, itmight still have retained what could serve for redemption. And Isaw that the mind was storming the soul, in some terriblerebellious war,—all of thought, of passion, of desire,through which the azure light poured its restless flow, weresurging up round the starry spark, as in siege. And I could notcomprehend the war, nor guess what it was that the mind demandedthe soul to yield. Only the distinction between the two was madeintelligible by their antagonism. And I saw that the soul, sorelytempted, looked afar for escape from the subjects it had ever soill controlled, and who sought to reduce to their vassal the powerwhich had lost authority as their king. I could feel its terror inthe sympathy of my own terror, the keenness of my own supplicatingpity. I knew that it was imploring release from the perils itconfessed its want of strength to encounter. And suddenly thestarry spark rose from the ruins and the tumult aroundit,—rose into space and vanished; and where my soul hadrecognized the presence of soul, there was a void. But the redlight burned still, becoming more and more vivid; and as it thusrepaired and recruited its lustre, the whole animal form, which hadbeen so decrepit, grew restored from decay, grew into vigour andyouth: and I saw Margrave as I had seen him in the waking world,the radiant image of animal life in the beauty of its fairestbloom.
And over this rich vitality and this symmetric mechanism nowreigned only, with the animal life, the mind. The starry light fledand the soul vanished, still was left visible the mind,—mind,by which sensations convey and cumulate ideas, and muscles obeyvolition; mind, as in those animals that have more than theelementary, instincts; mind, as it might be in men, were men notimmortal. As my eyes, in the Vision, followed the azure light,undulating as before, through the cells of the brain, and crossingthe red amidst the labyrinth of the nerves, I perceived that theessence of that azure light had undergone a change: it had lostthat faculty of continuous and concentred power by which manimproves on the works of the past, and weaves schemes to bedeveloped in the future of remote generations; it had lost allsympathy in the past, because it had lost all conception of afuture beyond the grave; it had lost conscience, it had lostremorse; the being it informed was no longer accountable througheternity for the employment of time. The azure light was even morevivid in certain organs useful to the conservation of existence, asin those organs I had observed it more vivid among some of theinferior animals than it is in man,—secretiveness,destructiveness, and the ready perception of things immediate tothe wants of the day; and the azure light was brilliant in cerebralcells, where before it had been dark, such as those which harbourmirthfulness and hope, for there the light was recruited by theexuberant health of the joyous animal-being. But it was lead-like,or dim, in the great social organs, through which man subordinateshis own interest to that of his species, and utterly lost in thosethrough which man is reminded of his duties to the throne of hisMaker.
In that marvellous penetration with which the Vision endowed me,I perceived that in this mind, though in energy far superior tomany; though retaining, from memories of the former existence, therelics of a culture wide and in some things profound; thoughsharpened and quickened into formidable, if desultory, forcewhenever it schemed or aimed at the animal self-conservation whichnow made its master—impulse or instinct; and though among thereminiscences of its state before its change were arts which Icould not comprehend, but which I felt were dark and terrible,lending to a will never checked by remorse arms that no healthfulphilosophy has placed in the arsenal of disciplined genius; thoughthe mind in itself had an ally in a body as perfect in strength andelasticity as man can take from the favour of nature,—still,I say, I felt that the mind wanted the something without which mennever could found cities, frame laws, bind together, beautify,exalt the elements of this world, by creeds that habitually subjectthem to a reference to another. The ant and the bee and the beavercongregate and construct; but they do not improve. Man improvesbecause the future impels onward that which is not found in theant, the bee, and the beaver,—that which was gone from thebeing before me.
I shrank appalled into myself, covered my face with my hands,and groaned aloud: "Have I ever then doubted that soul is distinctfrom mind?"
A hand here again touched my forehead, the light in the lamp wasextinguished, I became insensible; and when I recovered I foundmyself back in the room in which I had first conversed with SirPhilip Derval, and seated, as before, on the sofa, by his side.
My recollections of all which I have just attempted to describewere distinct and vivid; except with respect to time, it seemed tome as if many hours must have elapsed since I had entered themuseum with Margrave; but the clock on the mantelpiece met my eyesas I turned them wistfully round the room; and I was indeed amazedto perceive that five minutes had sufficed for all which it hastaken me so long to narrate, and which in their transit had hurriedme through ideas and emotions so remote from anteriorexperience.
To my astonishment now succeeded shame andindignation,—shame that I, who had scoffed at the possibilityof the comparatively credible influences of mesmeric action, shouldhave been so helpless a puppet under the hand of the slightfellow-man beside me, and so morbidly impressed by phantasmagoriealillusions; indignation that, by some fumes which had specialpotency over the brain, I had thus been, as it were, conjured outof my senses; and looking full into the calm face at my side, Isaid, with a smile to which I sought to convey disdain,—
"I congratulate you, Sir Philip Derval, on having learned inyour travels in the East so expert a familiarity with the tricks ofits jugglers."
"The East has a proverb," answered Sir Philip, quietly, "thatthe juggler may learn much from the dervish, but the dervish canlearn nothing from the juggler. You will pardon me, however, forthe effect produced on you for a few minutes, whatever the cause ofit may be, since it may serve to guard your whole life fromcalamities, to which it might otherwise have been exposed. Andhowever you may consider that which you have just experienced to bea mere optical illusion, or the figment of a brain super-excited bythe fumes of a vapour, look within yourself, and tell me if you donot feel an inward and unanswerable conviction that there is morereason to shun and to fear the creature you left asleep under thedead jaws of the giant serpent, than there would be in the serpentitself, could hunger again move its coils, and venom again arm itsfangs."
I was silent, for I could not deny that that conviction had cometo me.
"Henceforth, when you recover from the confusion or anger whichnow disturbs your impressions, you will be prepared to listen to myexplanations and my recital in a spirit far different from thatwith which you would have received them before you were subjectedto the experiment, which, allow me to remind you, you invited anddefied. You will now, I trust, be fitted to become my confidant andmy assistant; you will advise with me how, for the sake ofhumanity, we should act together against the incarnate lie, theanomalous prodigy which glides through the crowd in the image ofjoyous beauty. For the present I quit you. I have an engagement, onworldly affairs, in the town this night. I am staying atL——, which I shall leave for Derval Court tomorrowevening. Come to me there the day after to-morrow, at any hour thatmay suit you the best. Adieu!"
Here Sir Philip Derval rose and left the room. I made no effortto detain him. My mind was too occupied in striving to recomposeitself and account for the phenomena that had scared it, and forthe strength of the impressions it still retained.
I sought to find natural and accountable causes for effects soabnormal.
Lord Bacon suggests that the ointments with which witchesanointed themselves might have had the effect of stopping the poresand congesting the rain, and thus impressing the sleep of theunhappy dupes of their own imagination with dreams so vivid that,on waking, they were firmly convinced that they had been bornethrough the air to the Sabbat.
I remember also having heard a distinguished Frenchtraveller—whose veracity was unquestionable—say, thathe had witnessed extraordinary effects produced on the sensorium bycertain fumigations used by an African pretender to magic. Aperson, of however healthy a brain; subjected to the influence ofthese fumigations, was induced to believe that he saw the mostfrightful apparitions.
However extraordinary such effects, they were notincredible,—not at variance with our notions of the knownlaws of nature. And to the vapour or the odours which a powderapplied to a lamp had called forth, I was, therefore, prepared toascribe properties similar to those which Bacon's conjectureascribed to the witches' ointment, and the French traveller to thefumigations of the African conjuror.
But, as I came to that conclusion, I was seized with an intensecuriosity to examine for myself those chemical agencies with whichSir Philip Derval appeared so familiar; to test the contents inthat mysterious casket of steel. I also felt a curiosity no lesseager, but more, in spite of myself, intermingled with fear, tolearn all that Sir Philip had to communicate of the past history ofMargrave. I could but suppose that the young man must indeed be aterrible criminal, for a person of years so grave, and station sohigh, to intimate accusations so vaguely dark, and to use means soextraordinary, in order to enlist my imagination rather than myreason against a youth in whom there appeared none of the signswhich suspicion interprets into guilt.
While thus musing, I lifted my eyes and saw Margrave himselfthere at the threshold of the ballroom,—there, where SirPhilip had first pointed him out as the criminal he had come toL—— to seek and disarm; and now, as then, Margrave wasthe radiant centre of a joyous group. Not the young boy-godIacchus, amidst his nymphs, could, in Grecian frieze or picture,have seemed more the type of the sportive, hilarious vitality ofsensuous nature. He must have passed unobserved by me, in mypreoccupation of thought, from the museum and across the room inwhich I sat; and now there was as little trace in that animatedcountenance of the terror it had exhibited at Sir Philip'sapproach, as of the change it had undergone in my trance or myfantasy.
But he caught sight of me, left his young companions, came gaylyto my side.
"Did you not ask me to go with you into that museum about halfan hour ago, or did I dream that I went with you?"
"Yes; you went with me into that museum."
"Then pray what dull theme did you select to set me asleepthere?"
I looked hard at him, and made no reply. Somewhat to my relief,I now heard my host's voice,—
"Why, Fenwick, what has become of Sir Philip Derval?"
"He has left; he had business." And, as I spoke, again I lookedhard on Margrave.
His countenance now showed a change; not surprise, not dismay,but rather a play of the lip, a flash of the eye, that indicatedcomplacency,—even triumph.
"So! Sir Philip Derval! He is in L——; he has beenhere to-night? So! as I expected."
"Did you expect it?" said our host. "No one else did. Who couldhave told you?"
"The movements of men so distinguished need never take us bysurprise. I knew he was in Paris the other day. It is natural eno'that he should come here. I was prepared for his coming."
Margrave here turned away towards the window, which he threwopen and looked out.
"There is a storm in the air," said he, as he continued to gazeinto the night.
Was it possible that Margrave was so wholly unconscious of whathad passed in the museum as to include in oblivion even theremembrance of Sir Philip Derval's presence before he had beenrendered insensible, or laid asleep? Was it now only for the firsttime that he learned of Sir Philip's arrival in L——,and visit to that house? Was there any intimation of menace in hiswords and his aspect?
I felt that the trouble of my thoughts communicated itself to mycountenance and manner; and, longing for solitude and fresh air, Iquitted the house. When I found myself in the street I turned roundand saw Margrave still standing at the open window, but he did notappear to notice me; his eyes seemed fixed abstractedly onspace.
I walked on slowly and with the downcast brow of a man absorbedin meditation. I had gained the broad place in which the mainstreets of the town converged, when I was overtaken by a violentstorm of rain. I sought shelter under the dark archway of thatentrance to the district of Abbey Hill which was still calledMonk's Gate. The shadow within the arch was so deep that I was notaware that I had a companion till I heard my own name, close at myside. I recognized the voice before I could distinguish the form ofSir Philip Derval.
"The storm will soon be over," said he, quietly. "I saw itcoming on in time. I fear you neglected the first warning of thosesable clouds, and must be already drenched."
I made no reply, but moved involuntarily away towards the mouthof the arch.
"I see that you cherish a grudge against me!" resumed SirPhilip. "Are you, then, by nature vindictive?"
Somewhat softened by the friendly tone of this reproach, Ianswered, half in jest, half in earnest,—
"You must own, Sir Philip, that I have some little reason forthe uncharitable anger your question imputes to me. But I canforgive you, on one condition."
"What is that?"
"The possession for half an hour of that mysterious steel casketwhich you carry about with you, and full permission to analyze andtest its contents."
"Your analysis of the contents," returned Sir Philip, dryly,"would leave you as ignorant as before of the uses to which theycan be applied; but I will own to you frankly, that it is myintention to select some confidant among men of science, to whom Imay safely communicate the wonderful properties which certainessences in that casket possess. I invite your acquaintance, nay,your friendship, in the hope that I may find such a confidant inyou. But the casket contains other combinations, which, if wasted,could not be resupplied,—at least by any process which thegreat Master from whom I received them placed within reach of myknowledge. In this they resemble the diamond; when the chemist hasfound that the diamond affords no other substance by its combustionthan pure carbonic-acid gas, and that the only chemical differencebetween the costliest diamond and a lump of pure charcoal is aproportion of hydrogen less than 1/100000 part of the weight of thesubstance, can the chemist make you a diamond?
"These, then, the more potent, but also the more perilous of thecasket's contents, shall be explored by no science, submitted to notest. They are the keys to masked doors in the ramparts of Nature,which no mortal can pass through without rousing dread sentriesnever seen upon this side her wall. The powers they confer aresecrets locked in my breast, to be lost in my grave; as the casketwhich lies on my breast shall not be transferred to the hands ofanother, till all the rest of my earthly possessions pass away withmy last breath in life and my first in eternity."
"Sir Philip Derval," said I, struggling against the appeals tofancy or to awe, made in words so strange, uttered in a tone ofearnest conviction, and heard amidst the glare of the lightning,the howl of the winds, and the roll of the thunder,—"SirPhilip Derval, you accost me in a language which, but for myexperience of the powers at your command, I should hear with thecontempt that is due to the vaunts of a mountebank, or the pity wegive to the morbid beliefs of his dupe. As it is, I decline theconfidence with which you would favour me, subject to theconditions which it seems you would impose. My profession abandonsto quacks all drugs which may not be analyzed, all secrets whichmay not be fearlessly told. I cannot visit you at Derval Court. Icannot trust myself, voluntarily, again in the power of a man, whohas arts of which I may not examine the nature, by which he canimpose on my imagination and steal away my reason."
"Reflect well before you decide," said Sir Philip, with asolemnity that was stern. "If you refuse to be warned and to bearmed by me, your reason and your imagination will alike besubjected to influences which I can only explain by telling youthat there is truth in those immemorial legends which depose to theexistence of magic."
"Magic!"
"There is magic of two kinds,—the dark and evil,appertaining to witchcraft or necromancy; the pure and beneficent,which is but philosophy, applied to certain mysteries in Natureremote from the beaten tracks of science, but which deepened thewisdom of ancient sages, and can yet unriddle the myths of departedraces."
"Sir Philip," I said, with impatient and angry interruption, "ifyou think that a jargon of this kind be worthy a man of youracquirements and station, it is at least a waste of time to addressit to me. I am led to conclude that you desire to make use of mefor some purpose which I have a right to suppose honest andblameless, because all you know of me is, that I rendered to yourrelation services which can not lower my character in your eyes. Ifyour object be, as you have intimated, to aid you in exposing anddisabling man whose antecedents have been those of guilt, and whothreatens with danger the society which receives him, you must giveme proofs that are not reducible to magic; and you must prepossessme against the person you accuse, not by powders and fumes thatdisorder the brain, but by substantial statements, such as justifyone man in condemning another. And, since you have thought fit toconvince me that there are chemical means at your disposal, bywhich the imagination can be so affected as to accept, temporarily,illusions for realities, so I again demand, and now still moredecidedly than before, that while you address yourself to myreason, whether to explain your object or to vindicate your chargesagainst a man whom I have admitted to my acquaintance, you willdivest yourself of all means and agencies to warp my judgment soillicit and fraudulent as those which you own yourself to possess.Let the casket, with all its contents, be transferred to my hands,and pledge me your word that, in giving that casket, you reserve toyourself no other means by which chemistry can be abused to thoseinfluences over physical organization, which ignorance or imposturemay ascribe to—magic."
"I accept no conditions for my confidence, though I think thebetter of you for attempting to make them. If I live, you will seekme yourself, and implore my aid. Meanwhile, listen to me,and—"
"No; I prefer the rain and the thunder to the whispers thatsteal to my ear in the dark from one of whom I have reason tobeware."
So saying, I stepped forth, and at that moment the lightningflashed through the arch, and brought into full view the face ofthe man beside me. Seen by that glare, it was pale as the face of acorpse, but its expression was compassionate and serene.
I hesitated, for the expression of that hueless countenancetouched me; it was not the face which inspires distrust orfear.
"Come," said I, gently; "grant my demand. The casket—"
"It is no scruple of distrust that now makes that demand; it isa curiosity which in itself is a fearful tempter. Did you nowpossess what at this moment you desire, how bitterly you wouldrepent!"
"Do you still refuse my demand?"
"I refuse."
"If then you really need me, it is you who will repent."
I passed from the arch into the open space. The rain had passed,the thunder was more distant. I looked back when I had gained theopposite side of the way, at the angle of a street which led to myown house. As I did so, again the skies lightened, but the flashwas comparatively slight and evanescent; it did not penetrate thegloom of the arch; it did not bring the form of Sir Philip intoview; but, just under the base of the outer buttress to thegateway, I descried the outline of a dark figure, cowering down,huddled up for shelter, the outline so indistinct, and so soon lostto sight as the flash faded, that I could not distinguish if itwere man or brute. If it were some chance passer-by, who had soughtrefuge from the rain, and overheard any part of our strange talk,"the listener," thought I with a half-smile, "must have beenmightily perplexed."
On reaching my own home, I found my servant sitting up for mewith the information that my attendance was immediately required.The little boy whom Margrave's carelessness had so injured, and forwhose injury he had shown so little feeling, had been weakened bythe confinement which the nature of the injury required, and forthe last few days had been generally ailing. The father had come tomy house a few minutes before I reached it, in great distress ofmind, saying that his child had been seized with fever, and hadbecome delirious. Hearing that I was at the mayor's house, he hadhurried thither in search of me.
I felt as if it were almost a relief to the troubled andhaunting thoughts which tormented me, to be summoned to theexercise of a familiar knowledge. I hastened to the bedside of thelittle sufferer, and soon forgot all else in the anxious strugglefor a human life. The struggle promised to be successful; the worstsymptoms began to yield to remedies prompt and energetic, ifsimple. I remained at the house, rather to comfort and support theparents, than because my continued attendance was absolutelyneeded, till the night was well-nigh gone; and all cause ofimmediate danger having subsided, I then found myself once more inthe streets. An atmosphere palely clear in the gray of dawn hadsucceeded to the thunder-clouds of the stormy night; thestreetlamps, here and there, burned wan and still. I was walkingslowly and wearily, so tired out that I was scarcely conscious ofmy own thoughts, when, in a narrow lane, my feet stopped almostmechanically before a human form stretched at full length in thecentre of the road right in my path. The form was dark in theshadow thrown from the neighbouring houses. "Some poor drunkard,"thought I, and the humanity inseparable from my calling notallowing me to leave a fellow-creature thus exposed to the risk ofbeing run over by the first drowsy wagoner who might pass along thethoroughfare, I stooped to rouse and to lift the form. What was myhorror when my eyes met the rigid stare of a dead man's. I started,looked again; it was the face of Sir Philip Derval! He was lying onhis back, the countenance upturned, a dark stream oozing from thebreast,—murdered by two ghastly wounds, murdered not longsince, the blood was still warm. Stunned and terror-stricken, Istood bending over the body. Suddenly I was touched on theshoulder.
"Hollo! what is this?" said a gruff voice.
"Murder!" I answered in hollow accents, which sounded strangelyto my own ear.
"Murder! so it seems." And the policeman who had thus accostedme lifted the body.
"A gentleman by his dress. How did this happen? How did you comehere?" and the policeman glanced suspiciously at me.
At this moment, however, there came up another policeman, inwhom I recognized the young man whose sister I had attended andcured.
"Dr. Fenwick," said the last, lifting his hat respectfully, andat the sound of my name his fellow-policeman changed his manner andmuttered an apology.
I now collected myself sufficiently to state the name and rankof the murdered man. The policemen bore the body to their station,to which I accompanied them. I then returned to my own house, andhad scarcely sunk on my bed when sleep came over me. But what asleep! Never till then had I known how awfully distinct dreams canbe. The phantasmagoria of the naturalist's collection revived. Lifeagain awoke in the serpent and the tiger, the scorpion moved, andthe vulture flapped its wings. And there was Margrave, and thereSir Philip; but their position of power was reversed, andMargrave's foot was on the breast of the dead man. Still I slept ontill I was roused by the summons to attend on Mr. Vigors, themagistrate to whom the police had reported the murder.
I dressed hastily and went forth. As I passed through thestreet, I found that the dismal news had already spread. I wasaccosted on my way to the magistrate by a hundred eager, tremulous,inquiring tongues.
The scanty evidence I could impart was soon given.
My introduction to Sir Philip at the mayor's house, ouraccidental meeting under the arch, my discovery of the corpse somehours afterwards on my return from my patient, my professionalbelief that the deed must have been done a very short time, perhapsbut a few minutes, before I chanced upon its victim. But, in thatcase, how account for the long interval that had elapsed betweenthe time in which I had left Sir Philip under the arch and the timein which the murder must have been committed? Sir Philip could nothave been wandering through the streets all those hours. Thisdoubt, however, was easily and speedily cleared up. A Mr. Jeeves,who was one of the principal solicitors in the town, stated that hehad acted as Sir Philip's legal agent and adviser ever since SirPhilip came of age, and was charged with the exclusive managementof some valuable house-property which the deceased had possessed inL——; that when Sir Philip had arrived in the town latein the afternoon of the previous day, he had sent for Mr. Jeeves;informed him that he, Sir Philip, was engaged to be married; thathe wished to have full and minute information as to the details ofhis house property (which had greatly increased in value since hisabsence from England), in connection with the settlements hismarriage would render necessary; and that this information was alsorequired by him in respect to a codicil he desired to add to hiswill.
He had, accordingly, requested Mr. Jeeves to have all the booksand statements concerning the property ready for his inspectionthat night, when he would call, after leaving the ball which he hadpromised the mayor, whom he had accidentally met on entering thetown, to attend. Sir Philip had also asked Mr. Jeeves to detain oneof his clerks in his office, in order to serve, conjointly with Mr.Jeeves, as a witness to the codicil he desired to add to his will.Sir Philip had accordingly come to Mr. Jeeves's house a littlebefore midnight; had gone carefully through all the statementsprepared for him, and had executed the fresh codicil to histestament, which testament he had in their previous interview givento Mr. Jeeves's care, sealed up. Mr. Jeeves stated that Sir Philip,though a man of remarkable talents and great acquirements, wasextremely eccentric, and of a very peremptory temper, and that theimportance attached to a promptitude for which there seemed nopressing occasion did not surprise him in Sir Philip as it mighthave done in an ordinary client. Sir Philip said, indeed, that heshould devote the next morning to the draft for his weddingsettlements, according to the information of his property which hehad acquired; and after a visit of very brief duration to DervalCourt, should quit the neighbourhood and return to Paris, where hisintended bride then was, and in which city it had been settled thatthe marriage ceremony should take place.
Mr. Jeeves had, however, observed to him, that if he were sosoon to be married, it was better to postpone any revision oftestamentary bequests, since after marriage he would have to make anew will altogether.
And Sir Philip had simply answered,—
"Life is uncertain; who can be sure of the morrow?"
Sir Philip's visit to Mr. Jeeves's house had lasted some hours,for the conversation between them had branched off from actualbusiness to various topics. Mr. Jeeves had not noticed the hourwhen Sir Philip went; he could only say that as he attended him tothe street-door, he observed, rather to his own surprise, that itwas close upon daybreak.
Sir Philip's body had been found not many yards distant from thehotel at which he had put up, and to which, therefore, he wasevidently returning when he left Mr. Jeeves,—an old-fashionedhotel, which had been the principal one at L—— when SirPhilip left England, though now outrivalled by the new and morecentral establishment in which Margrave was domiciled.
The primary and natural supposition was that Sir Philip had beenmurdered for the sake of plunder; and this supposition was borneout by the fact to which his valet deposed, namely,—
That Sir Philip had about his person, on going to the mayor'shouse, a purse containing notes and sovereigns; and this purse wasnow missing.
The valet, who, though an Albanian, spoke English fluently, saidthat the purse had a gold clasp, on which Sir Philip's crest andinitials were engraved. Sir Philip's watch was, however, nottaken.
And now, it was not without a quick beat of the heart that Iheard the valet declare that a steel casket, to which Sir Philipattached extraordinary value, and always carried about with him,was also missing.
The Albanian described this casket as of ancient Byzantineworkmanship, opening with a peculiar spring, only known to SirPhilip, in whose possession it had been, so far as the servantknew, about three years: when, after a visit to Aleppo, in whichthe servant had not accompanied him, he had first observed it inhis master's hands. He was asked if this casket contained articlesto account for the value Sir Philip set on it,—such asjewels, bank-notes, letters of credit, etc. The man replied that itmight possibly do so; he had never been allowed the opportunity ofexamining its contents; but that he was certain the casket heldmedicines, for he had seen Sir Philip take from it some smallphials, by which he had performed great cures in the East, andespecially during a pestilence which had visited Damascus, justafter Sir Philip had arrived at that city on quitting Aleppo.Almost every European traveller is supposed to be a physician; andSir Philip was a man of great benevolence, and the servant firmlybelieved him also to be of great medical skill. After thisstatement, it was very naturally and generally conjectured that SirPhilip was an amateur disciple of homoeopathy, and that the casketcontained the phials or globules in use among homoeopathists.
Whether or not Mr. Vigors enjoyed a vindictive triumph in makingme feel the weight of his authority, or whether his temper wasruffled in the excitement of so grave a case, I cannot say, but hismanner was stern and his tone discourteous in the questions whichhe addressed to me. Nor did the questions themselves seem verypertinent to the object of investigation.
"Pray, Dr. Fenwick," said he, knitting his brows, and fixing hiseyes on me rudely, "did Sir Philip Derval in his conversation withyou mention the steel casket which it seems he carried about withhim?"
I felt my countenance change slightly as I answered, "Yes."
"Did he tell you what it contained?"
"He said it contained secrets."
"Secrets of what nature,—medicinal or chemical? Secretswhich a physician might be curious to learn and covetous topossess?"
This question seemed to me so offensively significant that itroused my indignation, and I answered haughtily, that "a physicianof any degree of merited reputation did not much believe in, andstill less covet, those secrets in his art which were the boast ofquacks and pretenders."
"My question need not offend you, Dr. Fenwick. I put it inanother shape: Did Sir Philip Derval so boast of the secretscontained in his casket that a quack or pretender might deem suchsecrets of use to him?"
"Possibly he might, if he believed in such a boast."
"Humph!—he might if he so believed. I have no morequestions to put to you at present, Dr. Fenwick."
Little of any importance in connection with the deceased or hismurder transpired in the course of that day's examination andinquiries.
The next day, a gentleman distantly related to the young lady towhom Sir Philip was engaged, and who had been for some time incorrespondence with the deceased, arrived at L——. Hehad been sent for at the suggestion of the Albanian servant, whosaid that Sir Philip had stayed a day at this gentleman's house inLondon, on his way to L——, from Dover.
The new comer, whose name was Danvers, gave a more touchingpathos to the horror which the murder had excited. It seemed thatthe motives which had swayed Sir Philip in the choice of hisbetrothed were singularly pure and noble. The young lady'sfather—an intimate college friend—had been visited by asudden reverse of fortune, which had brought on a fever that provedmortal. He had died some years ago, leaving his only childpenniless, and had bequeathed her to the care and guardianship ofSir Philip.
The orphan received her education at a convent near Paris; andwhen Sir Philip, a few weeks since, arrived in that city from theEast, he offered her his hand and fortune.
"I know," said Mr. Danvers, "from the conversation I held withhim when he came to me in London, that he was induced to this offerby the conscientious desire to discharge the trust consigned to himby his old friend. Sir Philip was still of an age that could notpermit him to take under his own roof a female ward of eighteen,without injury to her good name. He could only get over thatdifficulty by making the ward his wife. 'She will be safer andhappier with the man she will love and honour for her father'ssake,' said the chivalrous gentleman, 'than she will be under anyother roof I could find for her.'"
And now there arrived another stranger to L——, sentfor by Mr. Jeeves, the lawyer,—a stranger to L——,but not to me; my old Edinburgh acquaintance, Richard Strahan.
The will in Mr. Jeeves's keeping, with its recent codicil, wasopened and read. The will itself bore date about six years anteriorto the testator's tragic death: it was very short, and, with theexception of a few legacies, of which the most important wasL10,000 to his ward, the whole of his property was left to RichardStrahan, on the condition that he took the name and arms of Dervalwithin a year from the date of Sir Philip's decease. The codicil,added to the will the night before his death, increased the legacyto the young lady from L10,000 to L30,000, and bequeathed anannuity of L100 a year to his Albanian servant. Accompanying thewill, and within the same envelope, was a sealed letter, addressedto Richard Strahan, and dated at Paris two weeks before SirPhilip's decease. Strahan brought that letter to me. It ranthus:—
"Richard Strahan, I advise you to pull down the house called Derval Court, and to build another on a better site, the plans of which, to be modified according to your own taste and requirements, will be found among my papers. This is a recommendation, not a command. But I strictly enjoin you entirely to demolish the more ancient part, which was chiefly occupied by myself, and to destroy by fire, without perusal, all the books and manuscripts found in the safes in my study. I have appointed you my sole executor, as well as my heir, because I have no personal friends in whom I can confide as I trust I may do in the man I have never seen, simply because he will bear my name and represent my lineage. There will be found in my writing-desk, which always accompanies me in my travels, an autobiographical work, a record of my own life, comprising discoveries, or hints at discovery, in science, through means little cultivated in our age. You will not be surprised that before selecting you as my heir and executor, from a crowd of relations not more distant, I should have made inquiries in order to justify my selection. The result of those inquiries informs me that you have not yourself the peculiar knowledge nor the habits of mind that could enable you to judge of matters which demand the attainments and the practice of science; but that you are of an honest, affectionate nature, and will regard as sacred the last injunctions of a benefactor. I enjoin you, then, to submit the aforesaid manuscript memoir to some man on whose character for humanity and honour you can place confidential reliance, and who is accustomed to the study of the positive sciences, more especially chemistry, in connection with electricity and magnetism. My desire is that he shall edit and arrange this memoir for publication; and that, wherever he feels a conscientious doubt whether any discovery, or hint of discovery, therein contained would not prove more dangerous than useful to mankind, he shall consult with any other three men of science whose names are a guarantee for probity and knowledge, and according to the best of his judgment, after such consultation, suppress or publish the passage of which he has so doubted. I own the ambition which first directed me towards studies of a very unusual character, and which has encouraged me in their pursuit through many years of voluntary exile, in lands where they could be best facilitated or aided,—the ambition of leaving behind me the renown of a bold discoverer in those recesses of nature which philosophy has hitherto abandoned to superstition. But I feel, at the moment in which I trace these lines, a fear lest, in the absorbing interest of researches which tend to increase to a marvellous degree the power of man over all matter, animate or inanimate, I may have blunted my own moral perceptions; and that there may be much in the knowledge which I sought and acquired from the pure desire of investigating hidden truths, that could be more abused to purposes of tremendous evil than be likely to conduce to benignant good. And of this a mind disciplined to severe reasoning, and uninfluenced by the enthusiasm which has probably obscured my own judgment, should be the unprejudiced arbiter. Much as I have coveted and still do covet that fame which makes the memory of one man the common inheritance of all, I would infinitely rather that my name should pass away with my breath, than that I should transmit to my fellowmen any portion of a knowledge which the good might forbear to exercise and the bad might unscrupulously pervert. I bear about with me, wherever I wander, a certain steel casket. I received this casket, with its contents, from a man whose memory I hold in profound veneration. Should I live to find a person whom, after minute and intimate trial of his character, I should deem worthy of such confidence, it is my intention to communicate to him the secret how to prepare and how to use such of the powders and essences stored within that casket as I myself have ventured to employ. Others I have never tested, nor do I know how they could be resupplied if lost or wasted. But as the contents of this casket, in the hands of any one not duly instructed as to the mode of applying them, would either be useless, or conduce, through inadvertent and ignorant misapplication, to the most dangerous consequences; so, if I die without having found, and in writing named, such a confidant as I have described above, I command you immediately to empty all the powders and essences found therein into any running stream of water, which will at once harmlessly dissolve them. On no account must they be cast into fire! "This letter, Richard Strahan, will only come under your eyes in case the plans and the hopes which I have formed for my earthly future should be frustrated by the death on which I do not calculate, but against the chances of which this will and this letter provide. I am about to revisit England, in defiance of a warning that I shall be there subjected to some peril which I refused to have defined, because I am unwilling that any mean apprehension of personal danger should enfeeble my nerves in the discharge of a stern and solemn duty. If I overcome that peril, you will not be my heir; my testament will be remodelled; this letter will be recalled and destroyed. I shall form ties which promise me the happiness I have never hitherto found, though it is common to all men,—the affections of home, the caresses of children, among whom I may find one to whom hereafter I may bequeath, in my knowledge, a far nobler heritage than my lands. In that case, however, my first care would be to assure your own fortunes. And the sum which this codicil assures to my betrothed would be transferred to yourself on my wedding-day. Do you know why, never having seen you, I thus select you for preference to all my other kindred; why my heart, in writing thus, warms to your image? Richard Strahan, your only sister, many years older than yourself—you were then a child—was the object of my first love. We were to have been wedded, for her parents deceived me into the belief that she returned my affection. With a rare and nobler candour, she herself informed me that her heart was given to another, who possessed not my worldly gifts of wealth and station. In resigning my claims to her hand, I succeeded in propitiating her parents to her own choice. I obtained for her husband the living which he held, and I settled on your sister the dower which, at her death, passed to you as the brother to whom she had shown a mother's love, and the interest of which has secured you a modest independence. "If these lines ever reach you, recognize my title to reverential obedience to commands which may seem to you wild, perhaps irrational; and repay, as if a debt due from your own lost sister, the affection I have borne to you for her sake."
While I read this long and strange letter, Strahan sat by myside, covering his face with his hands, and weeping with honesttears for the man whose death had made him powerful and rich.
"You will undertake the trust ordained to me in this letter,"said he, struggling to compose himself. "You will read and editthis memoir; you are the very man he himself would have selected.Of your honour and humanity there can be no doubt, and you havestudied with success the sciences which he specifies as requisitefor the discharge of the task he commands."
At this request, though I could not be wholly unprepared for it,my first impulse was that of a vague terror. It seemed to me as ifI were becoming more and more entangled in a mysterious and fatalweb. But this impulse soon faded in the eager yearnings of anardent and irresistible curiosity.
I promised to read the manuscript, and in order that I mightfully imbue my mind with the object and wish of the deceased, Iasked leave to make a copy of the letter I had just read. To thisStrahan readily assented, and that copy I have transcribed in thepreceding pages.
I asked Strahan if he had yet found the manuscript. He said,"No, he had not yet had the heart to inspect the papers left by thedeceased. He would now do so. He should go in a day or two toDerval Court, and reside there till the murderer was discovered, asdoubtless he soon must be through the vigilance of the police. Nottill that discovery was made should Sir Philip's remains, thoughalready placed in their coffin, be consigned to the familyvault."
Strahan seemed to have some superstitious notion that themurderer might be more secure from justice if his victim werethrust unavenged into the tomb.
The belief prevalent in the town ascribed the murder of SirPhilip to the violence of some vulgar robber, probably not aninhabitant of L——. Mr. Vigors did not favour thatbelief. He intimated an opinion, which seemed extravagant andgroundless, that Sir Philip had been murdered, for the sake not ofthe missing purse, but of the missing casket. It was currentlybelieved that the solemn magistrate had consulted one of hispretended clairvoyants, and that this impostor had gulled him withassurances, to which he attached a credit that perverted intoegregiously absurd directions his characteristic activity andzeal.
Be that as it may, the coroner's inquest closed without castingany light on so mysterious a tragedy.
What were my own conjectures I scarcely dared to admit,—Icertainly could not venture to utter them; but my suspicionscentred upon Margrave. That for some reason or other he had causeto dread Sir Philip's presence in L—— was clear, evento my reason. And how could my reason reject all the influenceswhich had been brought to bear on my imagination, whether by thescene in the museum or my conversation with the deceased? But itwas impossible to act on such suspicions,—impossible even toconfide them. Could I have told to any man the effect produced onme in the museum, he would have considered me a liar or a madman.And in Sir Philip's accusations against Margrave, there was nothingtangible,—nothing that could bear repetition. Thoseaccusations, if analyzed, vanished into air. What did theyimply?—that Margrave was a magician, a monstrous prodigy, acreature exceptional to the ordinary conditions of humanity. Wouldthe most reckless of mortals have ventured to bring against theworst of characters such a charge, on the authority of a deceasedwitness, and to found on evidence so fantastic the awful accusationof murder? But of all men, certainly I—a sober, practicalphysician—was the last whom the public could excuse for suchincredible implications; and certainly, of all men, the lastagainst whom any suspicion of heinous crime would be readilyentertained was that joyous youth in whose sunny aspect life andconscience alike seemed to keep careless holiday. But I could notovercome, nor did I attempt to reason against, the horror akin todetestation, that had succeeded to the fascinating attraction bywhich Margrave had before conciliated a liking founded rather onadmiration than esteem.
In order to avoid his visits I kept away from the study in whichI had habitually spent my mornings, and to which he had beenaccustomed to so ready an access; and if he called at the frontdoor, I directed my servant to tell him that I was either from homeor engaged. He did attempt for the first few days to visit me asbefore, but when my intention to shun him became thus manifest,desisted naturally enough, as any other man so pointedly repelledwould have done.
I abstained from all those houses in which I was likely to meethim, and went my professional round of visits in a close carriage,so that I might not be accosted by him in his walks.
One morning, a very few days after Strahan had shown me SirPhilip Derval's letter, I received a note from my old collegeacquaintance, stating that he was going to Derval Court thatafternoon; that he should take with him the memoir which he hadfound, and begging me to visit him at his new home the next day,and commence my inspection of the manuscript. I consentedeagerly.
That morning, on going my round, my carriage passed by anotherdrawn up to the pavement, and I recognized the figure of Margravestanding beside the vehicle, and talking to some one seated withinit. I looked back, as my own carriage whirled rapidly by, and sawwith uneasiness and alarm that it was Richard Strahan to whomMargrave was thus familiarly addressing himself. How had the twomade acquaintance?
Was it not an outrage on Sir Philip Derval's memory, that theheir he had selected should be thus apparently intimate with theman whom he had so sternly denounced? I became still more impatientto read the memoir: in all probability it would give suchexplanations with respect to Margrave's antecedents, as, if notsufficing to criminate him of legal offences, would at leasteffectually terminate any acquaintance between Sir Philip'ssuccessor and himself.
All my thoughts were, however, diverted to channels of fardeeper interest even than those in which my mind had of late beenso tumultuously whirled along, when, on returning home, I found anote from Mrs. Ashleigh. She and Lilian had just come back toL——, sooner than she had led me to anticipate. Lilianhad not seemed quite well the last day or two, and had been anxiousto return.
Let me recall it—softly,—softly! Let me recall thatevening spent with her!—that evening, the last beforedarkness rose between us like a solid wall.
It was evening, at the close of summer. The sun had set, thetwilight was lingering still. We were in the old monasticgarden,—garden so quiet, so cool, so fragrant. She was seatedon a bench under the one great cedar-tree that rose sombre in themidst of the grassy lawn with its little paradise of flowers. I hadthrown myself on the sward at her feet; her hand so confidingly layin the clasp of mine. I see her still,—how young, how fair,how innocent!
Strange, strange! So inexpressibly English; so thoroughly thecreature of our sober, homely life! The pretty delicate white robethat I touch so timorously, and the ribbon-knots of blue that sowell become the soft colour of the fair cheek, the wavy silk of thebrown hair! She is murmuring low her answer to my tremblingquestion.
"As well as when last we parted? Do you love me as wellstill?"
"There is no 'still' written here," said she, softly pressingher hand to her heart. "Yesterday is as to-morrow in theForever."
"Ah, Lilian! if I could reply to you in words as akin to poetryas your own!"
"Fie! you who affect not to care for poetry!"
"That was before you went away; before I missed you from myeyes, from my life; before I was quite conscious how precious youwere to me, more precious than common words can tell! Yes, there isone period in love when all men are poets, however the penury oftheir language may belie the luxuriance of their fancies. Whatwould become of me if you ceased to love me?"
"Or of me, if you could cease to love?"
"And somehow it seems to me this evening as if my heart drewnearer to you,—nearer as if for shelter."
"It is sympathy," said she, with tremulouseagerness,—"that sort of mysterious sympathy which I haveoften heard you deny or deride; for I, too, feel drawn nearer toyou, as if there were a storm at hand. I was oppressed by anindescribable terror in returning home, and the moment I saw youthere came a sense of protection."
Her head sank on my shoulder: we were silent some moments; thenwe both rose by the same involuntary impulse, and round her slightform I twined my strong arm of man. And now we are winding slowunder the lilacs and acacias that belt the lawn. Lilian has not yetheard of the murder, which forms the one topic of the town, for alltales of violence and blood affected her as they affect a fearfulchild. Mrs. Ashleigh, therefore, had judiciously concealed from herthe letters and the journals by which the dismal news had beencarried to herself. I need scarcely say that the grim subject wasnot broached by me. In fact, my own mind escaped from the eventswhich had of late so perplexed and tormented it; the tranquillityof the scene, the bliss of Lilian's presence, had begun to chaseaway even that melancholy foreboding which had overshadowed me inthe first moments of our reunion. So we came gradually to converseof the future,—of the day, not far distant, when we twoshould be as one. We planned our bridal excursion. We would visitthe scenes endeared to her by song, to me by childhood,—thebanks and waves of my native Windermere,—our one briefholiday before life returned to labour, and hearts now sodisquieted by hope and joy settled down to the calm serenity ofhome.
As we thus talked, the moon, nearly rounded to her full, roseamidst skies without a cloud. We paused to gaze on her solemnhaunting beauty, as where are the lovers who have not paused togaze? We were then on the terrace walk, which commanded a view ofthe town below. Before us was a parapet wall, low on the gardenside, but inaccessible on the outer side, forming part of astraggling irregular street that made one of the boundariesdividing Abbey Hill from Low Town. The lamps of the thoroughfares,in many a line and row beneath us, stretched far away, obscured,here and there, by intervening roofs and tall church towers. Thehum of the city came to our ears, low and mellowed into a lullingsound. It was not displeasing to be reminded that there was a worldwithout, as close and closer we drew each to each,—worlds toone another! Suddenly there carolled forth the song of a humanvoice,—a wild, irregular, half-savage melody, foreign,uncomprehended words,—air and words not new to me. Irecognized the voice and chant of Margrave. I started, and utteredan angry exclamation.
"Hush!" whispered Lilian, and I felt her frame shiver within myencircling arm. "Hush! listen! Yes; I have heard that voicebefore—last night—"
"Last night! you were not here; you were more than a hundredmiles away."
"I heard it in a dream! Hush, hush!"
The song rose louder; impossible to describe its effect, in themidst of the tranquil night, chiming over the serried rooftops, andunder the solitary moon. It was not like the artful song of man,for it was defective in the methodical harmony of tune; it was notlike the song of the wild-bird, for it had no monotony in itssweetness: it was wandering and various as the sounds from anAEolian harp. But it affected the senses to a powerful degree, asin remote lands and in vast solitudes I have since found the noteof the mocking-bird, suddenly heard, affects the listener half withdelight, half with awe, as if some demon creature of the desertwere mimicking man for its own merriment. The chant now had changedinto an air of defying glee, of menacing exultation; it might havebeen the triumphant war-song of some antique barbarian race. Thenote was sinister; a shadow passed through me, and Lilian hadclosed her eyes, and was sighing heavily; then with a rapid change,sweet as the coo with which an Arab mother lulls her babe to sleep,the melody died away. "There, there, look," murmured Lilian, movingfrom me, "the same I saw last night in sleep; the same I saw in thespace above, on the evening I first knew you!"
Her eyes were fixed, her hand raised; my look followed hers, andrested on the face and form of Margrave. The moon shone full uponhim, so full as if concentrating all its light upon his image. Theplace on which he stood (a balcony to the upper story of a houseabout fifty yards distant) was considerably above the level of theterrace from which we gazed on him. His arms were folded on hisbreast, and he appeared to be looking straight towards us. Even atthat distance, the lustrous youth of his countenance appeared to meterribly distinct, and the light of his wondrous eye seemed to restupon us in one lengthened, steady ray through the limpid moonshine.Involuntarily I seized Lilian's hand, and drew her away almost byforce, for she was unwilling to move, and as I led her back, sheturned her head to look round; I, too, turned in jealous rage! Ibreathed more freely. Margrave had disappeared!
"How came he there? It is not his hotel. Whose house is it?" Isaid aloud, though speaking to myself.
Lilian remained silent, her eyes fixed upon the ground as if indeep revery. I took her hand; it did not return my pressure. I feltcut to the heart when she drew coldly from me that hand, till thenso frankly cordial. I stopped short: "Lilian, what is this? you arechilled towards me. Can the mere sound of that man's voice, themere glimpse of that man's face, have—" I paused; I did notdare to complete my question.
Lilian lifted her eyes to mine, and I saw at once in those eyesa change. Their look was cold; not haughty, but abstracted. "I donot understand you," she said, in a weary, listless accent. "It isgrowing late; I must go in."
So we walked on moodily, no longer arm in arm, nor hand in hand.Then it occurred to me that, the next day, Lilian would be in thatnarrow world of society; that there she could scarcely fail to hearof Margrave, to meet, to know him. Jealousy seized me with all itsimaginary terrors, and amidst that jealousy, a nobler, purerapprehension for herself. Had I been Lilian's brother instead ofher betrothed, I should not have trembled less to foresee theshadow of Margrave's mysterious influence passing over a mind sopredisposed to the charm which Mystery itself has for those whosethoughts fuse their outlines in fancies, whose world melts awayinto Dreamland. Therefore I spoke.
"Lilian, at the risk of offending you-alas! I have never done sobefore this night—I must address to you a prayer which Iimplore you not to regard as the dictate of a suspicion unworthyyou and myself. The person whom you have just heard and seen is, atpresent, much courted in the circles of this town. I entreat younot to permit any one to introduce him to you. I entreat you not toknow him. I cannot tell you all my reasons for this petition;enough that I pledge you my honour that those reasons are grave.Trust, then, in my truth, as I trust in yours. Be assured that Istretch not the rights which your heart has bestowed upon mine inthe promise I ask, as I shall be freed from all fear by a promisewhich I know will be sacred when once it is given."
"What promise?" asked Lilian, absently, as if she had not heardmy words.
"What promise? Why, to refuse all acquaintance with that man;his name is Margrave. Promise me, dearest, promise me."
"Why is your voice so changed?" said Lilian. "Its tone jars onmy ear," she added, with a peevishness so unlike her, that itstartled me more than it offended; and without a word further, shequickened her pace, and entered the house.
For the rest of the evening we were both taciturn and distanttowards each other. In vain Mrs. Ashleigh kindly sought to breakdown our mutual reserve. I felt that I had the right to beresentful, and I clung to that right the more because Lilian madeno attempt at reconciliation. This, too, was wholly unlike herself,for her temper was ordinarily sweet,—sweet to the extreme ofmeekness; saddened if the slightest misunderstanding between us hadever vexed me, and yearning to ask forgiveness if a look or a wordhad pained me. I was in hopes that, before I went away, peacebetween us would be restored. But long ere her usual hour forretiring to rest, she rose abruptly, and, complaining of fatigueand headache, wished me "good-night," and avoided the hand Isorrowfully held out to her as I opened the door.
"You must have been very unkind to poor Lilian," said Mrs.Ashleigh, between jest and earnest, "for I never saw her so crossto you before. And the first day of her return, too!"
"The fault is not mine," said I, somewhat sullenly; "I did butask Lilian, and that as a humble prayer, not to make theacquaintance of a stranger in this town against whom I have reasonsfor distrust and aversion. I know not why that prayer shoulddisplease her."
"Nor I. Who is the stranger?"
"A person who calls himself Margrave. Let me at least entreatyou to avoid him!"
"Oh, I have no desire to make acquaintance with strangers. But,now Lilian is gone, do tell me all about this dreadful murder. Theservants are full of it, and I cannot keep it long concealed fromLilian. I was in hopes that you would have broken it to her."
I rose impatiently; I could not bear to talk thus of an eventthe tragedy of which was associated in my mind with circumstancesso mysterious. I became agitated and even angry when Mrs. Ashleighpersisted in rambling woman-like inquiries,—"Who wassuspected of the deed? Who did I think had committed it? What sortof a man was Sir Philip? What was that strange story about acasket?" Breaking from such interrogations, to which I could givebut abrupt and evasive answers, I seized my hat and took mydeparture.
"I have promised to go to Derval Court to-day, and shall not return till to-morrow. I cannot bear the thought that so many hours should pass away with one feeling less kind than usual resting like a cloud upon you and me. Lilian, if I offended you, forgive me! Send me one line to say so!—one line which I can place next to my heart and cover with grateful kisses till we meet again!"
Reply.
"I scarcely know what you mean, nor do I quite understand my own state of mind at this moment. It cannot be that I love you less—and yet—but I will not write more now. I feel glad that we shall not meet for the next day or so, and then I hope to be quite recovered. I am not well at this moment. Do not ask me to forgive you; but if it is I who am in fault, forgive me, oh, forgive me, Allen!"
And with this unsatisfactory note, not worn next to my heart,not covered with kisses, but thrust crumpled into my desk like acreditor's unwelcome bill, I flung myself on my horse and rode toDerval Court. I am naturally proud; my pride came now to my aid. Ifelt bitterly indignant against Lilian, so indignant that Iresolved on my return to say to her, "If in those words, 'And yet,'you implied a doubt whether you loved me less, I cancel your vows,I give you back your freedom." And I could have passed from herthreshold with a firm foot, though with the certainty that I shouldnever smile again.
Does her note seem to you who may read these pages to justifysuch resentment? Perhaps not. But there is an atmosphere in theletters of the one we love which we alone—we wholove—can feel, and in the atmosphere of that letter I feltthe chill of the coming winter.
I reached the park lodge of Derval Court late in the day. I hadoccasion to visit some patients whose houses lay scattered manymiles apart, and for that reason, as well as from the desire forsome quick bodily exercise which is so natural an effect ofirritable perturbation of mind, I had made the journey on horsebackinstead of using a carriage that I could not have got through thelanes and field-paths by which alone the work set to myself couldbe accomplished in time.
Just as I entered the park, an uneasy thought seized hold of mewith the strength which is ascribed to presentiments. I had passedthrough my study (which has been so elaborately described) to mystables, as I generally did when I wanted my saddle-horse, and, inso doing, had doubtless left open the gate to the iron palisade,and probably the window of the study itself. I had been in thiscareless habit for several years, without ever once having causefor self-reproach. As I before said, there was nothing in my studyto tempt a thief; the study was shut out from the body of thehouse, and the servant sure at nightfall both to close the windowand lock the gate; yet now, for the first time, I felt an impulse,urgent, keen, and disquieting, to ride back to the town, and seethose precautions taken. I could not guess why, but somethingwhispered to me that my neglect had exposed me to some greatdanger. I even checked my horse and looked at my watch; toolate!—already just on the stroke of Strahan's dinner-hour asfixed in his note; my horse, too, was fatigued and spent: besides,what folly! what bearded man can believe in the warnings of a"presentiment"? I pushed on, and soon halted before theold-fashioned flight of stairs that led up to the Hall. Here I wasaccosted by the old steward; he had just descended the stairs, andas I dismounted he thrust his arm into mine unceremoniously, anddrew me a little aside.
"Doctor, I was right; it was his ghost that I saw by the irondoor of the mausoleum. I saw it again at the same place last night,but I had no fit then. Justice on his murderer! Blood forblood!"
"Ay!" said I, sternly; for if I suspected Margrave before, Ifelt convinced now that the inexpiable deed was his. Whereforeconvinced? Simply because I now hated him more, and hate is soeasily convinced! "Lilian! Lilian!" I murmured to myself that name;the flame of my hate was fed by my jealousy. "Ay!" said I, sternly,"murder will out."
"What are the police about?" said the old man, querulously;"days pass on days, and no nearer the truth. But what does the newowner care? He has the rents and acres; what does he care for thedead? I will never serve another master. I have just told Mr.Strahan so. How do I know whether he did not do the deed? Who elsehad an interest in it?"
"Hush, hush!" I cried; "you do not know how wildly you aretalking."
The old man stared at me, shook his head, released my arm, andstrode away.
A labouring man came out of the garden, and having unbuckled thesaddle-bags, which contained the few things required for so short avisit, I consigned my horse to his care, and ascended the perron.The old housekeeper met me in the hall, and conducted me up thegreat staircase, showed me into a bedroom prepared for me, and toldme that Mr. Strahan was already waiting dinner for me. I shouldfind him in the study. I hastened to join him. He beganapologizing, very unnecessarily, for the state of hisestablishment. He had as yet engaged no new servants. Thehousekeeper with the help of a housemaid did all the work.
Richard Strahan at college had been as little distinguishablefrom other young men as a youth neither rich nor poor, neitherclever nor stupid, neither handsome nor ugly, neither audacioussinner nor formal saint, possibly could be.
Yet, to those who understood him well, he was not without someof those moral qualities by which a youth of mediocre intellectoften matures into a superior man.
He was, as Sir Philip had been rightly informed, thoroughlyhonest and upright. But with a strong sense of duty, there was alsoa certain latent hardness. He was not indulgent. He had outwardfrankness with acquaintances, but was easily roused to suspicion.He had much of the thriftiness and self-denial of the Northcountryman, and I have no doubt that he had lived with calm contentand systematic economy on an income which made him, as a bachelor,independent of his nominal profession, but would not have sufficed,in itself, for the fitting maintenance of a wife and family. Hewas, therefore, still single.
It seems to me even during the few minutes in which we conversedbefore dinner was announced, that his character showed a new phasewith his new fortunes. He talked in a grandiose style of the dutiesof station and the woes of wealth. He seemed to be very much afraidof spending, and still more appalled at the idea of being cheated.His temper, too, was ruffled; the steward had given him notice toquit. Mr. Jeeves, who had spent the morning with him, had said thesteward would be a great loss, and a steward at once sharp andhonest was not to be easily found.
What trifles can embitter the possession of great goods! Strahanhad taken a fancy to the old house; it was conformable to hisnotions, both of comfort and pomp, and Sir Philip had expressed adesire that the old house should be pulled down. Strahan hadinspected the plans for the new mansion to which Sir Philip hadreferred, and the plans did not please him; on the contrary, theyterrified.
"Jeeves says that I could not build such a house under L70,000or L80,000, and then it will require twice the establishment whichwill suffice for this. I shall be ruined," cried the man who hadjust come into possession of at least ten thousand a year.
"Sir Philip did not enjoin you to pull down the old house; heonly advised you to do so. Perhaps he thought the site less healthythan that which he proposes for a new building, or was aware ofsome other drawback to the house, which you may discover later.Wait a little and see before deciding."
"But, at all events, I suppose I must pull down this curious oldroom,—the nicest part of the old house!"
Strahan, as he spoke, looked wistfully round at the quaint oakchimneypiece; the carved ceiling; the well-built solid walls, withthe large mullion casement, opening so pleasantly on thesequestered gardens. He had ensconced himself in Sir Philip'sstudy, the chamber in which the once famous mystic, Forman, hadfound a refuge.
"So cozey a room for a single man!" sighed Strahan. "Near thestables and dog-kennels, too! But I suppose I must pull it down. Iam not bound to do so legally; it is no condition of the will. Butin honour and gratitude I ought not to disobey poor Sir Philip'spositive injunction."
"Of that," said I, gravely, "there cannot be a doubt." Here ourconversation was interrupted by Mrs. Gates, who informed us thatdinner was served in the library. Wine of great age was broughtfrom the long neglected cellars; Strahan filled and re-filled hisglass, and, warmed into hilarity, began to talk of bringing oldcollege friends around him in the winter season, and making theroof-tree ring with laughter and song once more.
Time wore away, and night had long set in, when Strahan at lastrose from the table, his speech thick and his tongue unsteady. Wereturned to the study, and I reminded my host of the special objectof my visit to him,—namely, the inspection of Sir Philip'smanuscript.
"It is tough reading," said Strahan; "better put it off tilltomorrow. You will stay here two or three days."
"No; I must return to L—— to-morrow. I cannot absentmyself from my patients. And it is the more desirable that no timeshould be lost before examining the contents of the manuscript,because probably they may give some clew to the detection of themurderer."
"Why do you think that?" cried Strahan, startled from thedrowsiness that was creeping over him.
"Because the manuscript may show that Sir Philip had some enemy,and who but an enemy could have had a motive for such a crime?Come, bring forth the book. You of all men are bound to be alert inevery research that may guide the retribution of justice to theassassin of your benefactor."
"Yes, yes. I will offer a reward of L5,000 for the discovery.Allen, that wretched old steward had the insolence to tell me thatI was the only man in the world who could have an interest in thedeath of his master; and he looked at me as if he thought that Ihad committed the crime. You are right; it becomes me, of all men,to be alert. The assassin must be found. He must hang."
While thus speaking, Strahan had risen, unlocked a desk, whichstood on one of the safes, and drawn forth a thick volume, thecontents of which were protected by a clasp and lock. Strahanproceeded to open this lock by one of a bunch of keys, which hesaid had been found on Sir Philip's person.
"There, Allen, this is the memoir. I need not tell you whatstore I place on it,—not, between you and me, that I expectit will warrant poor Sir Philip's high opinion of his ownscientific discoveries; that part of his letter seems to me veryqueer, and very flighty. But he evidently set his heart on thepublication of his work, in part if not in whole; and, naturally, Imust desire to comply with a wish so distinctly intimated by one towhom I owe so much. I beg you, therefore, not to be too fastidious.Some valuable hints in medicine, I have reason to believe, themanuscript will contain, and those may help you in your profession,Allen."
"You have reason to believe! Why?"
"Oh, a charming young fellow, who, with most of the other gentryresident at L——, called on me at my hotel, told me thathe had travelled in the East, and had there heard much of SirPhilip's knowledge of chemistry, and the cures it had enabled himto perform."
"You speak of Mr. Margrave. He called on you?"
"Yes."
"You did not, I trust, mention to him the existence of SirPhilip's manuscript."
"Indeed I did; and I said you had promised to examine it. Heseemed delighted at that, and spoke most highly of your peculiarfitness for the task."
"Give me the manuscript," said I, abruptly, "and after I havelooked at it to-night, I may have something to say to you tomorrowin reference to Mr. Margrave."
"There is the book," said Strahan; "I have just glanced at it,and find much of it written in Latin; and I am ashamed to say thatI have so neglected the little Latin I learned in our college daysthat I could not construe what I looked at."
I sat down and placed the book before me; Strahan fell into adoze, from which he was wakened by the housekeeper, who brought inthe tea-things.
"Well," said Strahan, languidly, "do you find much in the bookthat explains the many puzzling riddles in poor Sir Philip'seccentric life and pursuits?"
"Yes," said I. "Do not interrupt me."
Strahan again began to doze, and the housekeeper asked if weshould want anything more that night, and if I thought I could findmy way to my bedroom.
I dismissed her impatiently, and continued to read. Strahan wokeup again as the clock struck eleven, and finding me still absorbedin the manuscript, and disinclined to converse, lighted his candle,and telling me to replace the manuscript in the desk when I haddone with it, and be sure to lock the desk and take charge of thekey, which he took off the bunch and gave me, went upstairs,yawning.
I was alone in the wizard Forman's chamber, and bending over astranger record than had ever excited my infant wonder, or, inlater years, provoked my sceptic smile.
The Manuscript was written in a small and peculiar handwriting,which, though evidently by the same person whose letter to StrahanI had read, was, whether from haste or some imperfection in theink, much more hard to decipher. Those parts of the Memoir whichrelated to experiments, or alleged secrets in Nature, that thewriter intimated a desire to submit exclusively to scholars or menof science, were in Latin,—and Latin which, thoughgrammatically correct, was frequently obscure. But all thatdetained the eye and attention on the page necessarily served toimpress the contents more deeply on remembrance.
The narrative commenced with the writer's sketch of hischildhood. Both his parents had died before he attained his seventhyear. The orphan had been sent by his guardians to a privateschool, and his holidays had been passed at Derval Court. Here hisearliest reminiscences were those of the quaint old room, in whichI now sat, and of his childish wonder at the inscription on thechimneypiece—who and what was the Simon Forman who had therefound a refuge from persecution? Of what nature were the studies hehad cultivated, and the discoveries he boasted to have made?
When he was about sixteen, Philip Derval had begun to read themany mystic books which the library contained; but without otherresult on his mind than the sentiment of disappointment anddisgust. The impressions produced on the credulous imagination ofchildhood vanished. He went to the University; was sent abroad totravel: and on his return took that place in the circles of Londonwhich is so readily conceded to a young idler of birth and fortune.He passed quickly over that period of his life, as one ofextravagance and dissipation, from which he was first drawn by theattachment for his cousin to which his letter to Strahan referred.Disappointed in the hopes which that affection had conceived, andhis fortune impaired, partly by some years of reckless profusion,and partly by the pecuniary sacrifices at which he had effected hiscousin's marriage with another, he retired to Derval Court, to livethere in solitude and seclusion. On searching for some oldtitle-deeds required for a mortgage, he chanced upon a collectionof manuscripts much discoloured, and, in part, eaten away by mothor damp. These, on examination, proved to be the writings ofForman. Some of them were astrological observations andpredictions; some were upon the nature of the Cabbala; some uponthe invocation of spirits and the magic of the dark ages. All had acertain interest, for they were interspersed with personal remarks,anecdotes of eminent actors in a very stirring time, and werecomposed as Colloquies, in imitation of Erasmus,—the secondperson in the dialogue being Sir Miles Derval, the patron andpupil; the first person being Forman, the philosopher andexpounder.
But along with these shadowy lucubrations were treatises of amore uncommon and a more startling character,—discussions onvarious occult laws of nature, and detailed accounts of analyticalexperiments. These opened a new, and what seemed to Sir Philip apractical, field of inquiry,—a true border-land betweennatural science and imaginative speculation. Sir Philip hadcultivated philosophical science at the University; he resumed thestudy, and tested himself the truth of various experimentssuggested by Forman. Some, to his surprise, proved successful, somewholly failed. These lucubrations first tempted the writer of thememoir towards the studies in which the remainder of his life hadbeen consumed. But he spoke of the lucubrations themselves asvaluable only where suggestive of some truths which Forman hadaccidentally approached, without being aware of their true natureand importance. They were debased by absurd puerilities, andvitiated by the vain and presumptuous ignorance which characterizedthe astrology of the middle ages. For these reasons the writerintimated his intention (if he lived to return to England) todestroy Forman's manuscripts, together with sundry other books, anda few commentaries of his own upon studies which had for a whilemisled him,—all now deposited in the safes of the room inwhich I sat.
After some years passed in the retirement of Derval Court, SirPhilip was seized with the desire to travel, and the taste he hadimbibed for occult studies led him towards those Eastern lands inwhich they took their origin, and still retain theirprofessors.
Several pages of the manuscript were now occupied with minutestatements of the writer's earlier disappointment in the objects ofhis singular research. The so-called magicians, accessible to thecuriosity of European travellers, were either but ingeniousjugglers, or produced effects that perplexed him by practices theyhad mechanically learned, but of the rationale of which they wereas ignorant as himself. It was not till he had resided someconsiderable time in the East, and acquired a familiar knowledge ofits current languages and the social habits of its variouspopulations, that he became acquainted with men in whom herecognized earnest cultivators of the lore which tradition ascribesto the colleges and priesthoods of the ancient world,—mengenerally living remote from others, and seldom to be bribed bymoney to exhibit their marvels or divulge their secrets. In hisintercourse with these sages, Sir Philip arrived at the convictionthat there does exist an art of magic, distinct from the guile ofthe conjuror, and applying to certain latent powers and affinitiesin nature,—a philosophy akin to that which we receive in ouracknowledged schools, inasmuch as it is equally based onexperiment, and produces from definite causes definite results. Insupport of this startling proposition, Sir Philip now devoted morethan half his volume to the details of various experiments, to theprocess and result of which he pledged his guarantee as the actualoperator. As most of these alleged experiments appeared to mewholly incredible, and as all of them were unfamiliar to mypractical experience, and could only be verified or falsified bytests that would require no inconsiderable amount of time and care,I passed with little heed over the pages in which they were setforth. I was impatient to arrive at that part of the manuscriptwhich might throw light on the mystery in which my interest was thekeenest. What were the links which connected the existence ofMargrave with the history of Sir Philip Derval? Thus hurrying on,page after page, I suddenly, towards the end of the volume, cameupon a name that arrested all my attention,—Haroun of Aleppo.He who has read the words addressed to me in my trance may wellconceive the thrill that shot through my heart when I came uponthat name, and will readily understand how much more vividly mymemory retains that part of the manuscript to which I now proceed,than all which had gone before.
"It was," wrote Sir Philip, "in an obscure suburb of Aleppo that I at length met with the wonderful man from whom I have acquired a knowledge immeasurably more profound and occult than that which may be tested in the experiments to which I have devoted so large a share of this memoir. Haroun of Aleppo had, indeed, mastered every secret in nature which the nobler, or theurgic, magic seeks to fathom. "He had discovered the great Principle of Animal Life, which had hitherto baffled the subtlest anatomist. Provided only that the great organs were not irreparably destroyed, there was no disease that he could not cure; no decrepitude to which he could not restore vigour: yet his science was based on the same theory as that espoused by the best professional practitioner of medicine, namely, that the true art of healing is to assist nature to throw off the disease; to summon, as it were, the whole system to eject the enemy that has fastened on a part. And thus his processes, though occasionally varying in the means employed, all combined in this,—namely, the re-invigourating and recruiting of the principle of life."
No one knew the birth or origin of Haroun; no one knew his age.In outward appearance he was in the strength and prime of maturemanhood; but, according to testimonies in which the writer of thememoir expressed a belief that, I need scarcely say, appeared to meegregiously credulous, Haroun's existence under the same name, andknown by the same repute, could be traced back to more than ahundred years. He told Sir Philip that he had thrice renewed hisown life, and had resolved to do so no more; he had grown weary ofliving on. With all his gifts, Haroun owned himself to be consumedby a profound melancholy. He complained that there was nothing newto him under the sun; he said that, while he had at his commandunlimited wealth, wealth had ceased to bestow enjoyment, and hepreferred living as simply as a peasant; he had tired out all theaffections and all the passions of the human heart; he was in theuniverse as in a solitude. In a word, Haroun would often repeat,with mournful solemnity: "'The soul is not meant to inhabit thisearth and in fleshy tabernacle for more than the period usuallyassigned to mortals; and when by art in repairing the walls of thebody we so retain it, the soul repines, becomes inert or dejected.He only," said Haroun, "would feel continued joy in continuedexistence who could preserve in perfection the sensual part of man,with such mind or reason as may be independent of the spiritualessence, but whom soul itself has quitted!—man, in short, asthe grandest of the animals, but without the sublime discontent ofearth, which is the peculiar attribute of soul."
One evening Sir Philip was surprised to find at Haroun's houseanother European. He paused in his narrative to describe this man.He said that for three or four years previously he had heardfrequent mention, amongst the cultivators of magic, of anorientalized Englishman engaged in researches similar to his own,and to whom was ascribed a terrible knowledge in those branches ofthe art which, even in the East, are condemned as instrumental toevil. Sir Philip here distinguished at length, as he had so brieflydistinguished in his conversation with me, between the two kinds ofmagic,—that which he alleged to be as pure from sin as anyother species of experimental knowledge, and that by which theagencies of witchcraft are invoked for the purposes of guilt.
The Englishman, to whom the culture of this latter and darkerkind of magic was ascribed, Sir Philip Derval had never hithertocome across. He now met him at the house of Haroun; decrepit,emaciated, bowed down with infirmities, and racked with pain.Though little more than sixty, his aspect was that of extreme oldage; but still on his face there were seen the ruins of a oncesingular beauty, and still, in his mind, there was a force thatcontrasted the decay of the body. Sir Philip had never met with anintellect more powerful and more corrupt. The son of a notorioususurer, heir to immense wealth, and endowed with the talents whichjustify ambition, he had entered upon life burdened with the odiumof his father's name. A duel, to which he had been provoked by anungenerous taunt on his origin, but in which a temperament fiercelyvindictive had led him to violate the usages prescribed by thesocial laws that regulate such encounters, had subjected him to atrial in which he escaped conviction either by a flaw in thetechnicalities of legal procedure, or by the compassion of thejury;(1) but the moral presumptions against him were sufficientlystrong to set an indelible brand on his honour, and aninsurmountable barrier to the hopes which his early ambition hadconceived. After this trial he had quitted his country, to returnto it no more. Thenceforth, much of his life had been passed out ofsight or conjecture of civilized men in remote regions and amongstbarbarous tribes. At intervals, however, he had reappeared inEuropean capitals; shunned by and shunning his equals, surroundedby parasites, amongst whom were always to be found men ofconsiderable learning, whom avarice or poverty subjected to theinfluences of his wealth. For the last nine or ten years he hadsettled in Persia, purchased extensive lands, maintained theretinue, and exercised more than the power of an Oriental prince.Such was the man who, prematurely worn out, and assured byphysicians that he had not six weeks of life, had come to Aleppowith the gaudy escort of an Eastern satrap, had caused himself tobe borne in his litter to the mud-hut of Haroun the Sage, and nowcalled on the magician, in whose art was his last hope, to reprievehim from the—grave.
He turned round to Sir Philip, when the latter entered the room,and exclaimed in English, "I am here because you are. Your intimacywith this man was known to me. I took your character as theguarantee of his own. Tell me that I am no credulous dupe. Tell himthat I, Louis Grayle, am no needy petitioner. Tell me of hiswisdom; assure him of my wealth."
Sir Philip looked inquiringly at Haroun, who remained seated onhis carpet in profound silence.
"What is it you ask of Haroun?"
"To live on—to live on! For every year of life he can giveme, I will load these floors with gold."
"Gold will not tempt Haroun."
"What will?"
"Ask him yourself; you speak his language."
"I have asked him; he vouchsafes me no answer."
Haroun here suddenly roused himself as from a revery. He drewfrom under his robe a small phial, from which he let fall a singledrop into a cup of water, and said, "Drink this; send to metomorrow for such medicaments as I may prescribe. Return hitheryourself in three days; not before!"
When Grayle was gone, Sir Philip, moved to pity, asked Harounif, indeed, it were within the compass of his art to preserve lifein a frame that appeared so thoroughly exhausted. Haroun answered,"A fever may so waste the lamp of life that one ruder gust of aircould extinguish the flame, yet the sick man recovers. This sickman's existence has been one long fever; this sick man canrecover."
"You will aid him to do so?"
"Three days hence I will tell you."
On the third day Grayle revisited Haroun, and, at Haroun'srequest, Sir Philip came also. Grayle declared that he had alreadyderived unspeakable relief from the remedies administered; he waslavish in expressions of gratitude; pressed large gifts on Haroun,and seemed pained when they were refused. This time Harounconversed freely, drawing forth Grayle's own irregular, perverted,stormy, but powerful intellect.
I can best convey the general nature of Grayle's share in thedialogue between himself, Haroun, and Derval—recorded in thenarrative in words which I cannot trust my memory to repeat indetail—by stating the effect it produced on my own mind. Itseemed, while I read, as if there passed before me some convulsionof Nature,—a storm, an earthquake,—outcries of rage, ofscorn, of despair, a despot's vehemence of will, a rebel's scoff atauthority; yet, ever and anon, some swell of lofty thought, someburst of passionate genius,—abrupt variations from the vauntof superb defiance to the wail of intense remorse.
The whole had in it, I know not what of uncouth butcolossal,—like the chant, in the old lyrical tragedy, of oneof those mythical giants, who, proud of descent from Night andChaos, had held sway over the elements, while still crude andconflicting, to be crushed under the rocks, upheaved in theirstruggle, as Order and Harmony subjected a brightening Creation tothe milder influences throned in Olympus. But it was not till thelater passages of the dialogue in which my interest was nowabsorbed, that the language ascribed to this sinister personagelost a gloomy pathos not the less impressive for the awe with whichit was mingled. For, till then, it seemed to me as if in thattempestuous nature there were still broken glimpses of starrylight; that a character originally lofty, if irregular and fierce,had been embittered by early and continuous war with the socialworld, and had, in that war, become maimed and distorted; that,under happier circumstances, its fiery strength might have beendisciplined to good; that even now, where remorse was so evidentlypoignant, evil could not be irredeemably confirmed.
At length all the dreary compassion previously inspired vanishedin one unqualified abhorrence.
The subjects discussed changed from those which, relating to thecommon world of men, were within the scope of my reason. Haroun ledhis wild guest to boast of his own proficiency in magic, and,despite my incredulity, I could not overcome the shudder with whichfictions, however extravagant, that deal with that dark Unknownabandoned to the chimeras of poets, will, at night and in solitude,send through the veins of men the least accessible to imaginaryterrors.
Grayle spoke of the power he had exercised through the agency ofevil spirits,—a power to fascinate and to destroy. He spokeof the aid revealed to him, now too late, which such direful alliescould afford, not only to a private revenge, but to a kinglyambition. Had he acquired the knowledge he declared himself topossess before the feebleness of the decaying body made itvalueless, how he could have triumphed over that world which hadexpelled his youth from its pale! He spoke of means by which hisinfluence could work undetected on the minds of others, controlagencies that could never betray, and baffle the justice that couldnever discover. He spoke vaguely of a power by which a spectralreflection of the material body could be cast, like a shadow, to adistance; glide through the walls of a prison, elude the sentinelsof a camp,—a power that he asserted to be when enforced byconcentrated will, and acting on the mind, where in each individualtemptation found mind the weakest—almost infallible in itseffect to seduce or to appall. And he closed these and similarboasts of demoniacal arts, which I remember too obscurely torepeat, with a tumultuous imprecation on their nothingness to availagainst the gripe of death. All this lore he would communicate toHaroun, in return for what? A boon shared by the meanestpeasant,—life, common life; to breathe yet a while the air,feel yet a while the sun.
Then Haroun replied. He said, with a quiet disdain, that thedark art to which Grayle made such boastful pretence was themeanest of all abuses of knowledge, rightly abandoned, in all ages,to the vilest natures. And then, suddenly changing his tone, hespoke, so far as I can remember the words assigned to him in themanuscript, to this effect,—
"Fallen and unhappy wretch, and you ask me for prolongedlife!—a prolonged curse to the world and to yourself. Shall Iemploy spells to lengthen the term of the Pestilence, or profanethe secrets of Nature to restore vigour and youth to the failingenergies of Crime?"
Grayle, as if stunned by the rebuke, fell on his knees withdespairing entreaties that strangely contrasted his previousarrogance. "And it was," he said, "because his life had been evilthat he dreaded death. If life could be renewed he would repent, hewould change; he retracted his vaunts, he would forsake the arts hehad boasted, he would re-enter the world as its benefactor."
"So ever the wicked man lies to himself when appalled by theshadow of death," answered Haroun. "But know, by the remorse whichpreys on thy soul, that it is not thy soul that addresses thisprayer to me. Couldst thou hear, through the storms of the Mind,the Soul's melancholy whisper, it would dissuade thee from a wishto live on. While I speak, I behold it, that Soul,—sad forthe stains on its essence, awed by the account it must render, butdreading, as the direst calamity, a renewal of years below, darkerstains and yet heavier accounts! Whatever the sentence it may nowundergo, it has a hope for mercy in the remorse which the mindvainly struggles to quell. But darker its doom if longer retainedto earth, yoked to the mind that corrupts it, and enslaved to thesenses which thou bidst me restore to their tyrannous forces."
And Grayle bowed his head and covered his face with his hands insilence and in trembling.
Then Sir Philip, seized with compassion, pleaded for him. "Atleast, could not the soul have longer time on earth forrepentance?" And while Sir Philip was so pleading, Grayle fellprostrate in a swoon like that of death. When he recovered, hishead was leaning on Haroun's knee, and his opening eyes fixed onthe glittering phial which Haroun held, and from which his lips hadbeen moistened.
"Wondrous!" he murmured: "how I feel life flowing back to me.And that, then, is the elixir! it is no fable!"
His hands stretched greedily as to seize the phial, and he criedimploringly, "More, more!" Haroun replaced the vessel in the foldsof his robe, and answered,—
"I will not renew thy youth, but I will release thee from bodilysuffering: I will leave the mind and the soul free from the pangsof the flesh, to reconcile, if yet possible, their long war. Myskill may afford thee months yet for repentance; Seek, in thatinterval, to atone for the evil of sixty years; apply thy wealthwhere it may most compensate for injury done, most relieve theindigent, and most aid the virtuous. Listen to thy remorse; humblethyself in prayer."
Grayle departed, sighing heavily and muttering to himself. Thenext day Haroun summoned Sir Philip Derval, and said tohim,—
"Depart to Damascus. In that city the Pestilence has appeared.Go thither thou, to heal and to save. In this casket are stored thesurest antidotes to the poison of the plague. Of that essence,undiluted and pure, which tempts to the undue prolongation of soulin the prison of flesh, this casket contains not a drop. I cursenot my friend with so mournful a boon. Thou hast learned enough ofmy art to know by what simples the health of the temperate iseasily restored to its balance, and their path to the gravesmoothed from pain. Not more should Man covet from Nature for thesolace and weal of the body. Nobler gifts far than aught for thebody this casket contains. Herein are the essences which quickenthe life of those duplicate senses that lie dormant and coiled intheir chrysalis web, awaiting the wings of a futuredevelopment,—the senses by which we can see, though not withthe eye, and hear, but not by the ear. Herein are the links betweenMan's mind and Nature's; herein are secrets more precious even thanthese,—those extracts of light which enable the Soul todistinguish itself from the Mind, and discriminate the spirituallife, not more from life carnal than life intellectual. Where thouseest some noble intellect, studious of Nature, intent upon Truth,yet ignoring the fact that all animal life has a mind and Man aloneon the earth ever asked, and has asked, from the hour his step trodthe earth, and his eye sought the Heaven, 'Have I not a soul; canit perish?'—there, such aids to the soul, in the innermostvision vouchsafed to the mind, thou mayst lawfully use. But thetreasures contained in this casket are like all which a mortal canwin from the mines he explores,—good or ill in their uses asthey pass to the hands of the good or the evil. Thou wilt neverconfide them but to those who will not abuse! and even then, thouart an adept too versed in the mysteries of Nature not todiscriminate between the powers that may serve the good to goodends, and the powers that may tempt the good—where less wisethan experience has made thee and me—to the ends that areevil; and not even to thy friend the most virtuous—if lessproof against passion than thou and I have become—wilt thouconfide such contents of the casket as may work on the fancy, todeafen the conscience and imperil the soul."
Sir Philip took the casket, and with it directions for use,which he did not detail. He then spoke to Haroun about LouisGrayle, who had inspired him with a mingled sentiment of admirationand abhorrence, of pity and terror. And Haroun answered thus,repeating the words ascribed to him, so far as I can trust, inregard to them—as to all else in this marvellousnarrative—to a memory habitually tenacious even in ordinarymatters, and strained to the utmost extent of its power, by thestrangeness of the ideas presented to it, and the intensity of mypersonal interest in whatever admitted a ray into that cloud which,gathering fast over my reason, now threatened storm to myaffections,—
"When the mortal deliberately allies himself to the spirits ofevil, he surrenders the citadel of his being to the guard of itsenemies; and those who look from without can only dimly guess whatpasses within the precincts abandoned to Powers whose very naturewe shrink to contemplate, lest our mere gaze should invite them.This man, whom thou pitiest, is not yet everlastingly consigned tothe fiends, because his soul still struggles against them. His lifehas been one long war between his intellect, which is mighty, andhis spirit, which is feeble. The intellect, armed and winged by thepassions, has besieged and oppressed the soul; but the soul hasnever ceased to repine and to repent. And at moments it has gainedits inherent ascendancy, persuaded revenge to drop the prey it hadseized, turned the mind astray from hatred and wrath into unwontedpaths of charity and love. In the long desert of guilt, there havebeen green spots and fountains of good. The fiends have occupiedthe intellect which invoked them, but they have never yetthoroughly mastered the soul which their presence appalls. In thestruggle that now passes within that breast, amidst the flickers ofwaning mortality, only Allah, whose eye never slumbers, canaid."
Haroun then continued, in words yet more strange and yet moredeeply graved in my memory,—
"There have been men (thou mayst have known such), who, after anillness in which life itself seemed suspended, have arisen, as outof a sleep, with characters wholly changed. Before, perhaps, gentleand good and truthful, they now become bitter, malignant, andfalse. To the persons and the things they had before loved, theyevince repugnance and loathing. Sometimes this change is so markedand irrational that their kindred ascribe it to madness,—notthe madness which affects them in the ordinary business of life,but that which turns into harshness and discord the moral harmonythat results from natures whole and complete. But there aredervishes who hold that in that illness, which had for its time thelikeness of death, the soul itself has passed away, and an evilgenius has fixed itself into the body and the brain, thus left voidof their former tenant, and animates them in the unaccountablechange from the past to the present existence. Such mysteries haveformed no part of my study, and I tell you the conjecture receivedin the East without hazarding a comment whether of incredulity orbelief. But if, in this war between the mind which the fiends haveseized, and the soul which implores refuge of Allah; if, while themind of yon traveller now covets life lengthened on earth for theenjoyments it had perverted its faculties to seek and to find insin, and covets so eagerly that it would shrink from no crime andrevolt from no fiend that could promise the gift, the soulshudderingly implores to be saved from new guilt, and would ratherabide by the judgment of Allah on the sins that have darkened itthan pass forever irredeemably away to the demons,—if this beso, what if the soul's petition be heard; what if it rise from theruins around it; what if the ruins be left to the witchcraft thatseeks to rebuild them? There, if demons might enter, that whichthey sought as their prize has escaped them; that which they findwould mock them by its own incompleteness even in evil. In vainmight animal life the most perfect be given to the machine of theflesh; in vain might the mind, freed from the check of the soul, beleft to roam at will through a brain stored with memories ofknowledge and skilled in the command of its faculties; in vain, inaddition to all that body and brain bestow on the normal conditionof man, might unhallowed reminiscences gather all the arts and thecharms of the sorcery by which the fiends tempted the soul, beforeit fled, through the passions of flesh and the cravings of mind:the Thing, thus devoid of a soul, would be an instrument of evil,doubtless,—but an instrument that of itself could not design,invent, and complete. The demons themselves could have no permanenthold on the perishable materials. They might enter it for somegloomy end which Allah permits in his inscrutable wisdom; but theycould leave it no trace when they pass from it, because there is noconscience where soul is wanting. The human animal without soul,but otherwise made felicitously perfect in its mere vitalorganization, might ravage and destroy, as the tiger and theserpent may destroy and ravage, and, the moment after, would sportin the sunlight harmless and rejoicing, because, like the serpentand the tiger, it is incapable of remorse."
"Why startle my wonder," said Derval, "with so fantastic animage?"
"Because, possibly, the image may come into palpable form! Iknow, while I speak to thee, that this miserable man is calling tohis aid the evil sorcery over which he boasts his control. To gainthe end he desires, he must pass through a crime. Sorcery whispersto him how to pass through it, secure from the detection of man.The soul resists, but in resisting, is weak against the tyranny ofthe mind to which it has submitted so long. Question me no more.But if I vanish from thine eyes, if thou hear that the death which,to my sorrow and in my foolishness I have failed to recognize asthe merciful minister of Heaven, has removed me at last from theearth, believe that the pale Visitant was welcome, and that Ihumbly accept as a blessed release the lot of our commonhumanity."
Sir Philip went to Damascus. There he found the pestilenceraging, there he devoted himself to the cure of the afflicted; inno single instance, so at least he declared, did the antidotesstored in the casket fail in their effect. The pestilence hadpassed, his medicaments were exhausted, when the news reached himthat Haroun was no more. The Sage had been found, one morning,lifeless in his solitary home, and, according to popular rumour,marks on his throat betrayed the murderous hand of the strangler.Simultaneously, Louis Grayle had disappeared from the city, and wassupposed to have shared the fate of Haroun, and been secretlyburied by the assassins who had deprived him of life. Sir Philiphastened to Aleppo. There he ascertained that on the night in whichHaroun died, Grayle did not disappear alone; with him were alsomissing two of his numerous suite,—the one, an Arab woman,named Ayesha, who had for some years been his constant companion,his pupil and associate in the mystic practices to which hisintellect had been debased, and who was said to have acquired asingular influence over him, partly by her beauty and partly by thetenderness with which she had nursed him through his long decline;the other, an Indian, specially assigned to her service, of whomall the wild retainers of Grayle spoke with detestation and terror.He was believed by them to belong to that murderous sect offanatics whose existence as a community has only recently been madeknown to Europe, and who strangle their unsuspecting victim in thefirm belief that they thereby propitiate the favour of the goddessthey serve. The current opinion at Aleppo was, that if those twopersons had conspired to murder Haroun, perhaps for the sake of thetreasures he was said to possess, it was still more certain thatthey had made away with their own English lord, whether for thesake of the jewels he wore about him, or for the sake of treasuresless doubtful than those imputed to Haroun, and of which thehiding-place would be to them much better known.
"I did not share that opinion," wrote the narrator, "for I assured myself that Ayesha sincerely loved her awful master; and that love need excite no wonder, for Louis Grayle was one whom if a woman, and especially a woman of the East, had once loved, before old age and infirmity fell on him, she would love and cherish still more devotedly when it became her task to protect the being who, in his day of power and command, had exalted his slave into the rank of his pupil and companion. And the Indian whom Grayle had assigned to her service was allowed to have that brute kind of fidelity which, though it recoils from no crime for a master, refuses all crime against him. "I came to the conclusion that Haroun had been murdered by order of Louis Grayle,—for the sake of the elixir of life,—murdered by Juma the Strangler; and that Grayle himself had been aided in his flight from Aleppo, and tended, through the effects of the life-giving drug thus murderously obtained, by the womanly love of the Arab woman Ayesha. These convictions (since I could not, without being ridiculed as the wildest of dupes, even hint at the vital elixir) I failed to impress on the Eastern officials, or even on a countryman of my own whom I chanced to find at Aleppo. They only arrived at what seemed the common-sense verdict,—namely, that Haroun might have been strangled, or might have died in a fit (the body, little examined, was buried long before I came to Aleppo); and that Louis Grayle was murdered by his own treacherous dependents. But all trace of the fugitives was lost. "And now," wrote Sir Philip, "I will state by what means I discovered that Louis Grayle still lived,—changed from age into youth; a new form, a new being; realizing, I verily believe, the image which Haroun's words had raised up, in what then seemed to me the metaphysics of fantasy,—-criminal, without consciousness of crime; the dreadest of the mere animal race; an incarnation of the blind powers of Nature,—beautiful and joyous, wanton and terrible and destroying! Such as ancient myths have personified in the idols of Oriental creeds; such as Nature, of herself, might form man in her moments of favour, if man were wholly the animal, and spirit were no longer the essential distinction between himself and the races to which by superior formation and subtler perceptions he would still be the king. "But this being is yet more dire and portentous than the mere animal man, for in him are not only the fragmentary memories of a pristine intelligence which no mind, unaided by the presence of soul, could have originally compassed, but amidst that intelligence are the secrets of the magic which is learned through the agencies of spirits the most hostile to our race. And who shall say whether the fiends do not enter at their will this void and deserted temple whence the soul has departed, and use as their tools, passive and unconscious, all the faculties which, skilful in sorcery, still place a mind at the control of their malice? "It was in the interest excited in me by the strange and terrible fate that befell an Armenian family with which I was slightly acquainted, that I first traced—in the creature I am now about to describe, and whose course I devote myself to watch, and trust to bring to a close—the murderer of Haroun for the sake of the elixir of youth. "In this Armenian family there were three daughters; one of them—"
I had just read thus far when a dim shadow fell over the page,and a cold air seemed to breathe on me,—cold, so cold, thatmy blood halted in my veins as if suddenly frozen! Involuntarily Istarted, and looked up, sure that some ghastly presence was in theroom. And then, on the opposite side of the wall, I beheld anunsubstantial likeness of a human form. Shadow I call it, but theword is not strictly correct, for it was luminous, though with apale shine. In some exhibition in London there is shown a curiousinstance of optical illusion; at the end of a corridor you see,apparently in strong light, a human skull. You are convinced it isthere as you approach; it is, however, only a reflection from askull at a distance. The image before me was less vivid, lessseemingly prominent than is the illusion I speak of. I was notdeceived. I felt it was a spectrum, a phantasm; but I felt no lesssurely that it was a reflection from an animate form,—theform and face of Margrave; it was there, distinct, unmistakable.Conceiving that he himself must be behind me, I sought to rise, toturn round, to examine. I could not move: limb and muscle wereovermastered by some incomprehensible spell. Gradually my sensesforsook me; I became unconscious as well as motionless. When Irecovered, I heard the clock strike three. I must have been nearlytwo hours insensible! The candles before me were burning low. Myeyes rested on the table; the dead man's manuscript was gone!
(1) The reader will here observe a discrepancy between Mrs.Poyntz's account and Sir Philip Derval's narrative. According tothe former, Louis Grayle was tried in his absence from England, andsentenced to three years' imprisonment, which his flight enabledhim to evade. According to the latter, Louis Grayle stood histrial, and obtained an acquittal. Sir Philip's account must, atleast, be nearer the truth than the lady's, because Louis Graylecould not, according to English law, have been tried on a capitalcharge without being present in court. Mrs. Poyntz tells her storyas a woman generally does tell a story,—sure to make amistake when she touches on a question of law;and—unconsciously perhaps to herself—the woman of theWorld warps the facts in her narrative so as to save the personaldignity of the hero, who has captivated her interest, not from themoral odium of a great crime, but the debasing position of aprisoner at the bar. Allen Fenwick, no doubt, purposely omits tonotice the discrepancy between these two statements, or toanimadvert on the mistake which, in the eyes of a lawyer, woulddiscredit Mrs. Poyntz's. It is consistent with some of the objectsfor which Allen Fenwick makes public his Strange Story, to invitethe reader to draw his own inferences from the contradictions bywhich, even in the most commonplace matters (and how much more inany tale of wonder!), a fact stated by one person is made to differfrom the same fact stated by another. The rapidity with which atruth becomes transformed into fable, when it is once sent on itstravels from lip to lip, is illustrated by an amusement at thismoment in fashion. The amusement is this: In a party of eight orten persons, let one whisper to another an account of some supposedtransaction, or a piece of invented gossip relating to absentpersons, dead or alive; let the person, who thus first hears thestory, proceed to whisper it, as exactly as he can remember what hehas just heard, to the next; the next does the same to hisneighbour, and so on, till the tale has run the round of the party.Each narrator, as soon as he has whispered his version of the tale,writes down what he has whispered. And though, in this game, no onehas had any interest to misrepresent, but, on the contrary, eachfor his own credit's sake strives to repeat what he has heard asfaithfully as he can, it will be almost invariably found that thestory told by the first person has received the most materialalterations before it has reached the eighth or the tenth.Sometimes the most important feature of the whole narrative isaltogether omitted; sometimes a feature altogether new andpreposterously absurd has been added. At the close of theexperiment one is tempted to exclaim, "How, after this, can any ofthose portions of history which the chronicler took from hearsay bebelieved?" But, above all, does not every anecdote of scandal whichhas passed, not through ten lips, but perhaps through ten thousand,before it has reached us, become quite as perplexing to him whowould get at the truth, as the marvels he recounts are to thebewildered reason of Fenwick the Sceptic?
The dead man's manuscript was gone. But how? A phantom mightdelude my eye, a human will, though exerted at a distance, might,if the tales of mesmerism be true, deprive me of movement and ofconsciousness; but neither phantom nor mesmeric will could surelyremove from the table before me the material substance of the bookthat had vanished! Was I to seek explanation in the arts of sorceryascribed to Louis Grayle in the narrative? I would not pursue thatconjecture. Against it my reason rose up half alarmed, halfdisdainful. Some one must have entered the room, some one haveremoved the manuscript. I looked round. The windows were closed,the curtains partly drawn over the shutters, as they were before myconsciousness had left me: all seemed undisturbed. Snatching up oneof the candles, fast dying out, I went into the adjoining library,the desolate state-rooms, into the entrance-hall, and examined theouter door, barred and locked! The robber had left no vestige ofhis stealthy presence.
I resolved to go at once to Strahan's room and tell him of theloss sustained. A deposit had been confided to me, and I felt as ifthere were a slur on my honour every moment in which I kept itsabstraction concealed from him to whom I was responsible for thetrust. I hastily ascended the great staircase, grim with fadedportraits, and found myself in a long corridor opening on my ownbedroom; no doubt also on Strahan's. Which was his? I knew not. Iopened rapidly door after door, peered into empty chambers, wentblundering on, when to the right, down a narrow passage. Irecognized the signs of my host's whereabouts,—signsfamiliarly commonplace and vulgar; signs by which the inmate of anychamber in lodging-house or inn makes himself known,—a chairbefore a doorway, clothes negligently thrown on it, beside it apair of shoes. And so ludicrous did such testimony of commonevery-day life, of the habits which Strahan would necessarily havecontracted in his desultory unluxurious bachelor'sexistence,—so ludicrous, I say, did these homely details seemto me, so grotesquely at variance with the wonders of which I hadbeen reading, with the wonders yet more incredible of which Imyself had been witness and victim, that as I turned down thepassage, I heard my own unconscious half-hysterical laugh; and,startled by the sound of that laugh as if it came from some oneelse, I paused, my hand on the door, and asked myself: "Do I dream?Am I awake? And if awake what am I to say to the commonplace mortalI am about to rouse? Speak to him of a phantom! Speak to him ofsome weird spell over this strong frame! Speak to him of a mystictrance in which has been stolen what he confided to me, without myknowledge! What will he say? What should I have said a few days agoto any man who told such a tale to me?" I did not wait to resolvethese questions. I entered the room. There was Strahan sound asleepon his bed. I shook him roughly. He started up, rubbed his eyes."You, Allen,—you! What the deuce?—what 's thematter?"
"Strahan, I have been robbed!—robbed of the manuscript youlent me. I could not rest till I had told you."
"Robbed, robbed! Are you serious?"
By this time Strahan had thrown off the bed-clothes, and satupright, staring at me.
And then those questions which my mind had suggested while I wasstanding at his door repeated themselves with double force. Tellthis man, this unimaginative, hard-headed, raw-boned, sandy-hairedNorth countryman,—tell this man a story which the mostcredulous school-girl would have rejected as a fable!Impossible!
"I fell asleep," said I, colouring and stammering, for theslightest deviation from truth was painful to me,"and-and—when I awoke—the manuscript was gone. Some onemust have entered and committed the theft—"
"Some one entered the house at this hour of the night and thenonly stolen a manuscript which could be of no value to him! Absurd!If thieves have come in it must be for other objects,—forplate, for money. I will dress; we will see!"
Strahan hurried on his clothes, muttering to himself andavoiding my eye. He was embarrassed. He did not like to say to anold friend what was on his mind; but I saw at once that hesuspected I had resolved to deprive him of the manuscript, and hadinvented a wild tale in order to conceal my own dishonesty.
Nevertheless, he proceeded to search the house. I followed himin silence, oppressed with my own thoughts, and longing forsolitude in my own chamber. We found no one, no trace of any one,nothing to excite suspicion. There were but two female servantssleeping in the house,—the old housekeeper, and a countrygirl who assisted her. It was not possible to suspect either ofthese persons; but in the course of our search we opened the doorsof their rooms. We saw that they were both in bed, both seeminglyasleep: it seemed idle to wake and question them. When theformality of our futile investigation was concluded, Strahanstopped at the door of my bedroom, and for the first time fixinghis eyes on me steadily, said,—
"Allen Fenwick, I would have given half the fortune I have comeinto rather than this had happened. The manuscript, as you know,was bequeathed to me as a sacred trust by a benefactor whoseslightest wish it is my duty to observe religiously. If itcontained aught valuable to a man of your knowledge and profession,why, you were free to use its contents. Let me hope, Allen, thatthe book will reappear to-morrow."
He said no more, drew himself away from the hand I involuntarilyextended, and walked quickly back towards his own room.
Alone once more, I sank on a seat, buried my face in my hands,and strove in vain to collect into some definite shape my owntumultuous and disordered thoughts. Could I attach serious creditto the marvellous narrative I had read? Were there, indeed, suchpowers given to man, such influences latent in the calm routine ofNature? I could not believe it; I must have some morbid affectionof the brain; I must be under an hallucination. Hallucination? Thephantom, yes; the trance, yes. But still, how came the book gone?That, at least, was not hallucination.
I left my room the next morning with a vague hope that I shouldfind the manuscript somewhere in the study; that, in my own trance,I might have secreted it, as sleep-walkers are said to secretethings, without remembrance of their acts in their wakingstate.
I searched minutely in every conceivable place. Strahan found mestill employed in that hopeless task. He had breakfasted in his ownroom, and it was past eleven o'clock when he joined me. His mannerwas now hard, cold, and distant, and his suspicion so bluntly shownthat my distress gave way to resentment.
"Is it possible," I cried indignantly, "that you, who have knownme so well, can suspect me of an act so base, and so gratuitouslybase? Purloin, conceal a book confided to me, with full power tocopy from it whatever I might desire, use its contents in any waythat might seem to me serviceable to science, or useful to me in myown calling!"
"I have not accused you," answered Strahan, sullenly. "But whatare we to say to Mr. Jeeves; to all others who know that thismanuscript existed? Will they believe what you tell me?"
"Mr. Jeeves," I said, "cannot suspect a fellow-townsman, whosecharacter is as high as mine, of untruth and theft. And to whomelse have you communicated the facts connected with a memoir and arequest of so extraordinary a nature?"
"To young Margrave; I told you so!"
"True, true. We need not go farther to find the thief. Margravehas been in this house more than once. He knows the position of therooms. You have named the robber!"
"Tut! what on earth could a gay young fellow like Margrave wantwith a work of such dry and recondite nature as I presume my poorkinsman's memoir must be?"
I was about to answer, when the door was abruptly opened, andthe servant-girl entered, followed by two men, in whom I recognizedthe superintendent of the L—— police and the samesubordinate who had found me by Sir Philip's corpse.
The superintendent came up to me with a grave face, andwhispered in my ear. I did not at first comprehend him. "Come withyou," I said, "and to Mr. Vigors, the magistrate? I thought mydeposition was closed."
The superintendent shook his head. "I have the authority here,Dr. Fenwick."
"Well, I will come, of course. Has anything new transpired?"
The superintendent turned to the servant-girl, who was standingwith gaping mouth and staring eyes.
"Show us Dr. Fenwick's room. You had better put up, sir,whatever things you have brought here. I will go upstairs withyou," he whispered again. "Come, Dr. Fenwick, I am in the dischargeof my duty."
Something in the man's manner was so sinister and menacing thatI felt at once that some new and strange calamity had befallen me.I turned towards Strahan. He was at the threshold, speaking in alow voice to the subordinate policeman, and there was an expressionof amazement and horror in his countenance. As I came towards himhe darted away without a word.
I went up the stairs, entered my bedroom, the superintendentclose behind me. As I took up mechanically the few things I hadbrought with me, the police-officer drew them from me with anabruptness that appeared insolent, and deliberately searched thepockets of the coat which I had worn the evening before, thenopened the drawers in the room, and even pried into the bed.
"What do you mean?" I asked haughtily.
"Excuse me, sir. Duty. You are-"
"Well, I am what?"
"My prisoner; here is the warrant."
"Warrant! on what charge?"
"The murder of Sir Philip Derval."
"I—I! Murder!" I could say no more.
I must hurry over this awful passage in my marvellous record. Itis torture to dwell on the details; and indeed I have so sought tochase them from my recollection, that they only come back to me inhideous fragments, like the incoherent remains of a horribledream.
All that I need state is as follows: Early on the very morningon which I had been arrested, a man, a stranger in the town, hadprivately sought Mr. Vigors, and deposed that on the night of themurder, he had been taking refuge from a sudden storm under shelterof the eaves and buttresses of a wall adjoining an old archway;that he had heard men talking within the archway; had heard one sayto the other, "You still bear me a grudge." The other had replied,"I can forgive you on one condition." That he then lost much of theconversation that ensued, which was in a lower voice; but hegathered enough to know that the condition demanded by the one wasthe possession of a casket which the other carried about with him;that there seemed an altercation on this matter between the twomen, which, to judge by the tones of voice, was angry on the partof the man demanding the casket; that, finally, this man said in aloud key, "Do you still refuse?" and on receiving the answer, whichthe witness did not overhear, exclaimed threateningly, "It is youwho will repent," and then stepped forth from the arch into thestreet. The rain had then ceased, but by a broad flash of lightningthe witness saw distinctly the figure of the person thus quittingthe shelter of the arch,—a man of tall stature, powerfulframe, erect carriage. A little time afterwards, witness saw aslighter and older man come forth from the arch, whom he could onlyexamine by the flickering ray of the gas-lamp near the wall, thelightning having ceased, but whom he fully believed to be theperson he afterwards discovered to be Sir Philip Derval.
He said that he himself had only arrived at the town a few hoursbefore; a stranger to L——, and indeed to England,having come from the United States of America, where he had passedhis life from childhood. He had journeyed on foot toL——, in the hope of finding there some distantrelatives. He had put up at a small inn, after which he hadstrolled through the town, when the storm had driven him to seekshelter. He had then failed to find his way back to the inn, andafter wandering about in vain, and seeing no one at that late hourof night of whom he could ask the way, he had crept under a porticoand slept for two or three hours. Waking towards the dawn, he hadthen got up, and again sought to find his way to the inn, when hesaw, in a narrow street before him, two men, one of whom herecognized as the taller of the two to whose conversation he hadlistened under the arch; the other he did not recognize at themoment. The taller man seemed angry and agitated, and he heard himsay, "The casket; I will have it." There then seemed to be astruggle between these two persons, when the taller one struck downthe shorter, knelt on his breast, and he caught distinctly thegleam of some steel instrument. That he was so frightened that hecould not stir from the place, and that though he cried out, hebelieved his voice was not heard. He then saw the taller man rise,the other resting on the pavement motionless; and a minute or soafterwards beheld policemen coming to the place, on which he, thewitness, walked away. He did not know that a murder had beencommitted; it might be only an assault; it was no business of his,he was a stranger. He thought it best not to interfere, the policehaving cognizance of the affair. He found out his inn; for the nextfew days he was absent from L—— in search of hisrelations, who had left the town, many years ago, to fix theirresidence in one of the neighbouring villages.
He was, however, disappointed; none of these relations nowsurvived. He had now returned to L——, heard of themurder, was in doubt what to do, might get himself into trouble if,a mere stranger, he gave an unsupported testimony. But, on the daybefore the evidence was volunteered, as he was lounging in thestreets, he had seen a gentleman pass by on horseback, in whom heimmediately recognized the man who, in his belief, was the murdererof Sir Philip Derval. He inquired of a bystander the name of thegentleman; the answer was "Dr. Fenwick." That, the rest of the day,he felt much disturbed in his mind, not liking to volunteer such acharge against a man of apparent respectability and station; butthat his conscience would not let him sleep that night, and he hadresolved at morning to go to the magistrate and make a clean breastof it.
The story was in itself so improbable that any other magistratebut Mr. Vigors would perhaps have dismissed it in contempt. But Mr.Vigors, already so bitterly prejudiced against me, and not sorry,perhaps, to subject me to the humiliation of so horrible a charge,immediately issued his warrant to search my house. I was absent atDerval Court; the house was searched. In the bureau in my favouritestudy, which was left unlocked, the steel casket was discovered,and a large case-knife, on the blade of which the stains of bloodwere still perceptible. On this discovery I was apprehended; and onthese evidences, and on the deposition of this vagrant stranger, Iwas not, indeed, committed to take my trial for murder, but placedin confinement, all bail for my appearance refused, and theexamination adjourned to give time for further evidence andinquiries. I had requested the professional aid of Mr. Jeeves. Tomy surprise and dismay, Mr. Jeeves begged me to excuse him. He saidhe was pre-engaged by Mr. Strahan to detect and prosecute themurderer of Sir P. Derval, and could not assist one accused of themurder. I gathered from the little he said that Strahan had alreadybeen to him that morning and told him of the missing manuscript,that Strahan had ceased to be my friend. I engaged anothersolicitor, a young man of ability, and who professed personalesteem for me. Mr. Stanton (such was the lawyer's name) believed inmy innocence; but he warned me that appearances were grave, heimplored me to be perfectly frank with him. Had I held conversationwith Sir Philip under the archway as reported by the witness? Had Iused such or similar words? Had the deceased said, "I had a grudgeagainst him"? Had I demanded the casket? Had I threatened SirPhilip that he would repent? And of what,—his refusal?
I felt myself grow pale, as I answered, "Yes; I thought such orsimilar expressions had occurred in my conversation with thedeceased."
"What was the reason of the grudge? What was the nature of thiscasket, that I should so desire its possession?"
There, I became terribly embarrassed. What could I say to akeen, sensible, worldly man of law,—tell him of the powderand the fumes, of the scene in the museum, of Sir Philip's tale, ofthe implied identity of the youthful Margrave with the aged Grayle,of the elixir of life, and of magic arts? I—I tell such aromance! I,—the noted adversary of all pretended mysticism;I,—I a sceptical practitioner of medicine! Had thatmanuscript of Sir Philip's been available,—a substantialrecord of marvellous events by a man of repute for intellect andlearning,—I might perhaps have ventured to startle thesolicitor of L——— with my revelations. But thesole proof that all which the solicitor urged me to confide was nota monstrous fiction or an insane delusion had disappeared; and itsdisappearance was a part of the terrible mystery that enveloped thewhole. I answered therefore, as composedly as I could, that "Icould have no serious grudge against Sir Philip, whom I had neverseen before that evening; that the words which applied to mysupposed grudge were lightly said by Sir Philip, in reference to aphysiological dispute on matters connected with mesmericalphenomena; that the deceased had declared his casket, which he hadshown me at the mayor's house, contained drugs of great potency inmedicine; that I had asked permission to test those drugs myself;and that when I said he would repent of his refusal, I merely meantthat he would repent of his reliance on drugs not warranted by theexperiments of professional science."
My replies seemed to satisfy the lawyer so far, but "how could Iaccount for the casket and the knife being found in my room?"
"In no way but this; the window of my study is a door-windowopening on the lane, from which any one might enter the room. I wasin the habit, not only of going out myself that way, but ofadmitting through that door any more familiar privateacquaintance."
"Whom, for instance?"
I hesitated a moment, and then said, with a significance I couldnot forbear, "Mr. Margrave! He would know the locale perfectly; hewould know that the door was rarely bolted from within during thedaytime: he could enter at all hours; he could place, or instructany one to deposit, the knife and casket in my bureau, which heknew I never kept locked; it contained no secrets, no privatecorrespondence,—chiefly surgical implements, or such thingsas I might want for professional experiments."
"Mr. Margrave! But you cannot suspect him—a lively,charming young man, against whose character not a whisper was everheard—of connivance with such a charge against you,—aconnivance that would implicate him in the murder itself; for ifyou are accused wrongfully, he who accuses you is either thecriminal or the criminal's accomplice, his instigator or histool."
"Mr. Stanton," I said firmly, after a moment's pause, "I dosuspect Mr. Margrave of a hand in this crime. Sir Philip, on seeinghim at the mayor's house, expressed a strong abhorrence of him,more than hinted at crimes he had committed, appointed me to cometo Derval Court the day after that on which the murder wascommitted. Sir Philip had known something of this Margrave in theEast; Margrave might dread exposure, revelations—of what Iknow not; but, strange as it may seem to you, it is my convictionthat this young man, apparently so gay and so thoughtless, is thereal criminal, and in some way which I cannot conjecture hasemployed this lying vagabond in the fabrication of a charge againstmyself. Reflect: of Mr. Margrave's antecedents we know nothing; ofthem nothing was known even by the young gentleman who firstintroduced him to the society of this town. If you would serve andsave me, it is to that quarter that you will direct your vigilantand unrelaxing researches."
I had scarcely so said when I repented my candour, for Iobserved in the face of Mr. Stanton a sudden revulsion of feeling,an utter incredulity of the accusation I had thus hazarded, and forthe first time a doubt of my own innocence. The fascinationexercised by Margrave was universal; nor was it to be wondered at:for besides the charm of his joyous presence, he seemed sosingularly free from even the errors common enough with theyoung,—so gay and boon a companion, yet a shunner of wine; sodazzling in aspect, so more than beautiful, so courted, so idolizedby women, yet no tale of seduction, of profligacy, attached to hisname! As to his antecedents, he had so frankly owned himself anatural son, a nobody, a traveller, an idler; his expenses, thoughlavish, were so unostentatious, so regularly defrayed; he was sowholly the reverse of the character assigned to criminals, that itseemed as absurd to bring a charge of homicide against a butterflyor a goldfinch as against this seemingly innocent and delightfulfavourite of humanity and nature.
However, Mr. Stanton said little or nothing, and shortlyafterwards left me, with a dry expression of hope that my innocencewould be cleared in spite of evidence that, he was bound to say,was of the most serious character.
I was exhausted. I fell into a profound sleep early that night;it might be a little after twelve when I woke, and woke as fully,as completely, as much restored to life and consciousness, as itwas then my habit to be at the break of day. And so waking, I saw,on the wall opposite my bed, the same luminous phantom I had seenin the wizard's study at Derval Court. I have read in Scandinavianlegends of an apparition called the Scin-Laeca, or shining corpse.It is supposed in the northern superstition, sometimes to hauntsepulchres, sometimes to foretell doom. It is the spectre of ahuman body seen in a phosphoric light; and so exactly did thisphantom correspond to the description of such an apparition inScandinavian fable that I knew not how to give it a better namethan that of Scin-Laeca,—the shining corpse.
There it was before me, corpse-like, yet not dead; there, as inthe haunted study of the wizard Forman!—the form and the faceof Margrave. Constitutionally, my nerves are strong, and my temperhardy, and now I was resolved to battle against any impressionwhich my senses might receive from my own deluding fancies. Thingsthat witnessed for the first time daunt us witnessed for the secondtime lose their terror. I rose from my bed with a bold aspect, Iapproached the phantom with a firm step; but when within two pacesof it, and my hand outstretched to touch it, my arm became fixed inair, my feet locked to the ground. I did not experience fear; Ifelt that my heart beat regularly, but an invincible somethingopposed itself to me. I stood as if turned to stone. And then fromthe lips of this phantom there came a voice, but a voice whichseemed borne from a great distance,—very low, muffled, andyet distinct; I could not even be sure that my ear heard it, orwhether the sound was not conveyed to me by an inner sense.
"I, and I alone, can save and deliver you," said the voice. "Iwill do so; and the conditions I ask, in return, are simple andeasy."
"Fiend or spectre, or mere delusion of my own brain," cried I,"there can be no compact between thee and me. I despise thy malice,I reject thy services; I accept no conditions to escape from theone or to obtain the other."
"You may give a different answer when I ask again."
The Scin-Laeca slowly waned, and, fading first into a palershadow, then vanished. I rejoiced at the reply I had given. Twodays elapsed before Mr. Stanton again came to me; in the intervalthe Scin-Laeca did not reappear. I had mustered all my courage, allmy common-sense, noted down all the weak points of the falseevidence against me, and felt calm and supported by the strength ofmy innocence.
The first few words of the solicitor dashed all my courage tothe ground; for I was anxious to hear news of Lilian, anxious tohave some message from her that might cheer and strengthen me, andmy first question was this,—
"Mr. Stanton, you are aware that I am engaged in marriage toMiss Ashleigh. Your family are not unacquainted with her. Whatsays, what thinks she of this monstrous charge against herbetrothed?"
"I was for two hours at Mrs. Ashleigh's house last evening,"replied the lawyer; "she was naturally anxious to see me asemployed in your defence. Who do you think was there? Who, eager todefend you, to express his persuasion of your innocence, to declarehis conviction that the real criminal would be soondiscovered,—who but that same Mr. Margrave; whom, pardon memy frankness, you so rashly and groundlessly suspected."
"Heavens! Do you say that he is received in that house; thathe—he is familiarly admitted to her presence?"
"My good sir, why these unjust prepossessions against a truefriend? It was as your friend that, as soon as the charge againstyou amazed and shocked the town of L——, Mr. Margravecalled on Mrs. Ashleigh, presented to her by Miss Brabazon, and wasso cheering and hopeful that—"
"Enough!" I exclaimed,—"enough!"
I paced the room in a state of excitement and rage, which thelawyer in vain endeavoured to calm, until at length I haltedabruptly: "Well, and you saw Miss Ashleigh? What message does shesend to me—her betrothed?"
Mr. Stanton looked confused. "Message! Consider, sir, MissAshleigh's situation—thedelicacy—and—and—"
"I understand, no message, no word, from a young lady sorespectable to a man accused of murder."
Mr. Stanton was silent for some moments, and then said quietly,"Let us change this subject; let us think of what more immediatelypresses. I see you have been making some notes: may I look atthem?"
I composed myself and sat down. "This accuser! Have inquiriesreally been made as to himself, and his statement of his ownproceedings? He comes, he says, from America: in what ship? At whatport did he land? Is there any evidence to corroborate his story ofthe relations he tried to discover; of the inn at which he firstput up, and to which he could not find his way?"
"Your suggestions are sensible, Dr. Fenwick. I have forestalledthem. It is true that the man lodged at a small inn,—theRising Sun; true that he made inquiries about some relations of thename of Walls, who formerly resided at L——, andafterwards removed to a village ten miles distant,—twobrothers, tradesmen of small means but respectable character. He atfirst refused to say at what seaport he landed, in what ship hesailed. I suspect that he has now told a falsehood as to thesematters. I sent my clerk to Southampton, for it is there he saidthat he was put on shore; we shall see: the man himself is detainedin close custody. I hear that his manner is strange and excitable;but that he preserves silence as much as possible. It is generallybelieved that he is a bad character, perhaps a returned convict,and that this is the true reason why he so long delayed givingevidence, and has been since so reluctant to account for himself.But even if his testimony should be impugned, should break down,still we should have to account for the fact that the casket andthe case-knife were found in your bureau; for, granting that aperson could, in your absence, have entered your study and placedthe articles in your bureau, it is clear that such a person musthave been well acquainted with your house, and this stranger toL—— could not have possessed that knowledge."
"Of course not. Mr. Margrave did possess it!"
"Mr. Margrave again! oh, sir!"
I arose and moved away with an impatient gesture. I could nottrust myself to speak. That night I did not sleep; I watchedimpatiently, gazing on the opposite wall for the gleam of theScin-Laeca. But the night passed away, and the spectre did notappear.
The lawyer came the next day, and with something like a smile onhis lips. He brought me a few lines in pencil from Mrs. Ashleigh;they were kindly expressed, bade me be of good cheer; "she neverfor a moment believed in my guilt; Lilian bore up wonderfully underso terrible a trial; it was an unspeakable comfort to both toreceive the visits of a friend so attached to me, and so confidentof a triumphant refutation of the hideous calumny under which I nowsuffered as Mr. Margrave!"
The lawyer had seen Margrave again,—seen him in thathouse. Margrave seemed almost domiciled there!
I remained sullen and taciturn during this visit. I longed againfor the night. Night came. I heard the distant clock strike twelve,when again the icy wind passed through my hair, and against thewall stood the luminous Shadow.
"Have you considered?" whispered the voice, still as from afar."I repeat it,—I alone can save you."
"Is it among the conditions which you ask, in return, that Ishall resign to you the woman I love?"
"No."
"Is it one of the conditions that I should commit somecrime,—a crime perhaps heinous as that of which I amaccused?"
"No."
"With such reservations, I accept the conditions you may name,provided I, in my turn, may demand one condition fromyourself."
"Name it."
"I ask you to quit this town. I ask you, meanwhile, to ceaseyour visits to the house that holds the woman betrothed to me."
"I will cease those visits. And before many days are over, Iwill quit this town."
"Now, then, say what you ask from me. I am prepared to concedeit. And not from fear for myself, but because I fear for the pureand innocent being who is under the spell of your deadlyfascination. This is your power over me. You command me through mylove for another. Speak."
"My conditions are simple. You will pledge yourself to desistfrom all charges of insinuation against myself, of what naturesoever. You will not, when you meet me in the flesh, refer to whatyou have known of my likeness in the Shadow. You will be invited tothe house at which I may be also a guest; you will come; you willmeet and converse with me as guest speaks with guest in the houseof a host."
"Is that all?"
"It is all."
"Then I pledge you my faith; keep your own."
"Fear not; sleep secure in the certainty that you will soon bereleased from these walls."
The Shadow waned and faded. Darkness settled back, and a sleep,profound and calm, fell over me.
The next day Mr. Stanton again visited me. He had received thatmorning a note from Mr. Margrave, stating that he had leftL—— to pursue, in person, an investigation which he hadalready commenced through another, affecting the man who had givenevidence against me, and that, if his hope should prove wellfounded, he trusted to establish my innocence, and convict the realmurderer of Sir Philip Derval. In the research he thus volunteered,he had asked for, and obtained, the assistance of the policemanWaby, who, grateful to me for saving the life of his sister, hadexpressed a strong desire to be employed in my service.
Meanwhile, my most cruel assailant was my old college friend,Richard Strahan. For Jeeves had spread abroad Strahan's charge ofpurloining the memoir which had been entrusted to me; and thataccusation had done me great injury in public opinion, because itseemed to give probability to the only motive which ingenuity couldascribe to the foul deed imputed to me. That motive had been firstsuggested by Mr. Vigors. Cases are on record of men whose life hadbeen previously blameless, who have committed a crime which seemedto belie their nature, in the monomania of some intense desire. InSpain, a scholar reputed of austere morals murdered and robbed atraveller for money in order to purchase books,—bookswritten, too, by Fathers of his Church! He was intent on solvingsome problem of theological casuistry. In France, an antiquary,esteemed not more for his learning than for amiable and gentlequalities, murdered his most intimate friend for the possession ofa medal, without which his own collection was incomplete. These,and similar anecdotes, tending to prove how fatally any vehementdesire, morbidly cherished, may suspend the normal operations ofreason and conscience, were whispered about by Dr. Lloyd'svindictive partisan; and the inference drawn from them and appliedto the assumptions against myself was the more credulouslyreceived, because of that over-refining speculation on motive andact which the shallow accept, in their eagerness to show howreadily they understand the profound.
I was known to be fond of scientific, especially of chemicalexperiments; to be eager in testing the truth of any novelinvention. Strahan, catching hold of the magistrate's fantastichypothesis, went about repeating anecdotes of the absorbing passionfor analysis and discovery which had characterized me in youth as amedical student, and to which, indeed, I owed the precociousreputation I had obtained.
Sir Philip Derval, according not only to report, but to thedirect testimony of his servant, had acquired in the course of histravels many secrets in natural science, especially as connectedwith the healing art,—his servant had deposed to theremarkable cures he had effected by the medicinals stored in thestolen casket. Doubtless Sir Philip, in boasting of thesemedicinals in the course of our conversation, had excited mycuriosity, inflamed my imagination; and thus when I afterwardssuddenly met him in a lone spot, a passionate impulse had acted ona brain heated into madness by curiosity and covetous desire.
All these suppositions, reduced into system, were corroboratedby Strahan's charge that I had made away with the manuscriptsupposed to contain the explanations of the medical agenciesemployed by Sir Philip, and had sought to shelter my theft by atale so improbable, that a man of my reputed talent could not havehazarded it if in his sound senses. I saw the web that had thusbeen spread around me by hostile prepossessions and ignorantgossip: how could the arts of Margrave scatter that web to thewinds? I knew not, but I felt confidence in his promise and hispower. Still, so great had been my alarm for Lilian, that the hopeof clearing my own innocence was almost lost in my joy thatMargrave, at least, was no longer in her presence, and that I hadreceived his pledge to quit the town in which she lived.
Thus, hours rolled on hours, till, I think, on the third dayfrom that night in which I had last beheld the mysterious Shadow,my door was hastily thrown open, a confused crowd presented itselfat the threshold,—the governor of the prison, the policesuperintendent, Mr. Stanton, and other familiar faces shut out fromme since my imprisonment. I knew at the first glance that I was nolonger an outlaw beyond the pale of human friendship. And proudly,sternly, as I had supported myself hitherto in solitude andsuspense, when I felt warm hands clasping mine, heard joyous voicesproffering congratulations, saw in the eyes of all that myinnocence had been cleared, the revulsion of emotion was too strongfor me,—the room reeled on my sight, I fainted. I pass, asquickly as I can, over the explanations that crowded on me when Irecovered, and that were publicly given in evidence in court nextmorning. I had owed all to Margrave. It seems that he had construedto my favour the very supposition which had been bruited abroad tomy prejudice. "For," said he, "it is conjectured that Fenwickcommitted the crime of which he is accused in the impulse of adisordered reason. That conjecture is based upon the probabilitythat a madman alone could have committed a crime without adequatemotive. But it seems quite clear that the accused is not mad; and Isee cause to suspect that the accuser is." Grounding thisassumption on the current reports of the witness's manner andbearing since he had been placed under official surveillance,Margrave had commissioned the policeman Waby to make inquiries inthe village to which the accuser asserted he had gone in quest ofhis relations, and Waby had there found persons who remembered tohave heard that the two brothers named Walls lived less by thegains of the petty shop which they kept than by the proceeds ofsome property consigned to them as the nearest of kin to a lunaticwho had once been tried for his life. Margrave had then examinedthe advertisements in the daily newspapers. One of them, warningthe public against a dangerous maniac, who had effected his escapefrom an asylum in the west of England, caught his attention. Tothat asylum he had repaired.
There he learned that the patient advertised was one whosepropensity was homicide, consigned for life to the asylum onaccount of a murder, for which he had been tried. The descriptionof this person exactly tallied with that of the pretended American.The medical superintendent of the asylum, hearing all particularsfrom Margrave, expressed a strong persuasion that the witness washis missing patient, and had himself committed the crime of whichhe had accused another. If so, the superintendent undertook to coaxfrom him the full confession of all the circumstances. Like manyother madmen, and not least those whose propensity is to crime, thefugitive maniac was exceedingly cunning, treacherous, secret, andhabituated to trick and stratagem,—more subtle than even theastute in possession of all their faculties, whether to achieve hispurpose or to conceal it, and fabricate appearances againstanother. But while, in ordinary conversation, he seemed rationalenough to those who were not accustomed to study him, he had onehallucination which, when humoured, led him always, not only tobetray himself, but to glory in any crime proposed or committed. Hewas under the belief that he had made a bargain with Satan, who, inreturn for implicit obedience, would bear him harmless through allthe consequences of such submission, and finally raise him to greatpower and authority. It is no unfrequent illusion of homicidalmaniacs to suppose they are under the influence of the Evil One, orpossessed by a Demon. Murderers have assigned as the only reasonthey themselves could give for their crime, that "the Devil gotinto them," and urged the deed. But the insane have, perhaps, noattribute more in common than that of superweening self-esteem. Themaniac who has been removed from a garret sticks straws in his hairand calls them a crown. So much does inordinate arrogancecharacterize mental aberration, that, in the course of my ownpractice, I have detected, in that infirmity, the certain symptomof insanity, long before the brain had made its disease manifesteven to the most familiar kindred.
Morbid self-esteem accordingly pervaded the dreadful illusion bywhich the man I now speak of was possessed. He was proud to be theprotected agent of the Fallen Angel. And if that self-esteem wereartfully appealed to, he would exult superbly in the evil he heldhimself ordered to perform, as if a special prerogative, anofficial rank and privilege; then, he would be led on to boastgleefully of thoughts which the most cynical of criminals in whomintelligence was not ruined would shrink from owning; then, hewould reveal himself in all his deformity with as complacent andfrank a self-glorying as some vain good man displays in paradinghis amiable sentiments and his beneficent deeds.
"If," said the superintendent, "this be the patient who hasescaped from me, and if his propensity to homicide has been, insome way, directed towards the person who has been murdered, Ishall not be with him a quarter of an hour before he will inform mehow it happened, and detail the arts he employed in shifting hiscrime upon another; all will be told as minutely as a child tellsthe tale of some school-boy exploit, in which he counts on yoursympathy, and feels sure of your applause."
Margrave brought this gentleman back to L——, tookhim to the mayor, who was one of my warmest supporters: the mayorhad sufficient influence to dictate and arrange the rest. Thesuperintendent was introduced to the room in which the pretendedAmerican was lodged. At his own desire a select number of witnesseswere admitted with him. Margrave excused himself; he said candidlythat he was too intimate a friend of mine to be an impartiallistener to aught that concerned me so nearly.
The superintendent proved right in his suspicions, and verifiedhis promises. My false accuser was his missing patient; the manrecognized Dr. —— with no apparent terror, rather withan air of condescension, and in a very few minutes was led to tellhis own tale, with a gloating complacency both at the agency bywhich he deemed himself exalted, and at the dexterous cunning withwhich he had acquitted himself of the task, that increased thehorror of his narrative.
He spoke of the mode of his escape, which was extremelyingenious, but of which the details, long in themselves, did notinterest me, and I understood them too imperfectly to repeat. Hehad encountered a sea-faring traveller on the road, whom he hadknocked down with a stone, and robbed of his glazed hat andpea-jacket, as well as of a small sum in coin, which last enabledhim to pay his fare in a railway that conveyed him eighty milesaway from the asylum. Some trifling remnant of this money still inhis pocket, he then travelled on foot along the high-road till hecame to a town about twenty miles distant from L——;there he had stayed a day or two, and there he said "that the Devilhad told him to buy a case-knife, which he did." "He knew by thatorder that the Devil meant him to do something great." "HisMaster," as he called the fiend, then directed him the road heshould take. He came to L——, put up, as he hadcorrectly stated before, at a small inn, wandered at night aboutthe town, was surprised by the sudden storm, took shelter under theconvent arch, overheard somewhat more of my conversation with SirPhilip than he had previously deposed,—heard enough to excitehis curiosity as to the casket: "While he listened his Master toldhim he must get possession of that casket." Sir Philip had quittedthe archway almost immediately after I had done so, and he wouldthen have attacked him if he had not caught sight of a policemangoing his rounds. He had followed Sir Philip to a house (Mr.Jeeves's). "His Master told him to wait and watch." He did so. WhenSir Philip came forth, towards the dawn, he followed him, saw himenter a narrow street, came up to him, seized him by the arm,demanded all he had about him. Sir Philip tried to shake himoff,—struck at him. What follows I spare the reader. The deedwas done. He robbed the dead man both of the casket and the pursethat he found in the pockets; had scarcely done so when he heardfootsteps. He had just time to get behind the portico of a detachedhouse at angles with the street when I came up. He witnessed, fromhis hiding-place, the brief conference between myself and thepolicemen, and when they moved on, bearing the body, stoleunobserved away. He was going back towards the inn, when itoccurred to him that it would be safer if the casket and purse werenot about his person; that he asked his Master to direct him how todispose of them: that his Master guided him to an open yard (astone-mason's) at a very little distance from the inn; that in thisyard there stood an old wych-elm tree, from the gnarled roots ofwhich the earth was worn away, leaving chinks and hollows, in oneof which he placed the casket and purse, taking from the latteronly two sovereigns and some silver, and then heaping loose mouldover the hiding-place. That he then repaired to his inn, and leftit late in the morning, on the pretence of seeking for hisrelations,—persons, indeed, who really had been related tohim, but of whose death years ago he was aware. He returned toL—— a few days afterwards, and in the dead of the nightwent to take up the casket and the money. He found the purse withits contents undisturbed; but the lid of the casket was unclosed.From the hasty glance he had taken of it before burying it, it hadseemed to him firmly locked,—he was alarmed lest some one hadbeen to the spot. But his Master whispered to him not to mind, toldhim that he might now take the casket, and would be guided what todo with it; that he did so, and, opening the lid, found the casketempty-; that he took the rest of the money out of the purse, butthat he did not take the purse itself, for it had a crest andinitials on it, which might lead to the discovery of what had beendone; that he therefore left it in the hollow amongst the roots,heaping the mould over it as before; that in the course of the dayhe heard the people at the inn talk of the murder, and that his ownfirst impulse was to get out of the town immediately, but that hisMaster "made him too wise for that," and bade him stay; thatpassing through the streets, he saw me come out of the sash-windowdoor, go to a stable-yard on the other side of the house, mount onhorseback and ride away; that he observed the sash-door was leftpartially open; that he walked by it and saw the room empty; therewas only a dead wall opposite; the place was solitary, unobserved;that his Master directed him to lift up the sash gently, enter theroom, and deposit the knife and the casket in a large walnut-treebureau which stood unlocked near the window. All thatfollowed—his visit to Mr. Vigors, his accusation againstmyself, his whole tale—was, he said, dictated by his Master,who was highly pleased with him, and promised to bring him safelythrough. And here he turned round with a hideous smile, as if forapprobation of his notable cleverness and respect for his highemploy.
Mr. Jeeves had the curiosity to request the keeper to inquirehow, in what form, or in what manner, the Fiend appeared to thenarrator, or conveyed his infernal dictates. The man at firstrefused to say; but it was gradually drawn from him that the Demonhad no certain and invariable form: sometimes it appeared to him inthe form of a rat; sometimes even of a leaf, or a fragment of wood,or a rusty nail; but that his Master's voice always came to himdistinctly, whatever shape he appeared in; only, he said, with anair of great importance, his Master, this time, had graciouslycondescended, ever since he left the asylum, to communicate withhim in a much more pleasing and imposing aspect than he had everdone before,—in the form of a beautiful youth, or, rather,like a bright rose-coloured shadow, in which the features of ayoung man were visible, and that he had heard the voice moredistinctly than usual, though in a milder tone, and seeming to cometo him from a great distance.
After these revelations the man became suddenly disturbed. Heshook from limb to limb, he seemed convulsed with terror; he criedout that he had betrayed the secret of his Master, who had warnedhim not to describe his appearance and mode of communication, or hewould surrender his servant to the tormentors. Then the maniac'sterror gave way to fury; his more direful propensity made itselfdeclared; he sprang into the midst of his frightened listeners,seized Mr. Vigors by the throat, and would have strangled him butfor the prompt rush of the superintendent and his satellites.Foaming at the mouth, and horribly raving, he was then manacled, astrait-waistcoat thrust upon him, and the group so left him incharge of his captors. Inquiries were immediately directed towardssuch circumstantial evidence as might corroborate the details hehad so minutely set forth. The purse, recognized as Sir Philip's,by the valet of the deceased, was found buried under the wych-elm.A policeman despatched, express, to the town in which the maniacdeclared the knife to have been purchased, brought back word that acutler in the place remembered perfectly to have sold such a knifeto a seafaring man, and identified the instrument when it was shownto him. From the chink of a door ajar, in the wall opposite mysash-window, a maid-servant, watching for her sweetheart (ajourneyman carpenter, who habitually passed that way on going hometo dine), had, though unobserved by the murderer, seen him come outof my window at a time that corresponded with the dates of his ownstory, though she had thought nothing of it at the moment. He mightbe a patient, or have called on business; she did not know that Iwas from home. The only point of importance not cleared up was thatwhich related to the opening of the casket,—the disappearanceof the contents; the lock had been unquestionably forced. No one,however, could suppose that some third person had discovered thehiding-place and forced open the casket to abstract its contentsand then rebury it. The only probable supposition was that the manhimself had forced it open, and, deeming the contents of no value,had thrown them away before he had hidden the casket and purse,and, in the chaos of his reason, had forgotten that he had so done.Who could expect that every link in a madman's tale would be foundintegral and perfect? In short, little importance was attached tothis solitary doubt. Crowds accompanied me to my door, when I wasset free, in open court, stainless; it was a triumphal procession.The popularity I had previously enjoyed, superseded for a moment byso horrible a charge, came back to me tenfold as with the reactionof generous repentance for a momentary doubt. One man shared thepublic favour,—the young man whose acuteness had delivered mefrom the peril, and cleared the truth from so awful a mystery; butMargrave had escaped from congratulation and compliment; he hadgone on a visit to Strahan, at Derval Court.
Alone, at last, in the welcome sanctuary of my own home, whatwere my thoughts? Prominent amongst them all was that assertion ofthe madman, which had made me shudder when repeated to me: he hadbeen guided to the murder and to all the subsequent proceedings bythe luminous shadow of the beautiful youth,—the Scin-Laeca towhich I had pledged myself. If Sir Philip Derval could be believed,Margrave was possessed of powers, derived from fragmentaryrecollections of a knowledge acquired in a former state of being,which would render his remorseless intelligence infinitely dire andfrustrate the endeavours of a reason, unassisted by similar powers,to thwart his designs or bring the law against his crimes. Had hethen the arts that could thus influence the minds of others toserve his fell purposes, and achieve securely his own evil endsthrough agencies that could not be traced home to himself?
But for what conceivable purpose had I been subjected as avictim to influences as much beyond my control as the Fate orDemoniac Necessity of a Greek Myth? In the legends of the classicworld some august sufferer is oppressed by powers more than mortal,but with an ethical if gloomy vindication of hischastisement,—he pays the penalty of crime committed by hisancestors or himself, or he has braved, by arrogating equality withthe gods, the mysterious calamity which the gods alone can inflict.But I, no descendant of Pelops, no OEdipus boastful of a wisdomwhich could interpret the enigmas of the Sphynx, while ignoranteven of his own birth—what had I done to be singled out fromthe herd of men for trials and visitations from the Shadowland ofghosts and sorcerers? It would be ludicrously absurd to supposethat Dr. Lloyd's dying imprecation could have had a propheticeffect upon my destiny; to believe that the pretences ofmesmerizers were specially favoured by Providence, and that toquestion their assumptions was an offence of profanation to bepunished by exposure to preternatural agencies. There was not eventhat congruity between cause and effect which fable seeks in excusefor its inventions. Of all men living, I, unimaginative disciple ofaustere science, should be the last to become the sport of thatwitchcraft which even imagination reluctantly allows to themachinery of poets, and science casts aside into the mouldylumber-room of obsolete superstition.
Rousing my mind from enigmas impossible to solve, it was withintense and yet most melancholy satisfaction that I turned to theimage of Lilian, rejoicing, though with a thrill of awe, that thepromise so mysteriously conveyed to my senses had, hereto, beenalready fulfilled,—Margrave had left the town; Lilian was nolonger subjected to his evil fascination. But an instinct told methat that fascination had already produced an effect adverse to allhope of happiness for me. Lilian's love for myself was gone.Impossible otherwise that she—in whose nature I had alwaysadmired that generous devotion which is more or less inseparablefrom the romance of youth—should have never conveyed to meone word of consolation in the hour of my agony and trial; thatshe, who, till the last evening we had met, had ever been sodocile, in the sweetness of a nature femininely submissive to myslightest wish, should have disregarded my solemn injunction, andadmitted Margrave to acquaintance, nay, to familiarintimacy,—at the very time, too, when to disobey myinjunctions was to embitter my ordeal, and add her own contempt tothe degradation imposed upon my honour! No, her heart must bewholly gone from me; her very nature wholly warped. A union betweenus had become impossible. My love for her remained unshattered; themore tender, perhaps, for a sentiment of compassion. But my pridewas shocked, my heart was wounded. My love was not mean andservile. Enough for me to think that she would be at least savedfrom Margrave. Her life associated with his!—contemplationhorrible and ghastly!—from that fate she was saved. Later,she would recover the effect of an influence happily so brief. Shemight form some new attachment, some new tie; but love oncewithdrawn is never to be restored—and her love was withdrawnfrom me. I had but to release her, with my own lips, from ourengagement,—she would welcome that release. Mournful but firmin these thoughts and these resolutions, I sought Mrs. Ashleigh'shouse.
It was twilight when I entered, unannounced (as had been my wontin our familiar intercourse), the quiet sitting-room in which Iexpected to find mother and child. But Lilian was there alone,seated by the open window, her hands crossed and drooping on herknee, her eye fixed upon the darkening summer skies, in which theevening star had just stolen forth, bright and steadfast, near thepale sickle of a half-moon that was dimly visible, but gave as yetno light.
Let any lover imagine the reception he would expect to meet fromhis betrothed coming into her presence after he had passedtriumphant through a terrible peril to life and fame—andconceive what ice froze my blood, what anguish weighed down myheart, when Lilian, turning towards me, rose not, spoke not, gazedat me heedlessly as if at some indifferentstranger—and—and—But no matter. I cannot bear torecall it even now, at the distance of years! I sat down besideher, and took her hand, without pressing it; it rested languidly,passively in mine, one moment; I dropped it then, with a bittersigh.
"Lilian," I said quietly, "you love me no longer. Is it notso?"
She raised her eyes to mine, looked at me wistfully, and pressedher hand on her forehead; then said, in a strange voice, "Did Iever love you? What do you mean?"
"Lilian, Lilian, rouse yourself; are you not, while you speak,under some spell, some influence which you cannot describe noraccount for?"
She paused a moment before she answered, calmly, "No! Again Iask what do you mean?"
"What do I mean? Do you forget that we are betrothed? Do youforget how often, and how recently, our vows of affection andconstancy have been exchanged?"
"No, I do not forget; but I must have deceived you andmyself—"
"It is true, then, that you love me no more?"
"I suppose so."
"But, oh, Lilian, is it that your heart is only closed to me; oris it—oh, answer truthfully—is it given toanother,—to him—to him—against whom I warned you,whom I implored you not to receive? Tell me, at least, that yourlove is not gone to Margrave—"
"To him! love to him! Oh, no—no—"
"What, then, is your feeling towards him?"
Lilian's face grew visibly paler, even in that dim light. "Iknow not," she said, almost in a whisper; "but it is partlyawe—partly—"
"What?"
"Abhorrence!" she said almost fiercely, and rose to her feet,with a wild defying start.
"If that be so," I said gently, "you would not grieve were younever again to see him—"
"But I shall see him again," she murmured in a tone of wearysadness, and sank back once more into her chair.
"I think not," said I, "and I hope not. And now hear me and heedme, Lilian. It is enough for me, no matter what your feelingstowards another, to learn from yourself that the affection you onceprofessed for me is gone. I release you from your troth. If folksask why we two henceforth separate the lives we had agreed to join,you may say, if you please, that you could not give your hand to aman who had known the taint of a felon's prison, even on a falsecharge. If that seems to you an ungenerous reason, we will leave itto your mother to find a better. Farewell! For your own sake I canyet feel happiness,—happiness to hear that you do not lovethe man against whom I warn you still more solemnly than before!Will you not give me your hand in parting—and have I notspoken your own wish?"
She turned away her face, and resigned her hand to me insilence. Silently I held it in mine, and my emotions nearly stifledme. One symptom of regret, of reluctance, on her part, and I shouldhave fallen at her feet, and cried, "Do not let us break a tiewhich our vows should have made indisoluble; heed not my offers,wrung from a tortured heart! You cannot have ceased to love me!"But no such symptom of relenting showed itself in her, and with agroan I left the room.
I was just outside the garden door, when I felt an arm thrownround me, my cheek kissed and wetted with tears. Could it beLilian? Alas, no! It was her mother's voice, that, between laughingand crying, exclaimed hysterically: "This is joy, to see you again,and on these thresholds. I have just come from your house; I wentthere on purpose to congratulate you, and to talk to you aboutLilian. But you have seen her?"
"Yes; I have but this moment left her. Come this way." I drewMrs. Ashleigh back into the garden, along the old winding walk,which the shrubs concealed from view of the house. We sat down on arustic seat where I had often sat with Lilian, midway between thehouse and the Monks' Well. I told the mother what had passedbetween me and her daughter; I made no complaint of Lilian'scoldness and change; I did not hint at its cause. "Girls of her agewill change," said I, "and all that now remains is for us two toagree on such a tale to our curious neighbours as may rest thewhole blame on me. Man's name is of robust fibre; it could not pushits way to a place in the world, if it could not bear, withoutsinking, the load idle tongues may lay on it. Not so Woman's Name:what is but gossip against Man, is scandal against Woman."
"Do not be rash, my dear Allen," said Mrs. Ashleigh, in greatdistress. "I feel for you, I understand you; in your case I mightact as you do. I cannot blame you. Lilian is changed,—changedunaccountably. Yet sure I am that the change is only on thesurface, that her heart is really yours, as entirely and asfaithfully as ever it was; and that later, when she recovers fromthe strange, dreamy kind of torpor which appears to have come overall her faculties and all her affections, she would awake with adespair which you cannot conjecture to the knowledge that you hadrenounced her."
"I have not renounced her," said I, impatiently; "I did butrestore her freedom of choice. But pass by this now, and explain tome more fully the change in your daughter, which I gather from yourwords is not confined to me."
"I wished to speak of it before you saw her, and for that reasoncame to your house. It was on the morning in which we left heraunt's to return hither that I first noticed some thing peculiar inher look and manner. She seemed absorbed and absent, so much sothat I asked her several times to tell me what made her so grave;but I could only get from her that she had had a confused dreamwhich she could not recall distinctly enough to relate, but thatshe was sure it boded evil. During the journey she became graduallymore herself, and began to look forward with delight to the idea ofseeing you again. Well, you came that evening. What passed betweenyou and her you know best. You complained that she slighted yourrequest to shun all acquaintance with Mr. Margrave. I was surprisedthat, whether your wish were reasonable or not, she could havehesitated to comply with it. I spoke to her about it after you hadgone, and she wept bitterly at thinking she had displeasedyou."
"She wept! You amaze me. Yet the next day what a note shereturned to mine!"
"The next day the change in her became very visible to me. Shetold me, in an excited manner, that she was convinced she ought notto marry you. Then came, the following day, the news of yourcommittal. I heard of it, but dared not break it to her. I went toour friend the mayor, to consult with him what to say, what to do;and to learn more distinctly than I had done from terrified,incoherent servants, the rights of so dreadful a story. When Ireturned, I found, to my amazement, a young stranger in thedrawing-room; it was Mr. Margrave,—Miss Brabazon had broughthim at his request. Lilian was in the room, too, and myastonishment was increased, when she said to me with a singularsmile, vague but tranquil: 'I know all about Allen Fenwick; Mr.Margrave has told me all. He is a friend of Allen's. He says thereis no cause for fear.' Mr. Margrave then apologized to me for hisintrusion in a caressing, kindly manner, as if one of the family.He said he was so intimate with you that he felt that he could bestbreak to Miss Ashleigh information she might receive elsewhere, forthat he was the only man in the town who treated the charge withridicule. You know the wonderful charm of this young man's manner.I cannot explain to you how it was, but in a few moments I was asmuch at home with him as if he had been your brother. To be brief,having once come, he came constantly. He had moved, two days beforeyou went to Derval Court, from his hotel to apartments in Mr.——'s house, just opposite. We could see him on hisbalcony from our terrace; he would smile to us and come across. Idid wrong in slighting your injunction, and suffering Lilian to doso. I could not help it, he was such a comfort to me,—to her,too—in her tribulation. He alone had no doleful words, woreno long face; he alone was invariably cheerful. 'Everything,' hesaid, 'would come right in a day or two.'"
"And Lilian could not but admire this young man, he is sobeautiful."
"Beautiful? Well, perhaps. But if you have a jealous feeling,you were never more mistaken. Lilian, I am convinced, does morethan dislike him; he has inspired her with repugnance, with terror.And much as I own I like him, in his wild, joyous, careless,harmless way, do not think I flatter you if I say that Mr. Margraveis not the man to make any girl untrue to you,—untrue to alover with infinitely less advantages than you may pretend to. Hewould be a universal favourite, I grant; but there is something inhim, or a something wanting in him, which makes liking andadmiration stop short of love. I know not why; perhaps, because,with all his good humour, he is so absorbed in himself, sointensely egotistical, so light; were he less clever, I should sayso frivolous. He could not make love, he could not say in theserious tone of a man in earnest, 'I love you.' He owned as much tome, and owned, too, that he knew not even what love was. As tomyself, Mr. Margrave appears rich; no whisper against his characteror his honour ever reached me. Yet were you out of the question,and were there no stain on his birth, nay, were he as high in rankand wealth as he is favoured by Nature in personal advantages, Iconfess I could never consent to trust him with my daughter's fate.A voice at my heart would cry, 'No!' It may be an unreasonableprejudice, but I could not bear to see him touch Lilian'shand!"
"Did she never, then—never suffer him even to take herhand?"
"Never. Do not think so meanly of her as to suppose that shecould be caught by a fair face, a graceful manner. Reflect: justbefore she had refused, for your sake, Ashleigh Sumner, whom LadyHaughton said 'no girl in her senses could refuse;' and this changein Lilian really began before we returned toL——,—before she had even seen Mr. Margrave. I amconvinced it is something in the reach of your skill asphysician,—it is on the nerves, the system. I will give you aproof of what I say, only do not betray me to her. It was duringyour imprisonment, the night before your release, that I wasawakened by her coming to my bedside. She was sobbing as if herheart would break. 'O mother, mother!' she cried, 'pity me, helpme! I am so wretched.' 'What is the matter, darling?' 'I have beenso cruel to Allen, and I know I shall be so again. I cannot helpit. Do not question me; only if we are separated, if he cast meoff, or I reject him, tell him some day perhaps when I am in mygrave—not to believe appearances; and that I, in my heart ofhearts, never ceased to love him!'"
"She said that! You are not deceiving me?"
"Oh, no! how can you think so?"
"There is hope still," I murmured; and I bowed my head upon myhands, hot tears forcing their way through the clasped fingers.
"One word more," said I; "you tell me that Lilian has arepugnance to this Margrave, and yet that she found comfort in hisvisits,—a comfort that could not be wholly ascribed tocheering words he might say about myself, since it is all butcertain that I was not, at that time, uppermost in her mind. Canyou explain this apparent contradiction?"
"I cannot, otherwise than by a conjecture which you wouldridicule."
"I can ridicule nothing now. What is your conjecture?"
"I know how much you disbelieve in the stories one hears ofanimal magnetism and electro-biology, otherwise—"
"You think that Margrave exercises some power of that kind overLilian? Has he spoken of such a power?"
"Not exactly; but he said that he was sure Lilian possessed afaculty that he called by some hard name, not clairvoyance, but afaculty, which he said, when I asked him to explain, was akin toprevision,—to second sight. Then he talked of the Priestesseswho had administered the ancient oracles. Lilian, he said, remindedhim of them, with her deep eyes and mysterious smile."
"And Lilian heard him? What said she?"
"Nothing; she seemed in fear while she listened."
"He did not offer to try any of those arts practised byprofessional mesmerists and other charlatans?"
"I thought he was about to do so, but I forestalled him, sayingI never would consent to any experiment of that kind, either onmyself or my daughter."
"And he replied—"
"With his gay laugh, 'that I was very foolish; that a personpossessed of such a faculty as he attributed to Lilian would, ifthe faculty were developed, be an invaluable adviser.' He wouldhave said more, but I begged him to desist. Still I fancy attimes—do not be angry—that he does somehow or otherbewitch her, unconsciously to herself; for she always knows when heis coming. Indeed, I am not sure that he does not bewitch myself,for I by no means justify my conduct in admitting him to anintimacy so familiar, and in spite of your wish; I have reproachedmyself, resolved to shut my door on him, or to show by my mannerthat his visits were unwelcome; yet when Lilian has said, in thedrowsy lethargic tone which has come into her voice (her voicenaturally earnest and impressive, though always low), 'Mother, hewill be here in two minutes; I wish to leave the room and cannot,'I, too, have felt as if something constrained me against my will;as if, in short, I were under that influence which Mr.Vigors—whom I will never forgive for his conduct toyou—would ascribe to mesmerism. But will you not come in andsee Lilian again?"
"No, not to-night; but watch and heed her, and if you see aughtto make you honestly believe that she regrets the rupture of theold tic from which I have released her—why, you know, Mrs.Ashleigh, that—that—" My voice failed; I wrung the goodwoman's hand, and went my way.
I had always till then considered Mrs. Ashleigh—if not asMrs. Poyntz described her—"commonplace weak"—still ofan intelligence somewhat below mediocrity. I now regarded her withrespect as well as grateful tenderness; her plain sense had divinedwhat all my boasted knowledge had failed to detect in my earlierintimacy with Margrave,—namely, that in him there was asomething present, or a something wanting, which forbade love andexcited fear. Young, beautiful, wealthy, seemingly blameless inlife as he was, she would not have given her daughter's hand tohim!
The next day my house was filled with visitors. I had no notionthat I had so many friends. Mr. Vigors wrote me a generous andhandsome letter, owning his prejudices against me on account of hissympathy with poor Dr. Lloyd, and begging my pardon for what he nowfelt to have been harshness, if not distorted justice. But whatmost moved me was the entrance of Strahan, who rushed up to me withthe heartiness of old college days. "Oh, my dear Allen, can youever forgive me; that I should have disbelieved yourword,—should have suspected you of abstracting my poorcousin's memoir?"
"Is it found, then?"
"Oh, yes; you must thank Margrave. He, clever fellow, you know,came to me on a visit yesterday. He put me at once on the rightscent. Only guess; but you never can! It was that wretched oldhousekeeper who purloined the manuscript. You remember she cameinto the room while you were looking at the memoir. She heard ustalk about it; her curiosity was roused; she longed to know thehistory of her old master, under his own hand; she could not sleep;she heard me go up to bed; she thought you might leave the book onthe table when you, too, went to rest. She stole downstairs, peepedthrough the keyhole of the library, saw you asleep, the book lyingbefore you, entered, took away the book softly, meant to glance atits contents and to return it. You were sleeping so soundly shethought you would not wake for an hour; she carried it into thelibrary, leaving the door open, and there began to pore over it.She stumbled first on one of the passages in Latin; she hoped tofind some part in plain English, turned over the leaves, puttingher candle close to them, for the old woman's eyes were dim, whenshe heard you make some sound in your sleep. Alarmed, she lookedround; you were moving uneasily in your seat, and muttering toyourself. From watching you she was soon diverted by theconsequences of her own confounded curiosity and folly. In moving,she had unconsciously brought the poor manuscript close to thecandle; the leaves caught the flame; her own cap and hand burningfirst made her aware of the mischief done. She threw down the book;her sleeve was in flames; she had first to tear off the sleeve,which was, luckily for her, not sewn to her dress. By the time sherecovered presence of mind to attend to the book, half its leaveswere reduced to tinder. She did not dare then to replace what wasleft of the manuscript on your table; returned with it to her room,hid it, and resolved to keep her own secret. I should never haveguessed it; I had never even spoken to her of the occurrence; butwhen I talked over the disappearance of the book to Margrave lastnight, and expressed my disbelief of your story, he said, in hismerry way: 'But do you think that Fenwick is the only personcurious about your cousin's odd ways and strange history? Why,every servant in the household would have been equally curious. Youhave examined your servants, of course?' 'No, I never thought ofit.' 'Examine them now, then. Examine especially that oldhousekeeper. I observe a great change in her manner since I camehere, weeks ago, to look over the house. She has something on hermind,—I see it in her eyes.' Then it occurred to me, too,that the woman's manner had altered, and that she seemed always ina tremble and a fidget. I went at once to her room, and charged herwith stealing the book. She fell on her knees, and told the wholestory as I have told it to you, and as I shall take care to tell itto all to whom I have so foolishly blabbed my yet more foolishsuspicions of yourself. But can you forgive me, old friend?"
"Heartily, heartily! And the book is burned?"
"See;" and he produced a mutilated manuscript. Strange, the partburned—reduced, indeed, to tinder—was the concludingpart that related to Haroun,—to Grayle: no vestige of thatpart was left; the earlier portions were scorched and mutilated,though in some places still decipherable; but as my eye hastily ranover those places, I saw only mangled sentences of the experimentalproblems which the writer had so minutely elaborated.
"Will you keep the manuscript as it is, and as long as youlike?" said Strahan.
"No, no; I will have nothing more to do with it. Consult someother man of science. And so this is the old woman's whole story?No accomplice,—none? No one else shared her curiosity and hertask?"
"No. Oddly enough, though, she made much the same excuse for herpitiful folly that the madman made for his terrible crime; shesaid, 'the Devil put it into her head.' Of course he did, as heputs everything wrong into any one's head. That does not mend thematter."
"How! did she, too, say she saw a Shadow and heard a voice?"
"No; not such a liar as that, and not mad enough for such a lie.But she said that when she was in bed, thinking over the book,something irresistible urged her to get up and go down into thestudy; swore she felt something lead her by the hand; swore, too,that when she first discovered the manuscript was not in English,something whispered in her ear to turn over the leaves and approachthem to the candle. But I had no patience to listen to all thisrubbish. I sent her out of the house, bag and baggage. But, alas!is this to be the end of all my wise cousin's granddiscoveries?"
True, of labours that aspired to bring into the chart of sciencenew worlds, of which even the traditionary rumour was but a voicefrom the land of fable—nought left but broken vestiges of adaring footstep! The hope of a name imperishable amidst theloftiest hierarchy of Nature's secret temple, with all the pomp ofrecorded experiment, that applied to the mysteries of Egypt andChaldaea the inductions of Bacon, the tests of Liebig—wasthere nothing left of this but what, here and there, some puzzledstudent might extract, garbled, mutilated, perhaps unintelligible,from shreds of sentences, wrecks of problems! O mind of man, canthe works, on which thou wouldst found immortality below, beannulled into smoke and tinder by an inch of candle in the hand ofan old woman!
When Strahan left me, I went out, but not yet to visit patients.I stole through by-paths into the fields; I needed solitude tobring my thoughts into shape and order. What was delusion, and whatnot? Was I right or the Public? Was Margrave really the mostinnocent and serviceable of human beings, kindly affectionate,employing a wonderful acuteness for benignant ends? Was I, intruth, indebted to him for the greatest boon one man can bestow onanother,—for life rescued, for fair name justified? Or hadhe, by some demoniac sorcery, guided the hand of the murdereragainst the life of the person who alone could imperil his own? Hadhe, by the same dark spells, urged the woman to the act that haddestroyed the only record of his monstrous being,—the onlyevidence that I was not the sport of an illusion in the horror withwhich he inspired me?
But if the latter supposition could be admissible, did he usehis agents only to betray them afterwards to exposure, and that,without any possible clew to his own detection as the instigator?Then, there came over me confused recollections of tales ofmediaeval witchcraft, which I had read in boyhood. Were there noton judicial record attestation and evidence, solemn andcircumstantial, of powers analogous to those now exercised byMargrave,—of sorcerers instigating to sin through influencesascribed to Demons; making their apparitions glide through guardedwalls, their voices heard from afar in the solitude of dungeons ormonastic cells; subjugating victims to their will, by means whichno vigilance could have detected, if the victims themselves had notconfessed the witchcraft that had ensnared, courting a sure andinfamous death in that confession, preferring such death to a lifeso haunted? Were stories so gravely set forth in the pomp ofjudicial evidence, and in the history of times comparativelyrecent, indeed to be massed, pell-mell together, as a molesindigesta of senseless superstition,—all the witnesses to bedeemed liars; all the victims and tools of the sorcerers, lunatics;all the examiners or judges, with their solemn gradations—layand clerical—from Commissions of Inquiry to Courts ofAppeal,—to be despised for credulity, loathed for cruelty;or, amidst records so numerous, so imposingly attested, were therethe fragments of a terrible truth? And had our ancestors been sounwise in those laws we now deem so savage, by which the world wasrid of scourges more awful and more potent than the felon with hiscandid dagger? Fell instigators of the evil in men's secret hearts,shaping into action the vague, half-formed desire, and guiding withagencies impalpable, unseen, their spell-bound instruments ofcalamity and death.
Such were the gloomy questions that I—by repute, thesternest advocate of common-sense against fantastic errors; byprofession, the searcher into flesh and blood, and tissue and nerveand sinew, for the causes of all that disease the mechanism of theuniversal human frame; I, self-boasting physician, sceptic,philosopher, materialist—revolved, not amidst gloomy pines,under grim winter skies, but as I paced slow through laughingmeadows, and by the banks of merry streams, in the ripeness of thegolden August: the hum of insects in the fragrant grass, theflutter of birds amid the delicate green of boughs checkered byplayful sunbeams and gentle shadows, and ever in sight of theresorts of busy workday man,—walls, roof-tops, church-spiresrising high; there, white and modern, the handwriting of our race,in this practical nineteenth century, on its square plain masonryand Doric shafts, the Town-Hall, central in the animatedmarketplace. And I—I—prying into long-neglected cornersand dust-holes of memory for what my reason had flung there asworthless rubbish; reviving the jargon of French law, in the procesverbal, against a Gille de Retz, or an Urbain Grandier, and siftingthe equity of sentences on witchcraft!
Bursting the links of this ghastly soliloquy with a laugh at myown folly, I struck into a narrow path that led back towards thecity, by a quiet and rural suburb; the path wound on through a wideand solitary churchyard, at the base of the Abbey-hill. Many of theformer dwellers on that eminence now slept in the lowlyburial-ground at its foot; and the place, mournfully decorated withthe tombs which still jealously mark distinctions of rank amidstthe levelling democracy of the grave, was kept trim with the carewhich comes half from piety, and half from pride.
I seated myself on a bench, placed between the clipped yew-treesthat bordered the path from the entrance to the church porch,deeming vaguely that my own perplexing thoughts might imbibe aquiet from the quiet of the place.
"And oh," I murmured to myself, "oh that I had one bosom friendto whom I might freely confide all these torturing riddles which Icannot solve,—one who could read my heart, light up itsdarkness, exorcise its spectres; one in whose wisdom I couldwelcome a guide through the Nature which now suddenly changes heraspect, opening out from the walls with which I had fenced andenclosed her as mine own formal garden;—all her pathways,therein, trimmed to my footstep; all her blooms grouped andharmonized to my own taste in colour; all her groves, all hercaverns, but the soothing retreats of a Muse or a Science; openingout—opening out, desert on desert, into clewless andmeasureless space! Gone is the garden! Were its confines too narrowfor Nature? Be it so! The Desert replaces the garden, but whereends the Desert? Reft from my senses are the laws which gave orderand place to their old questionless realm. I stand lost andappalled amidst Chaos. Did my Mind misconstrue the laws it deemedfixed and immutable? Be it so! But still Nature cannot be lawless;Creation is not a Chaos. If my senses deceive me in some things,they are still unerring in others; if thus, in some things,fallacious, still, in other things, truthful. Are there within mesenses finer than those I have cultured, or without me vistas ofknowledge which instincts, apart from my senses, divine? So long asI deal with the Finite alone, my senses suffice me; but when theInfinite is obtruded upon me there, are my senses faithlessdeserters? If so, is there aught else in my royal resources ofMan—whose ambition it is, from the first dawn of his glory asThinker, to invade and to subjugate Nature,—is there aughtelse to supply the place of those traitors, the senses, who reportto my Reason, their judge and their sovereign, as truths seen andheard tales which my Reason forfeits her sceptre if she does notdisdain as lies? Oh, for a friend! oh, for a guide!"
And as I so murmured, my eye fell upon the form of a kneelingchild,—at the farther end of the burial-ground, beside agrave with its new headstone gleaming white amidst the oldermoss-grown tombs, a female child, her head bowed, her handsclasped. I could see but the outline of her small form in its sabledress,—an infant beside the dead. My eye and my thoughts wereturned from that silent figure, too absorbed in my own restlesstumult of doubt and dread, for sympathy with the grief or theconsolation of a kneeling child. And yet I should have rememberedthat tomb! Again I murmured with a fierce impatience, "Oh, for afriend! oh, for a guide!"
I heard steps on the walk under the yews; and an old man came insight, slightly bent, with long gray hair, but still with enough ofvigour for years to come, in his tread, firm, though slow, in theunshrunken muscle of his limbs and the steady light of his clearblue eye. I started. Was it possible? That countenance, marked,indeed, with the lines of laborious thought, but sweet in themildness of humanity, and serene in the peace of conscience! Icould not be mistaken. Julius Faber was before me,—theprofound pathologist, to whom my own proud self-esteem acknowledgedinferiority, without humiliation; the generous benefactor to whom Iowed my own smooth entrance into the arduous road of fame andfortune. I had longed for a friend, a guide; what I sought stoodsuddenly at my side.
Explanation on Faber's part was short and simple. The nephewwhom he designed as the heir to his wealth had largely outstrippedthe liberal allowance made to him, had incurred heavy debts; and inorder to extricate himself from the debts, had plunged into ruinousspeculations. Faber had come back to England to save his heir fromprison or outlawry, at the expense of more than three-fourths ofthe destined inheritance. To add to all, the young man had marrieda young lady without fortune; the uncle only heard of this marriageon arriving in England. The spendthrift was hiding from hiscreditors in the house of his father-in-law, in one of the westerncounties. Faber there sought him; and on becoming acquainted withhis wife, grew reconciled to the marriage, and formed hopes of hisnephew's future redemption. He spoke, indeed, of the young wifewith great affection. She was good and sensible; willing andanxious to encounter any privation by which her husband mightreprieve the effects of his folly. "So," said Faber, "onconsultation with this excellent creature—for my poor nephewis so broken down by repentance, that others must think for him howto exalt repentance into reform—my plans were determined. Ishall remove my prodigal from all scenes of temptation. He hasyouth, strength, plenty of energy, hitherto misdirected. I shalltake him from the Old World into the New. I have decided onAustralia. The fortune still left to me, small here, will be amplecapital there. It is not enough to maintain us separately, so wemust all live together. Besides, I feel that, though I have neitherthe strength or the experience which could best serve a youngsettler on a strange soil, still, under my eye, my poor boy will beat once more prudent and more persevering. We sail next week."
Faber spoke so cheerfully that I knew not how to expresscompassion; yet, at his age, after a career of such prolonged anddistinguished labour, to resign the ease and comforts of thecivilized state for the hardships and rudeness of an infant colony,seemed to me a dreary prospect; and, as delicately, as tenderly asI could to one whom I loved and honoured as a father, I placed athis disposal the fortune which, in great part, I owed tohim,—pressing him at least to take from it enough to secureto himself, in his own country, a home suited to his years andworthy of his station. He rejected all my offers, however earnestlyurged on him, with his usual modest and gentle dignity; andassuring me that he looked forward with great interest to aresidence in lands new to his experience, and affording ample scopefor the hardy enjoyments which had always most allured his tastes,he hastened to change the subject.
"And who, think you, is the admirable helpmate my scape-gracehas had the saving good luck to find? A daughter of the worthy manwho undertook the care of poor Dr. Lloyd's orphans,—theorphans who owed so much to your generous exertions to secure aprovision for them; and that child, now just risen from herfather's grave, is my pet companion, my darling ewe lamb,—Dr.Lloyd's daughter Amy."
Here the child joined us, quickening her pace as she recognizedthe old man, and nestling to his side as she glanced wistfullytowards myself. A winning, candid, lovable child's face, somewhatmelancholy, somewhat more thoughtful than is common to the face ofchildhood, but calm, intelligent, and ineffably mild. Presently shestole from the old man, and put her hand in mine.
"Are you not the kind gentleman who came to see him that nightwhen he passed away from us, and who, they all say at home, was sogood to my brothers and me? Yes, I recollect you now." And she puther pure face to mine, wooing me to kiss it.
I kind! I good! I—I! Alas! she little knew, littleguessed, the wrathful imprecation her father had bequeathed to methat fatal night!
I did not dare to kiss Dr. Lloyd's orphan daughter, but my tearsfell over her hand. She took them as signs of pity, and, in herinfant thankfulness, silently kissed me.
"Oh, my friend!" I murmured to Faber, "I have much that I yearnto say to you—alone—alone! Come to my house with me, beat least my guest as long as you stay in this town."
"Willingly," said Faber, looking at me more intently than he haddone before, and with the true eye of the practised Healer, at oncesoft and penetrating.
He rose, took my arm, and whispering a word in the ear of thelittle girl, she went on before us, turning her head, as she gainedthe gate, for another look at her father's grave. As we walked tomy house, Julius Faber spoke to me much of this child. Her brotherswere all at school; she was greatly attached to his nephew's wife;she had become yet more attached to Faber himself, though on soshort an acquaintance; it had been settled that she was toaccompany the emigrants to Australia.
"There," said he, "the sum, that some munificent, but unknownfriend of her father has settled on her, will provide her no meandower for a colonist's wife, when the time comes for her to bring ablessing to some other hearth than ours." He went on to say thatshe had wished to accompany him to L——, in order tovisit her father's grave before crossing the wide seas; "and shehas taken such fond care of me all the way, that you might fancy Iwere the child of the two. I come back to this town, partly todispose of a few poor houses in it which still belong to me,principally to bid you farewell before quitting the Old World, nodoubt forever. So, on arriving to-day, I left Amy by herself in thechurchyard while I went to your house, but you were from home. Andnow I must congratulate you on the reputation you have so rapidlyacquired, which has even surpassed my predictions."
"You are aware," said I, falteringly, "of the extraordinarycharge from which that part of my reputation dearest to all men hasjust emerged!"
He had but seen a short account in a weekly journal, writtenafter my release. He asked details, which I postponed.
Reaching my home, I hastened to provide for the comfort of mytwo unexpected guests; strove to rally myself, to be cheerful. Nottill night, when Julius Faber and I were alone together, did Itouch on what was weighing at my heart. Then, drawing to his side,I told him all,—all of which the substance is herein written,from the deathscene in Dr. Lloyd's chamber to the hour in which Ihad seen Dr. Lloyd's child at her father's grave. Some of theincidents and conversations which had most impressed me I hadalready committed to writing, in the fear that, otherwise, my fancymight forge for its own thraldom the links of reminiscence which mymemory might let fall from its chain. Faber listened with a silenceonly interrupted by short pertinent questions; and when I had done,he remained thoughtful for some moments; then the great physicianreplied thus:—
"I take for granted your conviction of the reality of all youtell me, even of the Luminous Shadow, of the bodiless Voice; but,before admitting the reality itself, we must abide by the oldmaxim, not to accept as cause to effect those agencies which belongto the Marvellous, when causes less improbable for the effect canbe rationally conjectured. In this case are there not such causes?Certainly there are—"
"There are?"
"Listen; you are one of those men who attempt to stifle theirown imagination. But in all completed intellect, imaginationexists, and will force its way; deny it healthful vents, and it maystray into morbid channels. The death-room of Dr. Lloyd deeplyimpressed your heart, far more than your pride would own. This isclear from the pains you took to exonerate your conscience, in yourgenerosity to the orphans. As the heart was moved, so was theimagination stirred; and, unaware to yourself, prepared for muchthat subsequently appealed to it. Your sudden love, conceived inthe very grounds of the house so associated with recollections inthemselves strange and romantic; the peculiar temperament andnature of the girl to whom your love was attracted; her ownvisionary beliefs, and the keen anxiety which infused into yourlove a deeper poetry of sentiment,—all insensibly tended toinduce the imagination to dwell on the Wonderful; and, inoverstriving to reconcile each rarer phenomenon to the mostpositive laws of Nature, your very intellect could discover nosolution but in the Preternatural.
"You visit a man who tells you he has seen Sir Philip Derval'sghost; on that very evening, you hear a strange story, in which SirPhilip's name is mixed up with a tale of murder, implicating twomysterious pretenders to magic,—Louis Grayle and the Sage ofAleppo. The tale so interests your fancy that even the glaringimpossibility of a not unimportant part of it escapes yournotice,—namely, the account of a criminal trial in which thecircumstantial evidence was more easily attainable than in all therest of the narrative, but which could not legally have taken placeas told. Thus it is whenever the mind begins, unconsciously, toadmit the shadow of the Supernatural; the Obvious is lost to theeye that plunges its gaze into the Obscure. Almost immediatelyafterwards you become acquainted with a young stranger, whosetraits of character interest and perplex, attract yet revolt you.All this time you are engaged in a physiological work whichseverely tasks the brain, and in which you examine the intricatequestion of soul distinct from mind.
"And, here, I can conceive a cause deep-hid amongst whatmetaphysicians would call latent associations, for a train ofthought which disposed you to accept the fantastic impressionsafterwards made on you by the scene in the Museum and the visionarytalk of Sir Philip Derval. Doubtless, when at college you firststudied metaphysical speculation you would have glanced overBeattie's 'Essay on Truth' as one of the works written inopposition to your favourite, David Hume."
"Yes, I read the book, but I have long since forgotten itsarguments."
"Well in that essay, Beattie(1) cites the extraordinary instanceof Simon Browne, a learned and pious clergyman, who seriouslydisbelieved the existence of his own soul; and imagined that, byinterposition of Divine power, his soul was annulled, and nothingleft but a principle of animal life, which he held in common withthe brutes! When, years ago, a thoughtful imaginative student, youcame on that story, probably enough you would have paused, revolvedin your own mind and fancy what kind of a creature a man might be,if, retaining human life and merely human understanding, he wasdeprived of the powers and properties which reasoners have ascribedto the existence of soul. Something in this young man,unconsciously to yourself, revives that forgotten train ofmeditative ideas. His dread of death as the final cessation ofbeing, his brute-like want of sympathy with his kind, hisincapacity to comprehend the motives which carry man on to schemeand to build for a future that extends beyond his grave,—allstart up before you at the very moment your reason is overtasked,your imagination fevered, in seeking the solution of problemswhich, to a philosophy based upon your system, must always remaininsoluble. The young man's conversation not only thus excites yourfancies,—it disturbs your affections. He speaks not only ofdrugs that renew youth, but of charms that secure love. You tremblefor your Lilian while you hear him! And the brain thus tasked, theimagination thus inflamed, the heart thus agitated, you arepresented to Sir Philip Derval, whose ghost your patient hadsupposed he saw weeks ago.
"This person, a seeker after an occult philosophy, which hadpossibly acquainted him with some secrets in nature beyond the paleof our conventional experience, though, when analyzed, they mightprove to be quite reconcilable with sober science, startles youwith an undefined mysterious charge against the young man who hadpreviously seemed to you different from ordinary mortals. In a roomstored with the dead things of the brute soulless world, your brainbecomes intoxicated with the fumes of some vapour which produceseffects not uncommon in the superstitious practices of the East;your brain, thus excited, brings distinctly before you the vagueimpressions it had before received. Margrave becomes identifiedwith the Louis Grayle of whom you had previously heard an obscureand, legendary tale, and all the anomalies in his character areexplained by his being that which you had contended, in yourphysiological work, it was quite possible for man tobe,—namely, mind and body without soul! You were startled bythe monster which man would be were your own theory possible; andin order to reconcile the contradictions in this very monster, youaccount for knowledge, and for powers that mind without soul couldnot have attained, by ascribing to this prodigy broken memories ofa former existence, demon attributes from former proficiency inevil magic. My friend, there is nothing here which your own studyof morbid idiosyncracies should not suffice to solve."
"So, then," said I, "you would reduce all that have affected mysenses as realities into the deceit of illusions? But," I added, ina whisper, terrified by my own question, "do not physiologistsagree in this: namely, that though illusory phantasms may haunt thesane as well as the insane, the sane know that they are onlyillusions, and the insane do not."
"Such a distinction," answered Faber, "is far too arbitrary andrigid for more than a very general and qualified acceptance.Muller, indeed, who is perhaps the highest authority on such asubject, says, with prudent reserve, 'When a person who is notinsane sees spectres and believes, them to be real, his intellectmust be imperfectly exercised.'(2) He would, indeed, be a boldphysician who maintained that every man who believed he had reallyseen a ghost was of unsound mind. In Dr. Abercrombie's interestingaccount of spectral illusions, he tells us of a servant-girl whobelieved she saw, at the foot of her bed, the apparition of Curran,in a sailor's jacket and an immense pair of whiskers.(3) No doubtthe spectre was an illusion, and Dr. Abercrombie very ingeniouslysuggests the association of ideas by which the apparition wasconjured up with the grotesque adjuncts of the jacket and thewhiskers; but the servant-girl, in believing the reality of theapparition, was certainly not insane. When I read in the Americanpublic journals(4) of 'spirit manifestations,' in which largenumbers of persons, of at least the average degree of education,declare that they have actually witnessed various phantasms, muchmore extraordinary than all which you have confided to me, andarrive, at once, at the conclusion that they are thus put intodirect communication with departed souls, I must assume that theyare under an illusion; but I should be utterly unwarranted insupposing that, because they credited that illusion, they wereinsane. I should only say with Muller, that in their reasoning onthe phenomena presented to them, 'their intellect was imperfectlyexercised.' And an impression made on the senses, being in itselfsufficiently rare to excite our wonder, may be strengthened till ittakes the form of a positive fact, by various coincidences whichare accepted as corroborative testimony, yet which are,nevertheless, nothing more than coincidences found in every daymatters of business, but only emphatically noticed when we canexclaim, 'How astonishing!' In your case such coincidences havebeen, indeed, very signal, and might well aggravate theperplexities into which your reason was thrown. Sir Philip Derval'smurder, the missing casket, the exciting nature of the manuscript,in which a superstitious interest is already enlisted by yourexpectation to find in it the key to the narrator's boasted powers,and his reasons for the astounding denunciation of the man whom yoususpect to be his murderer,—in all this there is much toconfirm, nay, to cause, an illusion; and for that very reason, whenexamined by strict laws of evidence, in all this there is butadditional proof that the illusion was—only illusion. Youraffections contribute to strengthen your fancy in its war on yourreason. The girl you so passionately love develops, to yourdisquietude and terror, the visionary temperament which, at herage, is ever liable to fantastic caprices. She hears Margrave'ssong, which you say has a wildness of charm that affects andthrills even you. Who does not know the power of music? and of allmusic, there is none so potential as that of the human voice. Thus,in some languages, charm and song are identical expressions; andeven when a critic, in our own sober newspapers, extols a Malibranor a Grisi, you may be sure that he will call her 'enchantress.'Well, this lady, your betrothed, in whom the nervous system isextremely impressionable, hears a voice which, even to your ear, isstrangely melodious, and sees a form and face which, even to youreye, are endowed with a singular character of beauty. Her fancy isimpressed by what she thus hears and sees; and impressed the morebecause, by a coincidence not very uncommon, a face like that whichshe beholds has before been presented to her in a dream or arevery. In the nobleness of genuine, confiding, reverential love,rather than impute to your beloved a levity of sentiment that wouldseem to you a treason, you accept the chimera of 'magicalfascination.' In this frame of mind you sit down to read the memoirof a mystical enthusiast. Do you begin now to account for theLuminous Shadow? A dream! And a dream no less because your eyeswere open and you believed yourself awake. The diseased imaginationresembles those mirrors which, being themselves distorted,represent distorted pictures as correct.
"And even this Memoir of Sir Philip Derval's—can you bequite sure that you actually read the part which relates to Harounand Louis Grayle? You say that, while perusing the manuscript, yousaw the Luminous Shadow, and became insensible. The old woman saysyou were fast asleep. May you not really have fallen into aslumber, and in that slumber have dreamed the parts of the talethat relate to Grayle,—dreamed that you beheld the Shadow? Doyou remember what is said so well by Dr. Abercrombie, to authorizethe explanation I suggest to you: 'A person under the influence ofsome strong mental impression falls asleep for a few seconds,perhaps without being sensible of it: some scene or person appearsin a dream, and he starts up under the conviction that it was aspectral appearance.'" (5)
"But," said I, "the apparition was seen by me again, and when,certainly, I was not sleeping."
"True; and who should know better than a physician so well readas yourself that a spectral illusion once beheld is always apt toreturn again in the same form? Thus, Goethe was long haunted by oneimage,—the phantom of a flower unfolding itself, anddeveloping new flowers.(6) Thus, one of our most distinguishedphilosophers tells us of a lady known to himself, who would see herhusband, hear him move and speak, when he was not even in thehouse.(7) But instances of the facility with which phantasms, onceadmitted, repeat themselves to the senses, are numberless. Many arerecorded by Hibbert and Abercrombie, and every physician inextensive practice can add largely, from his own experience, to thelist. Intense self-concentration is, in itself, a mighty magician.The magicians of the East inculcate the necessity of fast,solitude, and meditation for the due development of their imaginarypowers. And I have no doubt with effect; because fast, solitude,and meditation—in other words, thought or fancy intenselyconcentred—will both raise apparitions and produce theinvoker's belief in them. Spinello, striving to conceive the imageof Lucifer for his picture of the Fallen Angels, was at lastactually haunted by the Shadow of the Fiend. Newton himself hasbeen subjected to a phantom, though to him, Son of Light, thespectre presented was that of the sun! You remember the accountthat Newton gives to Locke of this visionary appearance. He saysthat 'though he had looked at the sun with his right eye only, andnot with the left, yet his fancy began to make an impression uponhis left eye as well as his right; for if he shut his right andlooked upon the clouds, or a book, or any bright object with hisleft eye, he could see the sun almost as plain as with the right,if he did but intend his fancy a little while on it;' nay, 'forsome months after, as often as he began to meditate on thephenomena, the spectrum of the sun began to return, even though helay in bed at midnight, with his curtains drawn!' Seeing, then, howany vivid impression once made will recur, what wonder that youshould behold in your prison the Shining Shadow that had firststartled you in a wizard's chamber when poring over the records ofa murdered visionary? The more minutely you analyze your ownhallucinations—pardon me the word—the more they assumethe usual characteristics of a dream; contradictory, illogical,even in the marvels they represent. Can any two persons be moretotally unlike each other, not merely as to form and years, but asto all the elements of character, than the Grayle of whom you read,or believe you read, and the Margrave in whom you evidently thinkthat Grayle is existent still? The one represented, you say, asgloomy, saturnine, with vehement passions, but with an originalgrandeur of thought and will, consumed by an internal remorse; theother you paint to me as a joyous and wayward darling of Nature,acute yet frivolous, free from even the ordinary passions of youth,taking delight in innocent amusements, incapable of continuousstudy, without a single pang of repentance for the crimes you sofancifully impute to him. And now, when your suspicions, soromantically conceived, are dispelled by positive facts, now, whenit is clear that Margrave neither murdered Sir Philip Derval norabstracted the memoir, you still, unconsciously to yourself, drawon your imagination in order to excuse the suspicion your pride ofintellect declines to banish, and suppose that this youthfulsorcerer tempted the madman to the murder, the woman to thetheft—"
"But you forget the madman said 'that he was led on by theLuminous Shadow of a beautiful youth,' that the woman said alsothat she was impelled by some mysterious agency."
"I do not forget those coincidences; but how your learning woulddismiss them as nugatory were your imagination not disposed toexaggerate them! When you read the authentic histories of anypopular illusion, such as the spurious inspirations of theJansenist Convulsionaries, the apparitions that invaded convents,as deposed in the trial of Urbain Grandier, the confessions ofwitches and wizards in places the most remote from each other, or,at this day, the tales of 'spirit-manifestation' recorded in halfthe towns and villages of America,—do not all thesuperstitious impressions of a particular time have a common familylikeness? What one sees, another sees, though there has been nocommunication between the two. I cannot tell you why thesephantasms thus partake of the nature of an atmospheric epidemic;the fact remains incontestable. And strange as may be thecoincidence between your impressions of a mystic agency and thoseof some other brains not cognizant of the chimeras of your own,still, is it not simpler philosophy to say, 'They are coincidencesof the same nature which made witches in the same epoch all tellmuch the same story of the broomsticks they rode and the sabbats atwhich they danced to the fiend's piping,' and there leave thematter, as in science we must leave many of the most elementary andfamiliar phenomena inexplicable as to their causes,—is notthis, I say, more philosophical than to insist upon an explanationwhich accepts the supernatural rather than leave the extraordinaryunaccounted for?"
"As you speak," said I, resting my downcast face upon my hand,"I should speak to any patient who had confided to me the tale Ihave told to you."
"And yet the explanation does not wholly satisfy you? Verylikely: to some phenomena there is, as yet, no explanation. PerhapsNewton himself could not explain quite to his own satisfaction whyhe was haunted at midnight by the spectrum of a sun; though I haveno doubt that some later philosopher whose ingenuity has beenstimulated by Newton's account, has, by this time, suggested arational solution of that enigma.(8) To return to your own case. Ihave offered such interpretations of the mysteries that confoundyou as appear to me authorized by physiological science. Should youadduce other facts which physiological science wants the data toresolve into phenomena always natural, however rare, still holdfast to that simple saying of Goethe: 'Mysteries are notnecessarily miracles.' And if all which physiological sciencecomprehends in its experience wholly fails us, I may then hazardcertain conjectures in which, by acknowledging ignorance, one iscompelled to recognize the Marvellous (for as where knowledgeenters, the Marvellous recedes, so where knowledge falters, theMarvellous advances); yet still, even in those conjectures, I willdistinguish the Marvellous from the Supernatural. But, for thepresent, I advise you to accept the guess that may best quiet thefevered imagination which any bolder guess would only moreexcite."
"You are right," said I, rising proudly to the full height of mystature, my head erect and my heart defying. "And so let thissubject be renewed no more between us. I will brood over it no moremyself. I regain the unclouded realm of my human intelligence; and,in that intelligence, I mock the sorcerer and disdain thespectre."
(1) Beattie's "Essay on Truth," part i. c. ii. 3. The story ofSimon Browne is to be found in "The Adventurer."
(2) Miller's Physiology of the Senses, p. 394.
(3) Abercrombie on the Intellectual Powers, p. 281. (15thedition.)
(4) At the date of Faber's conversation with Allen Fenwick, the(so-called) spirit manifestations had not spread from America overEurope. But if they had, Faber's views would, no doubt, haveremained the same.
(5) Abercrombie on the Intellectual Powers, p. 278. (15thedition.)
This author, not more to be admired for his intelligence thanhis candour, and who is entitled to praise for a higher degree oforiginal thought than that to which he modestly pretends, relates acurious anecdote illustrating "the analogy between dreaming andspectral illusion, which he received from the gentleman to which itoccurred,—an eminent medical friend:" "Having sat up late oneevening, under considerable anxiety for one of his children, whowas ill, he fell asleep in his chair, and had a frightful dream, inwhich the prominent figure was an immense baboon. He awoke with thefright, got up instantly, and walked to a table which was in themiddle of the room. He was then quite awake, and quite conscious ofthe articles around him; but close by the wall in the end of theapartment he distinctly saw the baboon making the same grimaceswhich he had seen in his dreams; and this spectre continued visiblefor about half a minute." Now, a man who saw only a baboon would bequite ready to admit that it was but an optical illusion; but if,instead of a baboon, he had seen an intimate friend, and thatfriend, by some coincidence of time, had died about that date, hewould be a very strong-minded man if he admitted for the mystery ofseeing his friend the same natural solution which he would readilyadmit for seeing a baboon.
(6) See Muller's observations on this phenomenon, "Physiology ofthe Senses," Baley's translation, p. 1395.
(7) Sir David Brewster's Letters on Natural Magic, p. 39.
(8) Newton's explanation is as follows: "This story I tell youto let you understand, that in the observation related by Mr.Boyle, the man's fancy probably concurred with the impression madeby the sun's light to produce that phantasm of the sun which heconstantly saw in bright objects, and so your question about thecause of this phantasm involves another about the power of thefancy, which I must confess is too hard a knot for me to untie. Toplace this effect in a constant motion is hard, because the sunought then to appear perpetually. It seems rather to consist in adisposition of the sensorium to move the imagination strongly, andto be easily moved both by the imagination and by the light asoften as bright objects are looked upon."—Letter from Sir I.Newton to Locke, Lord Kinq's Life of Locke, vol. i. pp.405-408.
Dr. Roget (Animal and Vegetable Physiology considered withreference to Natural Theology, "Bridgewater Treatise," pp. 524,525) thus refers to this phenomenon, which he states "all of us mayexperience ":—
"When the impressions are very vivid" (Dr. Roget is speaking ofvisual impressions), "another phenomenon often takesplace,—namely, theirsubsequent recurrence after a certaininterval, during which they are not felt, and quite independentlyof any renewed application of the cause which had originallyexcited them." (I mark by italics the words which moreprecisely coincide with Julius Faber's explanations.) "If, forexample, we look steadfastly at the sun for a second or two, andthen immediately close our eyes, the image, or spectrum, of the sunremains for a long time present to the mind, as if the light werestill acting on the retina. It then gradually fades and disappears;but if we continue to keep the eyes shut, the same impression will,after a certain time, recur, and again vanish: and this phenomenonwill be repeated at intervals, the sensation becoming fainter ateach renewal. It is probable that these reappearances of the image,after the light which produced the original impression has beenwithdrawn, are occasioned by spontaneous affections of the retinaitself which are conveyed to the sensorium. In other cases, wherethe impressions are less strong, the physical changes producingthese changes are perhaps confined to the sensorium."
It may be said that there is this difference between thespectrum of the sun and such a phantom as that which perplexedAllen Fenwick,—namely, that the sun has been actually beheldbefore its visionary appearance can be reproduced, and that AllenFenwick only imagines he has seen the apparition which repeatsitself to his fancy. "But there are grounds for the suspicion"(says Dr. Hibbert, "Philosophy of Apparitions," p. 250), "that whenideas of vision are vivified to the height of sensation, acorresponding affection of the optic nerve accompanies theillusion." Muller ("Physiology of the Senses," p. 1392, Baley'stranslation) states the same opinion still more strongly; and SirDavid Brewster, quoted by Dr. Hibbert (p. 251) says: "In examiningthese mental impressions, I have found that they follow the motionsof the eyeball exactly like the spectral impressions of luminousobjects, and that they resemble them also in their apparentimmobility when the eye is displaced by an external force. If thisresult (which I state with much diffidence, from having only my ownexperience in its favour) shall be found generally true by others,it will follow that the objects of mental contemplation may be seenas distinctly as external objects, and will occupy the same localposition in the axis of vision, as if they had been formed by theagency of light." Hence the impression of an image once conveyed tothe senses, no matter how, whether by actual or illusory vision, isliable to renewal, "independently of any renewed application of thecause which had originally excited it," and the image can be seenin that renewal "as distinctly as external objects," for indeed"the revival of the fantastic figure really does affect thosepoints of the retina which had been previously impressed."
Julius Faber and Amy Lloyd stayed in my house three days, I andin their presence I felt a healthful sense of security and peace.Amy wished to visit her father's house, and I asked Faber, intaking her there, to seize the occasion to see Lilian, that hemight communicate to me his impression of a case so peculiar. Iprepared Mrs. Ashleigh for this visit by a previous note. When theold man and the child came back, both brought me comfort. Amy wascharmed with Lilian, who had received her with the sweetnessnatural to her real character, and I loved to hear Lilian's praisefrom those innocent lips.
Faber's report was still more calculated to console me.
"I have seen, I have conversed with her long and familiarly. Youwere quite right,—there is no tendency to consumption in thatexquisite, if delicate, organization; nor do I see cause for thefear to which your statement had pre-inclined me. That head is toonobly formed for any constitutional cerebral infirmity. In itsorganization, ideality, wonder, veneration, are large, it is true,but they are balanced by other organs, now perhaps almost dormant,but which will come into play as life passes from romance intoduty. Something at this moment evidently oppresses her mind. Inconversing with her, I observe abstraction, listlessness; but I amso convinced of her truthfulness, that if she has once told you shereturned your affection, and pledged to you her faith, I should, inyour place, rest perfectly satisfied that whatever be the cloudthat now rests on her imagination, and for the time obscures theidea of yourself, it will pass away."
Faber was a believer in the main divisions of phrenology, thoughhe did not accept all the dogmas of Gall and Spurzheim; while, tomy mind, the refutation of phrenology in its fundamentalpropositions had been triumphantly established by the lucidarguments of Sir W. Hamilton.(1) But when Faber rested onphrenological observations assurances in honour of Lilian, I forgotSir W. Hamilton, and believed in phrenology. As iron girders andpillars expand and contract with the mere variations oftemperature, so will the strongest conviction on which the humanintellect rests its judgment vary with the changes of the humanheart; and the building is only safe where these variations areforeseen and allowed for by a wisdom intent onself-knowledge.(2)
There was much in the affection that had sprung up betweenJulius Faber and Amy Lloyd which touched my heart and softened allits emotions. This man, unblessed, like myself, by conjugal andparental ties, had, in his solitary age, turned for solace to thelove of a child, as I, in the pride of manhood, had turned to thelove of woman. But his love was without fear, without jealousy,without trouble. My sunshine came to me in a fitful ray, throughclouds that had gathered over my noon; his sunshine covered all hislandscape, hallowed and hallowing by the calm of declining day.
And Amy was no common child. She had no exuberant imagination;she was haunted by no whispers from Afar; she was a creature fittedfor the earth,—to accept its duties and to gladden its cares.Her tender observation, fine and tranquil, was alive to all theimportant household trifles by which, at the earliest age, man'sallotted soother asserts her privilege to tend and to comfort. Itwas pleasant to see her moving so noiselessly through the rooms Ihad devoted to her venerable protector, knowing all his simplewants, and providing for them as if by the mechanism of a heartexquisitely moulded to the loving uses of life. Sometimes when Isaw her setting his chair by the window (knowing, as I did, howmuch he habitually loved to be near the light) and smoothing hispapers (in which he was apt to be unmethodical), placing the markin his book when he ceased to read, divining, almost without hisglance, some wish passing through his mind, and then seatingherself at his feet, often with her work—which was alwaysdestined for him or for one of her absent brothers,—now andthen with the one small book that she had carried with her, aselection of Bible stories compiled for children,—sometimeswhen I saw her thus, how I wished that Lilian, too, could have seenher, and have compared her own ideal fantasies with those youngdevelopments of the natural heavenly Woman!
But was there nothing in that sight from which I, proud of myarid reason even in its perplexities, might have taken lessons formyself?
On the second evening of Faber's visit I brought to him thedraft of deeds for the sale of his property. He had never been aman of business out of his profession; he was impatient to sell hisproperty, and disposed to accept an offer at half its value. Iinsisted on taking on myself the task of negotiator; perhaps, too,in this office I was egotistically anxious to prove to the greatphysician that which he believed to be my "hallucination" had in noway obscured my commonsense in the daily affairs of life. So Iconcluded, and in a few hours, terms for his property that wereonly just, but were infinitely more advantageous than had appearedto himself to be possible. But as I approached him with the papers,he put his finger to his lips. Amy was standing by him with herlittle book in her hand, and his own Bible lay open on the table.He was reading to her from the Sacred Volume itself, and impressingon her the force and beauty of one of the Parables, the adaptationof which had perplexed her; when he had done, she kissed him, badehim goodnight, and went away to rest. Then said Faber thoughtfully,and as if to himself more than me,—
"What a lovely bridge between old age and childhood is religion!How intuitively the child begins with prayer and worship onentering life, and how intuitively on quitting life the old manturns back to prayer and worship, putting himself again side byside with the infant!"
I made no answer, but, after a pause, spoke of fines andfreeholds, title-deeds and money; and when the business on hand wasconcluded, asked my learned guest if, before he departed, he woulddeign to look over the pages of my ambitious Physiological Work.There were parts of it on which I much desired his opinion,touching on subjects in which his special studies made him anauthority as high as our land possessed.
He made me bring him the manuscript, and devoted much of thatnight and the next day to its perusal.
When he gave it me back, which was not till the morning of hisdeparture, he commenced with eulogies on the scope of its design,and the manner of its execution, which flattered my vanity so muchthat I could not help exclaiming, "Then, at least, there is notrace of 'hallucination' here!"
"Alas, my poor Allen! here, perhaps, hallucination, orself-deception, is more apparent than in all the strange tales youconfided to me. For here is the hallucination of the man seated onthe shores of Nature, and who would say to its measureless sea, 'Sofar shalt thou go and no farther;' here is the hallucination of thecreature, who, not content with exploring the laws of the Creator,ends with submitting to his interpretation of some three or fourlaws, in the midst of a code of which all the rest are in alanguage unknown to him, the powers and free-will of the LawgiverHimself; here is the hallucination by which Nature is left Godless,because Man is left soulless. What would matter all ourspeculations on a Deity who would cease to exist for us when we arein the grave? Why mete out, like Archytas, the earth and the sea,and number the sands on the shore that divides them, if the end ofthis wisdom be a handful of dust sprinkled over a skull!
"'Nec quidquam tibi prodest Aerias tentasse dornos, animoque rotundum Percurrisse polum naorituro.'
"Your book is a proof of the soul that you fail to discover.Without a soul, no man would work for a Future that begins for hisfame when the breath is gone from his body. Do you remember how yousaw that little child praying at the grave of her father? Shall Itell you that in her simple orisons she prayed for thebenefactor,—who had cared for the orphan; who had reared overdust that tomb which, in a Christian burial-ground, is a mute butperceptible memorial of Christian hopes; that the child prayed,haughty man, for you? And you sat by, knowing nought of this; satby, amongst the graves, troubled and tortured with ghastly doubts,vain of a reason that was sceptical of eternity, and yet shakenlike a reed by a moment's marvel. Shall I tell the child to prayfor you no more; that you disbelieve in a soul? If you do so, whatis the efficacy of prayer? Speak, shall I tell her this? Shall theinfant pray for you never more?"
I was silent; I was thrilled.
"Has it never occurred to you, who, in denying all innateperceptions as well as ideas, have passed on to deductions fromwhich poor Locke, humble Christian that he was, would have shrunkin dismay,—has it never occurred to you as a wonderful fact,that the easiest thing in the world to teach a child is that whichseems to metaphysical schoolmen the abstrusest of all problems?Read all those philosophers wrangling about a First Cause, decidingon what are miracles, and then again deciding that such miraclescannot be; and when one has answered another, and left in thecrucible of wisdom a caput mortuum of ignorance, then turn youreyes, and look at the infant praying to the invisible God at hismother's knees. This idea, so miraculously abstract, of a Power theinfant has never seen, that cannot be symbolled forth and explainedto him by the most erudite sage,—a Power, nevertheless, thatwatches over him, that hears him, that sees him, that will carryhim across the grave, that will enable him to live onforever,—this double mystery of a Divinity and of a Soul, theinfant learns with the most facile readiness, at the first glimpseof his reasoning faculty. Before you can teach him a rule inaddition, before you can venture to drill him into his horn-book,he leaps, with one intuitive spring of all his ideas, to thecomprehension of the truths which are only incomprehensible toblundering sages! And you, as you stand before me, dare not say,'Let the child pray for me no more!' But will the Creator acceptthe child's prayer for the man who refuses prayer for himself? Takemy advice, pray! And in this counsel I do not overstep my province.I speak not as a preacher, but as a physician. For health is a wordthat comprehends our whole organization, and a just equilibrium ofall faculties and functions is the condition of health. As in yourLilian the equilibrium is deranged by the over-indulgence of aspiritual mysticism which withdraws from the nutriment of duty theessential pabulum of sober sense, so in you the resolute negationof disciplined spiritual communion between Thought and Divinityrobs imagination of its noblest and safest vent. Thus, fromopposite extremes, you and your Lilian meet in the same region ofmist and cloud, losing sight of each other and of the true ends oflife, as her eyes only gaze on the stars and yours only bend to theearth. Were I advising her, I should say: 'Your Creator has placedthe scene of your trial below, and not in the stars.' Advising you,I say: 'But in the trial below, man should recognize education forheaven.' In a word, I would draw somewhat more downward her fancy,raise somewhat more upward your reason. Take my advicethen,—Pray. Your mental system needs the support of prayer inorder to preserve its balance. In the embarrassment and confusionof your senses, clearness of perception will come with habitual andtranquil confidence in Him who alike rules the universe and readsthe heart. I only say here what has been said much better before bya reasoner in whom all Students of Nature recognize a guide. I seeon your table the very volume of Bacon which contains the passage Icommend to your reflection. Here it is. Listen: 'Take an example ofa dog, and mark what a generosity and courage he will put on whenhe finds himself maintained by a man who, to him, is instead of aGod, or melior natura, which courage is manifestly such as thatcreature, without that confidence of a better nature than his own,could never attain. So man, when he resteth and assureth himselfupon Divine protection and favour, gathereth a force and faithwhich human nature could not obtain.'(3) You are silent, but yourgesture tells me your doubt,—a doubt which your heart, sofemininely tender, will not speak aloud lest you should rob the oldman of a hope with which your strength of manhooddispenses,—you doubt the efficacy of prayer! Pause andreflect, bold but candid inquirer into the laws of that guide youcall Nature. If there were no efficacy in prayer; if prayer were asmere an illusion of superstitious fantasy as aught against whichyour reason now struggles, do you think that Nature herself wouldhave made it amongst the most common and facile of all herdictates? Do you believe that if there really did not exist thattie between Man and his Maker—that link between life here andlife hereafter which is found in what we call Soul alone—thatwherever you look through the universe, you would behold a child atPrayer? Nature inculcates nothing that is superfluous. Nature doesnot impel the leviathan or the lion, the eagle or the moth, topray; she impels only man. Why? Because man only has soul, and Soulseeks to commune with the Everlasting, as a fountain struggles upto its source. Burn your book. It would found you a reputation forlearning and intellect and courage, I allow; but learning andintellect and courage wasted against a truth, like spray against arock! A truth valuable to the world, the world will never partwith. You will not injure the truth, but you will mislead and maydestroy many, whose best security is in the truth which you soeruditely insinuate to be a fable. Soul and Hereafter are theheritage of all men; the humblest, journeyman in those streets, thepettiest trader behind those counters, have in those beliefs theirprerogatives of royalty. You would dethrone and embrute the lordsof the earth by your theories. For my part, having given thegreater part of my life to the study and analysis of facts, I wouldrather be the author of the tritest homily, or the baldest poem,that inculcated that imperishable essence of the soul to which Ihave neither scalpel nor probe, than be the founder of the subtlestschool, or the framer of the loftiest verse, that robbed myfellow-men of their faith in a spirit that eludes thedissecting-knife,—in a being that escapes the grave-digger.Burn your book! Accept This Book instead; Read and Pray."
He placed his Bible in my hand, embraced me, and, an hourafterwards, the old man and the child left my hearth solitary oncemore.
(1) The summary of this distinguished lecturer's objections tophrenology is to be found in the Appendix to vol i. of "Lectures onMetaphysics," p. 404, et seq. Edition 1859.
(2) The change of length of iron girders caused by variation oftemperature has not unfrequently brought down the whole edificeinto which they were admitted. Good engineers and architects allowfor such changes produced by temperature. In the tubular bridgeacross the Menai Straits, a self-acting record of the daily amountof its contraction and expansion is ingeniously Contrived.
(3) Bacon's "Essay on Atheism." This quotation is made withadmirable felicity and force by Dr. Whewell, page 378 ofBridgewater Treatise on Astronomy and General Physics consideredwith reference to Natural Theology.
That night, as I sat in my study, very thoughtful and verymournful, I resolved all that Julius Faber had said; and theimpression his words had produced became gradually weaker andweaker, as my reason, naturally combative, rose up with all thereplies which my philosophy suggested. No; if my imagination hadreally seduced and betrayed me into monstrous credulities, it wasclear that the best remedy to such morbid tendencies towards theSuperstitious was in the severe exercise of the faculties mostopposed to Superstition,—in the culture of pure reasoning, inthe science of absolute fact. Accordingly, I placed before me thevery book which Julius Faber had advised me to burn; I forced allmy powers of mind to go again over the passages which contained thedoctrines that his admonition had censured; and before daybreak, Ihad stated the substance of his argument, and the logical reply toit, in an elaborate addition to my chapter on "SentimentalPhilosophers." While thus rejecting the purport of his partingcounsels, I embodied in another portion of my work his views on myown "illusions;" and as here my commonsense was in concord withhis, I disposed of all my own previous doubts in an addition to myfavourite chapter "On the Cheats of the Imagination." And when thepen dropped from my hand, and the day-star gleamed through thewindow, my heart escaped from the labour of my mind, and flew backto the image of Lilian. The pride of the philosopher died out ofme, the sorrow of the man reigned supreme, and I shrank from thecoming of the sun, despondent.
Not till the law had completed its proceedings, and satisfiedthe public mind as to the murder of Sir Philip Derval, were theremains of the deceased consigned to the family mausoleum. Thefuneral was, as may be supposed, strictly private, and when it wasover, the excitement caused by an event so tragical and singularsubsided. New topics engaged the public talk, and—in mypresence, at least—the delicate consideration due to onewhose name had been so painfully mixed up in the dismal storyforbore a topic which I could not be expected to hear withoutdistressful emotion. Mrs. Ashleigh I saw frequently at my ownhouse; she honestly confessed that Lilian had not shown that griefat the cancelling of our engagement which would alone justify Mrs.Ashleigh in asking me again to see her daughter, and retract myconclusions against our union. She said that Lilian was quiet, notuncheerful, never spoke of me nor of Margrave, but seemed absentand pre-occupied as before, taking pleasure in nothing that hadbeen wont to please her; not in music, nor books, nor that tranquilpastime which women call work, and in which they find excuse tomeditate, in idleness, their own fancies. She rarely stirred out,even in the garden; when she did, her eyes seemed to avoid thehouse in which Margrave had lodged, and her steps the old favouritehaunt by the Monks' Well. She would remain silent for long hourstogether, but the silence did not appear melancholy. For the rest,her health was more than usually good. Still Mrs. Ashleighpersisted in her belief that, sooner or later, Lilian would returnto her former self, her former sentiments for me; and she entreatedme not, as yet, to let the world know that our engagement wasbroken off. "For if," she said, with good sense, "if it shouldprove not to be broken off, only suspended, and afterwards happilyrenewed, there will be two stories to tell when no story be needed.Besides, I should dread the effect on Lilian, if offensive gossipsbabbled to her on a matter that would excite so much curiosity asthe rupture of a union in which our neighbours have taken sogeneral an interest."
I had no reason to refuse acquiescence in Mrs. Ashleigh'srequest, but I did not share in her hopes; I felt that the fairprospects of my life were blasted; I could never love another,never wed another; I resigned myself to a solitary hearth,rejoiced, at least, that Margrave had not revisited at Mrs.Ashleigh's,—had not, indeed, reappeared in the town. He wasstill staying with Strahan, who told me that his guest hadensconced himself in Forman's old study, and amused himself withreading—though not for long at a time—the curious oldbooks and manuscripts found in the library, or climbing trees likea schoolboy, and familiarizing himself with the deer and thecattle, which would group round him quite tame, and feed from hishand. Was this the description of a criminal? But if Sir Philip'sassertion were really true; if the criminal were man without soul;if without soul, man would have no conscience, never be troubled byrepentance, and the vague dread of a future world,—why, then,should not the criminal be gay despite his crimes, as the whitebear gambols as friskly after his meal on human flesh? Thesequestions would haunt me, despite my determination to accept as theright solution of all marvels the construction put on my narrativeby Julius Faber.
Days passed; I saw and heard nothing of Margrave. I began halfto hope that, in the desultory and rapid changes of mood and mindwhich characterized his restless nature, he had forgotten myexistence.
One morning I went out early on my rounds, when I met Strabanunexpectedly.
"I was in search of you," he said, "for more than one person hastold me that you are looking ill and jaded. So you are! And thetown now is hot and unhealthy. You must come to Derval Court for aweek or so. You can ride into town every day to see your patients.Don't refuse. Margrave, who is still with me, sends all kindmessages, and bade me say that he entreats you to come to the houseat which he also is a guest!"
I started. What had the Scin-Laeca required of me, and obtainedto that condition my promise? "If you are asked to the house atwhich I also am a guest, you will come; you will meet and conversewith me as guest speaks to guest in the house of a host!" Was thisone of the coincidences which my reason was bound to accept ascoincidences, and nothing more? Tut, tut! Was I returning again tomy "hallucinations"? Granting that Faber and common-sense were inthe right, what was this Margrave? A man to whose friendship,acuteness, and energy I was under the deepest obligations,—towhom I was indebted for active services that had saved my life froma serious danger, acquitted my honour of a horrible suspicion. "Ithank you," I said to Strahan, "I will come; not, indeed, for aweek, but, at all events, for a day or two."
"That's right; I will call for you in the carriage at sixo'clock. You will have done your day's work by then?"
"Yes; I will so arrange."
On our way to Derval Court that evening, Strahan talked muchabout Margrave, of whom, nevertheless, he seemed to be growingweary.
"His high spirits are too much for one," said he; "and then sorestless,—so incapable of sustained quiet conversation. And,clever though he is, he can't help me in the least about the newhouse I shall build. He has no notion of construction. I don'tthink he could build a barn."
"I thought you did not like to demolish the old house, and wouldcontent yourself with pulling down the more ancient part ofit?"
"True. At first it seemed a pity to destroy so handsome amansion; but you see, since poor Sir Philip's manuscript, on whichhe set such store, has been too mutilated, I fear, to allow me toeffect his wish with regard to it, I think I ought at leastscrupulously to obey his other whims. And, besides, I don't know,there are odd noises about the old house. I don't believe inhaunted houses; still there is something dreary in strange soundsat the dead of night, even if made by rats, or winds throughdecaying rafters. You, I remember at college, had a taste forarchitecture, and can draw plans. I wish to follow out Sir Philip'sdesign, but on a smaller scale, and with more attention tocomfort."
Thus he continued to run on, satisfied to find me a silent andattentive listener. We arrived at the mansion an hour beforesunset, the westering light shining full against the many windowscased in mouldering pilasters, and making the general dilapidationof the old place yet more mournfully evident.
It was but a few minutes to the dinner-hour. I went up at onceto the room appropriated to me,—not the one I had beforeoccupied. Strahan had already got together a new establishment. Iwas glad to find in the servant who attended me an oldacquaintance. He had been in my own employ when I first settled atL——, and left me to get married. He and his wife werenow both in Strahan's service. He spoke warmly of his new masterand his contentment with his situation, while he unpacked mycarpet-bag and assisted me to change my dress. But the chief objectof his talk and his praise was Mr. Margrave.
"Such a bright young gentleman, like the first fine day inMay!"
When I entered the drawing-room, Margrave and Strahan were boththere. The former was blithe and genial, as usual, in his welcome.At dinner, and during the whole evening till we retired severallyto our own rooms, he was the principal talker,—recountingincidents of travel, always very loosely strung together, jesting,good-humouredly enough, at Strahan's sudden hobby for building,then putting questions to me about mutual acquaintances, but neverwaiting for an answer; and every now and then, as if at random,startling us with some brilliant aphorism, or some suggestion drawnfrom abstract science or unfamiliar erudition. The whole effect wassparkling, but I could well understand that, if long continued, itwould become oppressive. The soul has need of pauses ofrepose,—intervals of escape, not only from the flesh, buteven from the mind. A man of the loftiest intellect will experiencetimes when mere intellect not only fatigues him, but amidst itsmost original conceptions, amidst its proudest triumphs, has asomething trite and commonplace compared with one of those vagueintimations of a spiritual destiny which are not within theordinary domain of reason; and, gazing abstractedly into space,will leave suspended some problem of severest thought, oruncompleted some golden palace of imperial poetry, to indulge inhazy reveries, that do not differ from those of an innocent, quietchild! The soul has a long road to travel—from time througheternity. It demands its halting hours of contemplation.Contemplation is serene. But with such wants of an immortalimmaterial spirit, Margrave had no fellowship, no sympathy; and formyself, I need scarcely add that the lines I have just traced Ishould not have written at the date at which my narrative has nowarrived.
I had no case that necessitated my return to L—— thefollowing day. The earlier hours of the forenoon I devoted toStrahan and his building plans. Margrave flitted in and out of theroom fitfully as an April sunbeam, sometimes flinging himself on asofa, and reading for a few minutes one of the volumes of theancient mystics, in which Sir Philip's library was so rich. Iremember it was a volume of Proclus. He read that crabbed anddifficult Greek with a fluency that surprised me. "I picked up theancient Greek," said he, "years ago, in learning the modern." Butthe book soon tired him; then he would come and disturb us, archlyenjoying Strahan's peevishness at interruption; then he would throwopen the window and leap down, chanting one of his wild savageairs; and in another moment he was half hid under the droopingboughs of a broad lime-tree, amidst the antlers of deer thatgathered fondly round him. In the afternoon my host was called awayto attend some visitors of importance, and I found myself on thesward before the house, right in view of the mausoleum and alonewith Margrave.
I turned my eyes from that dumb House of Death wherein restedthe corpse of the last lord of the soil, so strangely murdered,with a strong desire to speak out to Margrave the doubts respectinghimself that tortured me. But—setting aside the promise tothe contrary, which I had given, or dreamed I had given, to theLuminous Shadow—to fulfil that desire would have beenimpossible,—impossible to any one gazing on that radiantyouthful face! I think I see him now as I saw him then: a whitedoe, that even my presence could not scare away from him, clunglovingly to his side, looking up at him with her soft eyes. Hestood there like the incarnate principle of mythological sensuouslife. I have before applied to him that illustration; let therepetition be pardoned. Impossible, I repeat it, to say to thatcreature, face to face, "Art thou the master of demoniac arts, andthe instigator of secret murder?" As if from redundant happinesswithin himself, he was humming, or rather cooing, a strain ofmusic, so sweet, so wildly sweet, and so unlike the music one hearsfrom tutored lips in crowded rooms! I passed my hand over myforehead in bewilderment and awe.
"Are there," I said unconsciously,—"are there, indeed,such prodigies in Nature?"
"Nature!" he cried, catching up the word; "talk to me of Nature!Talk of her, the wondrous blissful mother! Mother I may well callher. I am her spoiled child, her darling! But oh, to die, ever todie, ever to lose sight of Nature!—to rot senseless, whetherunder these turfs or within those dead walls—"
I could not resist the answer,—
"Like yon murdered man! murdered, and by whom?"
"By whom? I thought that was clearly proved."
"The hand was proved; what influence moved the hand?"
"Tush! the poor wretch spoke of a Demon. Who can tell? Natureherself is a grand destroyer. See that pretty bird, in its beak awrithing worm! All Nature's children live to take life; none,indeed, so lavishly as man. What hecatombs slaughtered, not tosatisfy the irresistible sting of hunger, but for the wantonostentation of a feast, which he may scarcely taste, or for themere sport that he finds in destroying! We speak with dread of thebeasts of prey: what beast of prey is so dire a ravager asman,—so cruel and so treacherous? Look at yon flock of sheep,bred and fattened for the shambles; and this hind that Icaress,—if I were the park-keeper, and her time for my bullethad come, would you think her life was the safer because, in my ownidle whim, I had tamed her to trust to the hand raised to slayher?"
"It is true," said I,—"a grim truth. Nature, on thesurface so loving and so gentle, is full of terror in her deepswhen our thought descends into their abyss!"
Strahan now joined us with a party of country visitors."Margrave is the man to show you the beauties of this park," saidhe. "Margrave knows every bosk and dingle, twisted old thorn-tree,or opening glade, in its intricate, undulating ground."
Margrave seemed delighted at this proposition; and as he led usthrough the park, though the way was long, though the sun wasfierce, no one seemed fatigued. For the pleasure he felt inpointing out detached beauties which escaped an ordinary eye wascontagious. He did not talk as talks the poet or the painter; butat some lovely effect of light amongst the tremulous leaves, somesudden glimpse of a sportive rivulet below, he would halt, point itout to us in silence, and with a kind of childlike ecstasy in hisown bright face, that seemed to reflect the life and the bliss ofthe blithe summer day itself.
Thus seen, all my doubts in his dark secret nature fadedaway,—all my horror, all my hate; it was impossible to resistthe charm that breathed round him, not to feel a tender,affectionate yearning towards him as to some fair happy child. Wellmight he call himself the Darling of Nature. Was he not themysterious likeness of that awful Mother, beautiful as Apollo inone aspect, direful as Typhon in another?
"What a strange-looking cane you have, sir!" said a little girl,who was one of the party, and who had entwined her arm roundMargrave's. "Let me look at it."
"Yes," said Strahan, "that cane, or rather walking-staff, isworth looking at. Margrave bought it in Egypt, and declares that itis very ancient."
This staff seemed constructed from a reed: looked at, it seemedlight, in the hand it felt heavy; it was of a pale, faded yellow,wrought with black rings at equal distances, and graven with halfobliterated characters that seemed hieroglyphic. I remembered tohave seen Margrave with it before, but I had never noticed it withany attention until now, when it was passed from hand to hand. Atthe head of the cane there was a large unpolished stone of a darkblue.
"Is this a pebble or a jewel?" asked one of the party.
"I cannot tell you its name or nature," said Margrave; "but itis said to cure the bite of serpents(1), and has other supposedvirtues,—a talisman, in short."
He here placed the staff in my hands, and bade me look at itwith care. Then he changed the conversation and renewed the way,leaving the staff with me, till suddenly I forced it back on him. Icould not have explained why, but its touch, as it warmed in myclasp, seemed to send through my whole frame a singular thrill, anda sensation as if I no longer felt my own weight,—as if Iwalked on air.
Our rambles came to a close; the visitors went away; Ire-entered the house through the sash-window of Forman's study.Margrave threw his hat and staff on the table, and amused himselfwith examining minutely the tracery on the mantelpiece. Strahan andmyself left him thus occupied, and, going into the adjoininglibrary, resumed our task of examining the plans for the new house.I continued to draw outlines and sketches of various alterations,tending to simplify and contract Sir Philip's general design.Margrave soon joined us, and this time took his seat patientlybeside our table, watching me use ruler and compass with unwontedattention.
"I wish I could draw," he said; "but I can do nothinguseful."
"Rich men like you," said Strahan, peevishly, "can engageothers, and are better employed in rewarding good artists than inmaking bad drawings themselves."
"Yes, I can employ others; and—Fenwick, when you havefinished with Strahan I will ask permission to employ you, thoughwithout reward; the task I would impose will not take you aminute."
He then threw himself back in his chair, and seemed to fall intoa doze.
The dressing-bell rang; Strahan put away theplans,—indeed, they were now pretty well finished and decidedon. Margrave woke up as our host left the room to dress, anddrawing me towards another table in the room, placed before me oneof his favourite mystic books, and, pointing to an old woodcut,said,
"I will ask you to copy this for me; it pretends to be afacsimile of Solomon's famous seal. I have a whimsical desire tohave a copy of it. You observe two triangles interlaced andinserted in a circle?—the pentacle, in short. Yes, just so.You need not add the astrological characters: they are thesenseless superfluous accessories of the dreamer who wrote thebook. But the pentacle itself has an intelligible meaning; itbelongs to the only universal language, the language of symbol, inwhich all races that think—around, and above, and belowus—can establish communion of thought. If in the externaluniverse any one constructive principle can be detected, it is thegeometrical; and in every part of the world in which magic pretendsto a written character, I find that its hieroglyphics aregeometrical figures. Is it not laughable that the most positive ofall the sciences should thus lend its angles and circles to the useof—what shall I call it?—the ignorance?—ay, thatis the word—the ignorance of dealers in magic?"
He took up the paper, on which I had hastily described thetriangles and the circle, and left the room, chanting theserpent-charmer's song.
(1) The following description of a stone at Corfu, celebrated asan antidote to the venom of the serpent's bite, was given to me byan eminent scholar and legal functionary in that island:—
DESCRIPTION of THE BLUESTONE.—This stone is of an ovalshape 1 2/10 in. long, 7/10 broad, 3/10 thick, and, having beenbroken formerly, is now set in gold.
When a person is bitten by a poisonous snake, the bite must beopened by a cut of a lancet or razor longways, and the stoneapplied within twenty-four hours. The stone then attaches itselffirmly on the wound, and when it has done its office falls off; thecure is then complete. The stone must then be thrown into milk,whereupon it vomits the poison it has absorbed, which remains greenon the top of the milk, and the stone is then again fit foruse.
This stone has been from time immemorial in the family ofVentura, of Corfu, a house of Italian origin, and is notorious, sothat peasants immediately apply for its aid. Its virtue has notbeen impaired by the fracture. Its nature or composition isunknown.
In a case where two were stung at the same time by serpents, thestone was applied to one, who recovered; but the other, for whom itcould not be used, died.
It never failed but once, and then it was applied after thetwenty-four hours.
Its colour is so dark as not to be distinguished from black.
P. M. COLQUHOUN.
Corfu, 7th Nov., 1860.
Sir Emerson Tennent, in his popular and excellent work onCeylon, gives an account of "snake stones" apparently similar tothe one at Corfu, except that they are "intensely black and highlypolished," and which are applied, in much the same manner, to thewounds inflicted by the cobra-capella.
QUERY.-Might it not be worth while to ascertain the chemicalproperties of these stones, and, if they be efficacious in theextraction of venom conveyed by a bite, might they not be assuccessful if applied to the bite of a mad dog as to that of acobra-capella?
When we separated for the night, which we did at eleven o'clock,Margrave said,—
"Good-night and good-by. I must leave you to-morrow, Strahan,and before your usual hour for rising. I took the liberty ofrequesting one of your men to order me a chaise fromL——. Pardon my seeming abruptness, but I always avoidlong leave-takings, and I had fixed the date of my departure almostas soon as I accepted your invitation."
"I have no right to complain. The place must be dull indeed to agay young fellow like you. It is dull even to me. I am meditatingflight already. Are you going back to L——?"
"Not even for such things as I left at my lodgings. When Isettle somewhere and can give an address, I shall direct them to besent to me. There are, I hear, beautiful patches of scenery towardsthe north, only known to pedestrian tourists. I am a good walker;and you know, Fenwick, that I am also a child of Nature. Adieu toyou both; and many thanks to you, Strahan, for yourhospitality."
He left the room.
"I am not sorry he is going," said Strahan, after a pause, andwith a quick breath as if of relief. "Do you not feel that heexhausts one? An excess of oxygen, as you would say in alecture."
I was alone in my own chamber; I felt indisposed for bed and forsleep; the curious conversation I had held with Margrave weighed onme. In that conversation, we had indirectly touched upon theprodigies which I had not brought myself to speak of with frankcourage, and certainly nothing in Margrave's manner had betrayedconsciousness of my suspicions; on the contrary, the open franknesswith which he evinced his predilection for mystic speculation, oruttered his more unamiable sentiments, rather tended to disarm thanencourage belief in gloomy secrets or sinister powers. And as hewas about to quit the neighbourhood, he would not again see Lilian,not even enter the town of L——. Was I to ascribe thisrelief from his presence to the promise of the Shadow; or was I notrather right in battling firmly against any grotesque illusion, andaccepting his departure as a simple proof that my jealous fears hadbeen amongst my other chimeras, and that as he had really onlyvisited Lilian out of friendship to me, in my peril, so he might,with his characteristic acuteness, have guessed my jealousy, andceased his visits from a kindly motive delicately concealed? Andmight not the same motive now have dictated the words which wereintended to assure me that L—— contained no attractionsto tempt him to return to it? Thus, gradually soothed and cheeredby the course to which my reflections led me, I continued to musefor hours. At length, looking at my watch, I was surprised to findit was the second hour after midnight. I was just about to risefrom my chair to undress, and secure some hours of sleep, when thewell-remembered cold wind passed through the room, stirring theroots of my hair; and before me stood, against the wall, theLuminous Shadow.
"Rise and follow me," said the voice, sounding much nearer thanit had ever done before.
And at those words I rose mechanically, and like asleepwalker.
"Take up the light."
I took it. The Scin-Laeca glided along the wall towards thethreshold, and motioned me to open the door. I did so. The Shadowflitted on through the corridor. I followed, with hushed footsteps,down a small stair into Forman's study. In all my subsequentproceedings, about to be narrated, the Shadow guided me, sometimesby voice, sometimes by sign. I obeyed the guidance, not onlyunresistingly, but without a desire to resist. I was unconsciouseither of curiosity or of awe,—only of a calm and passiveindifference, neither pleasurable nor painful. In this obedience,from which all will seemed extracted, I took into my hands thestaff which I had examined the day before, and which lay on thetable, just where Margrave had cast it on re-entering the house. Iunclosed the shutter to the casement, lifted the sash, and, withthe light in my left hand, the staff in my right, stepped forthinto the garden. The night was still; the flame of the candlescarcely trembled in the air; the Shadow moved on before me towardsthe old pavilion described in an earlier part of this narrative,and of which the mouldering doors stood wide open. I followed theShadow into the pavilion, up the crazy stair to the room above,with its four great blank unglazed windows, or rather arcades,north, south, east, and west. I halted on the middle of the floor:right before my eyes, through the vista made by breathless boughs,stood out from the moonlit air the dreary mausoleum. Then, at thecommand conveyed to me, I placed the candle on a wooden settle,touched a spring in the handle of the staff; a lid flew back, and Idrew from the hollow, first a lump of some dark bituminoussubstance, next a smaller slender wand of polished steel, of whichthe point was tipped with a translucent material, which appeared tome like crystal. Bending down, still obedient to the directionconveyed to me, I described on the floor with the lump of bitumen(if I may so call it) the figure of the pentacle with theinterlaced triangles, in a circle nine feet in diameter, just as Ihad drawn it for Margrave the evening before. The material usedmade the figure perceptible, in a dark colour of mingled black andred. I applied the flame of the candle to the circle, andimmediately it became lambent with a low steady splendour that roseabout an inch from the floor; and gradually front this light thereemanated a soft, gray, transparent mist and a faint but exquisiteodour. I stood in the midst of the circle, and within the circlealso, close by my side, stood the Scin-Laeca,—no longerreflected on the wall, but apart from it, erect, rounded into moreintegral and distinct form, yet impalpable, and from it therebreathed an icy air. Then lifting the wand, the broader end ofwhich rested in the palm of my hand, the two forefingers closinglightly over it in a line parallel with the point, I directed ittowards the wide aperture before me, fronting the mausoleum. Irepeated aloud some words whispered to me in a language I knew not:those words I would not trace on this paper, could I remember them.As they came to a close, I heard a howl from the watch-dog in theyard,—a dismal, lugubrious howl. Other dogs in the distantvillage caught up the sound, and bayed in a dirge-like chorus; andthe howling went on louder and louder. Again strange words werewhispered to me, and I repeated them in mechanical submission; andwhen they, too, were ended, I felt the ground tremble beneath me,and as my eyes looked straight forward down the vista, that,stretching from the casement, was bounded by the solitarymausoleum, vague formless shadows seemed to pass across themoonlight,—below, along the sward, above, in the air; andthen suddenly a terror, not before conceived, came upon me.
And a third time words were whispered; but though I knew no moreof their meaning than I did of those that had preceded them, I felta repugnance to utter them aloud. Mutely I turned towards theScin-Laeca, and the expression of its face was menacing andterrible; my will became yet more compelled to the control imposedupon it, and my lips commenced the formula again whispered into myear, when I heard distinctly a voice of warning and of anguish,that murmured "Hold!" I knew the voice; it was Lilian's. I paused;I turned towards the quarter from which the voice had come, and inthe space afar I saw the features, the form of Lilian. Her armswere stretched towards me in supplication, her countenance wasdeadly pale, and anxious with unutterable distress. The whole imageseemed in unison with the voice,—the look, the attitude, thegesture of one who sees another in deadly peril, and cries,"Beware!"
This apparition vanished in a moment; but that moment sufficedto free my mind from the constraint which had before enslaved it. Idashed the wand to the ground, sprang from the circle, rushed fromthe place. How I got into my own room I can remember not,—Iknow not; I have a vague reminiscence of some interveningwandering, of giant trees, of shroud-like moonlight, of the ShiningShadow and its angry aspect, of the blind walls and the iron doorof the House of the Dead, of spectral images,—a confused anddreary phantasmagoria. But all I can recall with distinctness isthe sight of my own hueless face in the mirror in my own stillroom, by the light of the white moon through the window; and,sinking down, I said to myself, "This, at least, is anhallucination or a dream!"
A heavy sleep came over me at daybreak, but I did not undressnor go to bed. The sun was high in the heavens when, on waking, Isaw the servant who had attended me bustling about the room.
"I beg your pardon, sir, I am afraid I disturbed you; but I havebeen three times to see if you were not coming down, and I foundyou so soundly asleep I did not like to wake you. Mr. Strahan hasfinished breakfast, and gone out riding; Mr. Margrave hasleft,—left before six o'clock."
"Ah, he said he was going early."
"Yes, sir; and he seemed so cross when he went. I could neverhave supposed so pleasant a gentleman could put himself into such apassion!"
"What was the matter?"
"Why, his walking-stick could not be found; it was not in thehall. He said he had left it in the study; we could not find itthere. At last he found it himself in the old summerhouse, andsaid—I beg pardon—he said he was sure you had taken itthere: that some one, at all events, had been meddling with it.However, I am very glad it was found, since he seems to set suchstore on it."
"Did Mr. Margrave go himself into the summer-house to look forit?"
"Yes, sir; no one else would have thought of such a place; noone likes to go there, even in the daytime."
"Why?"
"Why, sir, they say it is haunted since poor Sir Philip's death;and, indeed, there are strange noises in every part of the house. Iam afraid you had a bad night, sir," continued the servant, withevident curiosity, glancing towards the bed, which I had notpressed, and towards the evening-dress which, while he spoke, I wasrapidly changing for that which I habitually wore in the morning."I hope you did not feel yourself ill?"
"No! but it seems I fell asleep in my chair."
"Did you hear, sir, how the dogs howled about two o'clock in themorning? They woke me. Very frightful!"
"The moon was at her full. Dogs will bay at the moon."
I felt relieved to think that I should not find Strahan in thebreakfast-room; and hastening through the ceremony of a meal whichI scarcely touched, I went out into the park unobserved, andcreeping round the copses and into the neglected gardens, made myway to the pavilion. I mounted the stairs; I looked on the floor ofthe upper room; yes, there still was the black figure of thepentacle, the circle. So, then, it was not a dream! Till then I haddoubted. Or might it not still be so far a dream that I had walkedin my sleep, and with an imagination preoccupied by myconversations with Margrave,—by the hieroglyphics on thestaff I had handled, by the very figure associated withsuperstitious practices which I had copied from some weird book athis request, by all the strange impressions previously stamped onmy mind,—might I not, in truth, have carried thither in sleepthe staff, described the circle, and all the rest been butvisionary delusion? Surely, surely, so common-sense, and so JuliusFaber would interpret the riddles that perplexed me! Be that as itmay, my first thought was to efface the marks on the floor. I foundthis easier than I had ventured to hope. I rubbed the circle andthe pentacle away from the boards with the sole of my foot, leavingbut an undistinguishable smudge behind. I know not why, but I feltthe more nervously anxious to remove all such evidences of mynocturnal visit to that room, because Margrave had so openly gonethither to seek for the staff, and had so rudely named me to theservant as having meddled with it. Might he not awake somesuspicion against me? Suspicion, what of? I knew not, but Ifeared!
The healthful air of day gradually nerved my spirits andrelieved my thoughts. But the place had become hateful to me. Iresolved not to wait for Strahan's return, but to walk back toL——, and leave a message for my host. It was sufficientexcuse that I could not longer absent myself from my patients;accordingly I gave directions to have the few things which I hadbrought with me sent to my house by any servant who might be goingto L——, and was soon pleased to find myself outside thepark-gates and on the high-road.
I had not gone a mile before I met Strahan on horseback. Hereceived my apologies for not waiting his return to bid himfarewell without observation, and, dismounting, led his horse andwalked beside me on my road. I saw that there was something on hismind; at last he said, looking down,—
"Did you hear the dogs howl last night?"
"Yes! the full moon!"
"You were awake, then, at the time. Did you hear any othersound? Did you see anything?"
"What should I hear or see?"
Strahan was silent for some moments; then he said, with greatseriousness,—
"I could not sleep when I went to bed last night; I feltfeverish and restless. Somehow or other, Margrave got into my head,mixed up in some strange way with Sir Philip Derval. I heard thedogs howl, and at the same time, or rather a few minutes later, Ifelt the whole house tremble, as a frail corner-house in Londonseems to tremble at night when a carriage is driven past it. Thehowling had then ceased, and ceased as suddenly as it had begun. Ifelt a vague, superstitious alarm; I got up, and went to my window,which was unclosed (it is my habit to sleep with my windows open);the moon was very bright, and I saw, I declare I saw along thegreen alley that leads from the old part of the house to themausoleum—No, I will not say what I saw or believed Isaw,—you would ridicule me, and justly. But, whatever itmight be, on the earth without or in the fancy within my brain, Iwas so terrified, that I rushed back to my bed, and buried my facein my pillow. I would have come to you; but I did not dare to stir.I have been riding hard all the morning in order to recover mynerves. But I dread sleeping again under that roof, and now thatyou and Margrave leave me, I shall go this very day to London. Ihope all that I have told you is no bad sign of any coming disease;blood to the head, eh?"
"No; but imagination overstrained can produce wondrous effects.You do right to change the scene. Go to London at once, amuseyourself, and—"
"Not return, till the old house is razed to the ground. That ismy resolve. You approve? That's well. All success to you, Fenwick.I will canter back and get my portmanteau ready and the carriageout, in time for the five o'clock train."
So then he, too, had seen—what? I did not dare and I didnot desire to ask him. But he, at least, was not walking in hissleep! Did we both dream, or neither?
There is an instance of the absorbing tyranny of every-day lifewhich must have struck all such of my readers as have everexperienced one of those portents which are so at variance withevery-day life, that the ordinary epithet bestowed on them is"supernatural."
And be my readers few or many, there will be no small proportionof them to whom once, at least, in the course of their existence, asomething strange and eerie has occurred,—a something whichperplexed and baffled rational conjecture, and struck on thosechords which vibrate to superstition. It may have been only a dreamunaccountably verified,—an undefinable presentiment orforewarning; but up from such slighter and vaguer tokens of therealm of marvel, up to the portents of ghostly apparitions orhaunted chambers, I believe that the greater number of personsarrived at middle age, however instructed the class, howevercivilized the land, however sceptical the period, to which theybelong, have either in themselves experienced, or heard recorded byintimate associates whose veracity they accept as indisputable inall ordinary transactions of life, phenomena which are not to besolved by the wit that mocks them, nor, perhaps, always andentirely, to the contentment of the reason or the philosophy thatexplains them away. Such phenomena, I say, are infinitely morenumerous than would appear from the instances currently quoted anddismissed with a jest; for few of those who have witnessed them aredisposed to own it, and they who only hear of them through others,however trustworthy, would not impugn their character forcommon-sense by professing a belief to which common-sense is amerciless persecutor. But he who reads my assertion in the quiet ofhis own room, will perhaps pause, ransack his memory, and findthere, in some dark corner which he excludes from "the babbling andremorseless day," a pale recollection that proves the assertion notuntrue.
And it is, I say, an instance of the absorbing tyranny ofeveryday life, that whenever some such startling incident disturbsits regular tenor of thought and occupation, that same every-daylife hastens to bury in its sands the object which has troubled itssurface; the more unaccountable, the more prodigious, has been thephenomenon which has scared and astounded us, the more, withinvoluntary effort, the mind seeks to rid itself of an enigma whichmight disease the reason that tries to solve it. We go about ourmundane business with renewed avidity; we feel the necessity ofproving to ourselves that we are still sober, practical men, andrefuse to be unfitted for the world which we know, by unsolicitedvisitations from worlds into which every glimpse is soon lost amidshadows. And it amazes us to think how soon such incidents, thoughnot actually forgotten, though they can be recalled—andrecalled too vividly for health—at our will, are neverthelessthrust, as it were, out of the mind's sight as we cast intolumber-rooms the crutches and splints that remind us of a brokenlimb which has recovered its strength and tone. It is a felicitouspeculiarity in our organization, which all members of my professionwill have noticed, how soon, when a bodily pain is once passed, itbecomes erased from the recollection,—how soon and howinvariably the mind refuses to linger over and recall it. No manfreed an hour before from a raging toothache, the rack of aneuralgia, seats himself in his armchair to recollect and ponderupon the anguish he has undergone. It is the same with certainafflictions of the mind,—not with those that strike on ouraffections, or blast our fortunes, overshadowing our whole futurewith a sense of loss; but where a trouble or calamity has been anaccident, an episode in our wonted life, where it affects ourselvesalone, where it is attended with a sense of shame and humiliation,where the pain of recalling it seems idle, and if indulged wouldalmost madden us,—agonies of that kind we do not brood overas we do over the death or falsehood of beloved friends, or thetrain of events by which we are reduced from wealth to penury. Noone, for instance, who has escaped from a shipwreck, from the brinkof a precipice, from the jaws of a tiger, spends his days andnights in reviving his terrors past, re-imagining dangers not tooccur again, or, if they do occur, from which the experienceundergone can suggest no additional safeguards. The current of ourlife, indeed, like that of the rivers, is most rapid in the midmostchannel, where all streams are alike comparatively slow in thedepth and along the shores in which each life, as each river, has acharacter peculiar to itself. And hence, those who would sail withthe tide of the world, as those who sail with the tide of a river,hasten to take the middle of the stream, as those who sail againstthe tide are found clinging to the shore. I returned to my habitualduties and avocations with renewed energy; I did not suffer mythoughts to dwell on the dreary wonders that had haunted me, fromthe evening I first met Sir Philip Derval to the morning on which Ihad quitted the house of his heir; whether realities orhallucinations, no guess of mine could unravel such marvels, and noprudence of mine guard me against their repetition. But I had nofear that they would be repeated, any more than the man who hadgone through shipwreck, or the hairbreadth escape from a fall downa glacier, fears again to be found in a similar peril. Margrave haddeparted, whither I knew not, and, with his departure, ceased allsense of his influence. A certain calm within me, a tranquillizingfeeling of relief, seemed to me like a pledge of permanentdelivery.
But that which did accompany and haunt me, through all myoccupations and pursuits, was the melancholy remembrance of thelove I had lost in Lilian. I heard from Mrs. Ashleigh, who stillfrequently visited me, that her daughter seemed much in the samequiet state of mind,—perfectly reconciled to our separation,seldom mentioning my name, if mentioning it, with indifference; theonly thing remarkable in her state was her aversion to all society,and a kind of lethargy that would come over her, often in thedaytime. She would suddenly fall into sleep and so remain forhours, but a sleep that seemed very serene and tranquil, and fromwhich she woke of herself. She kept much within her own room, andalways retired to it when visitors were announced.
Mrs. Ashleigh began reluctantly to relinquish the persuasion shehad so long and so obstinately maintained, that this state offeeling towards myself—and, indeed, this general change inLilian—was but temporary and abnormal; she began to allowthat it was best to drop all thoughts of a renewedengagement,—a future union. I proposed to see Lilian in herpresence and in my professional capacity; perhaps some physicalcause, especially for this lethargy, might be detected and removed.Mrs. Ashleigh owned to me that the idea had occurred to herself:she had sounded Lilian upon it: but her daughter had so resolutelyopposed it,—had said with so quiet a firmness "that all beingover between us, a visit from me would be unwelcome andpainful,"—that Mrs. Ashleigh felt that an interview thusdeprecated would only confirm estrangement. One day, in calling,she asked my advice whether it would not be better to try theeffect of change of air and scene, and, in some other place, someother medical opinion might be taken? I approved of this suggestionwith unspeakable sadness.
"And," said Mrs. Ashleigh, shedding tears, "if that experimentprove unsuccessful, I will write and let you know; and we must thenconsider what to say to the world as a reason why the marriage isbroken off. I can render this more easy by staying away. I will notreturn to L—— till the matter has ceased to be thetopic of talk, and at a distance any excuse will be less questionedand seem more natural. But still—still—let us hopestill."
"Have you one ground for hope?"
"Perhaps so; but you will think it very frail andfallacious."
"Name it, and let me judge."
"One night—in which you were on a visit to DervalCourt—"
"Ay, that night."
"Lilian woke me by a loud cry (she sleeps in the next room tome, and the door was left open); I hastened to her bedside inalarm; she was asleep, but appeared extremely agitated andconvulsed. She kept calling on your name in a tone of passionatefondness, but as if in great terror. She cried, 'Do not go,Allen—do not go—you know not what you brave!—whatyou do!' Then she rose in her bed, clasping her hands. Her face wasset and rigid; I tried to awake her, but could not. After a littletime, she breathed a deep sigh, and murmured, 'Allen, Allen! dearlove! did you not hear, did you not see me? What could thus bafflematter and traverse space but love and soul? Can you still doubtme, Allen?—doubt that I love you now, shall love youevermore?—yonder, yonder, as here below?' She then sank backon her pillow, weeping, and then I woke her."
"And what did she say on waking?"
"She did not remember what she had dreamed, except that she hadpassed through some great terror; but added, with a vague smile,'It is over, and I feel happy now.' Then she turned round and fellasleep again, but quietly as a child, the tears dried, the smileresting."
"Go, my dear friend, go; take Lilian away from this place assoon as you can; divert her mind with fresh scenes. I hope!—Ido hope! Let me know where you fix yourself. I will seize aholiday,—I need one; I will arrange as to my patients; I willcome to the same place; she need not know of it, but I must be byto watch, to hear your news of her. Heaven bless you for what youhave said! I hope!—I do hope!"
Some days after, I received a few lines from Mrs. Ashleigh. Herarrangements for departure were made. They were to start the nextmorning. She had fixed on going into the north of Devonshire, andstaying some weeks either at Ilfracombe or Lynton, whichever placeLilian preferred. She would write as soon as they were settled.
I was up at my usual early hour the next morning. I resolved togo out towards Mrs. Ashleigh's house, and watch, unnoticed, where Imight, perhaps, catch a glimpse of Lilian as the carriage thatwould convey her to the railway passed my hiding-place.
I was looking impatiently at the clock; it was yet two hoursbefore the train by which Mrs. Ashleigh proposed to leave. A loudring at my bell! I opened the door. Mrs. Ashleigh rushed in,falling on my breast.
"Lilian! Lilian!"
"Heavens! What has happened?"
"She has left! she is gone,—gone away! Oh, Allen,how?—whither? Advise me. What is to be done?"
"Come in—compose yourself—tell meall,—clearly, quickly. Lilian gone,—gone away?Impossible! She must be hid somewhere in the house,—thegarden; she, perhaps, did not like the journey. She may have creptaway to some young friend's house. But I talk when you should talk:tell me all."
Little enough to tell! Lilian had seemed unusually cheerful thenight before, and pleased at the thought of the excursion. Motherand daughter retired to rest early: Mrs. Ashleigh saw Liliansleeping quietly before she herself went to bed. She woke betimesin the morning, dressed herself, went into the next room to callLilian—Lilian was not there. No suspicion of flight occurredto her. Perhaps her daughter might be up already, and gonedownstairs, remembering something she might wish to pack and takewith her on the journey. Mrs. Ashleigh was confirmed in this ideawhen she noticed that her own room door was left open. She wentdownstairs, met a maidservant in the hall, who told her, with alarmand surprise, that both the street and garden doors were foundunclosed. No one had seen Lilian. Mrs. Ashleigh now becameseriously uneasy. On remounting to her daughter's room, she missedLilian's bonnet and mantle. The house and garden were both searchedin vain. There could be no doubt that Lilian had gone,—musthave stolen noiselessly at night through her mother's room, and letherself out of the house and through the garden.
"Do you think she could have received any letter, any message,any visitor unknown to you?"
"I cannot think it. Why do you ask? Oh, Allen, you do notbelieve there is any accomplice in this disappearance! No, you donot believe it. But my child's honour! What will the worldthink?"
Not for the world cared I at that moment. I could think only ofLilian, and without one suspicion that imputed blame to her.
"Be quiet, be silent; perhaps she has gone on some visit andwill return. Meanwhile, leave inquiry to me."
It seemed incredible that Lilian could wander far without beingobserved. I soon ascertained that she had not gone away by therailway—by any public conveyance—had hired no carriage;she must therefore be still in the town, or have left it on foot.The greater part of the day was consumed in unsuccessful inquiries,and faint hopes that she would return; meanwhile the news of herdisappearance had spread: how could such news fail to do so?
An acquaintance of mine met me under the archway of Monks' Gate.He wrung my hand and looked at me with great compassion.
"I fear," said he, "that we were all deceived in that youngMargrave. He seemed so well conducted, in spite of his livelymanners. But—"
"But what?"
"Mrs. Ashleigh was, perhaps, imprudent to admit him into herhouse so familiarly. He was certainly very handsome. Young ladieswill be romantic."
"How dare you, sir!" I cried, choked with rage. "And without anycolouring to so calumnious a suggestion! Margrave has not been inthe town for many days. No one knows even where he is."
"Oh, yes, it is known where he is. He wrote to order the effectswhich he had left here to be sent to Penrith."
"When?"
"The letter arrived the day before yesterday. I happened to becalling at the house where he last lodged, when at L——,the house opposite Mrs. Ashleigh's garden. No doubt the servants inboth houses gossip with each other. Miss Ashleigh could scarcelyfail to hear of Mr. Margrave's address from her maid; and sinceservants will exchange gossip, they may also convey letters. Pardonme, you know I am your friend."
"Not from the moment you breathe a word against my betrothedwife," said I, fiercely.
I wrenched myself from the clasp of the man's hand, but hiswords still rang in my ears. I mounted my horse; I rode into theadjoining suburbs, the neighbouring villages; there, however, Ilearned nothing, till, just at nightfall, in a hamlet about tenmiles from L——, a labourer declared he had seen a younglady dressed as I described, who passed by him in a path throughthe fields a little before noon; that he was surprised to see oneso young, so well dressed, and a stranger to the neighbourhood (forhe knew by sight the ladies of the few families scattered around)walking alone; that as he stepped out of the path to make way forher, he looked hard into her face, and she did not heedhim,—seemed to gaze right before her, into space. If herexpression had been less quiet and gentle, he should have thought,he could scarcely say why, that she was not quite right in hermind; there was a strange unconscious stare in her eyes, as if shewere walking in her sleep. Her pace was very steady,—neitherquick nor slow. He had watched her till she passed out of sight,amidst a wood through which the path wound its way to a village atsome distance.
I followed up this clew. I arrived at the village to which myinformant directed me, but night had set in. Most of the houseswere closed, so I could glean no further information from thecottages or at the inn. But the police superintendent of thedistrict lived in the village, and to him I gave instructions whichI had not given, and, indeed, would have been disinclined to give,to the police at L——. He was intelligent and kindly; hepromised to communicate at once with the different police-stationsfor miles round, and with all delicacy and privacy. It was notprobable that Lilian could have wandered in one day much fartherthan the place at which I then was; it was scarcely to be conceivedthat she could baffle my pursuit and the practised skill of thepolice. I rested but a few hours, at a small public-house, and wason horseback again at dawn. A little after sunrise I again heard ofthe wanderer. At a lonely cottage, by a brick-kiln, in the midst ofa wide common, she had stopped the previous evening, and asked fora draught of milk. The woman who gave it to her inquired if she hadlost her way. She said "No;" and, only tarrying a few minutes, hadgone across the common; and the woman supposed she was a visitor ata gentleman's house which was at the farther end of the waste, forthe path she took led to no town, no village. It occurred to methen that Lilian avoided all high-roads, all places, even thehumblest, where men congregated together. But where could she havepassed the night? Not to fatigue the reader with the fruitlessresult of frequent inquiries, I will but say that at the end of thesecond day I had succeeded in ascertaining that I was still on hertrack; and though I had ridden to and fro nearly double thedistance—coming back again to places I had leftbehind—it was at the distance of forty miles fromL—— that I last heard of her that second day. She hadbeen sitting alone by a little brook only an hour before. I was ledto the very spot by a woodman—it was at the hour of twilightwhen he beheld her; she was leaning her face on her hand, andseemed weary. He spoke to her; she did not answer, but rose andresumed her way along the banks of the streamlet. That night I putup at no inn; I followed the course of the brook for miles, thenstruck into every path that I could conceive her to havetaken,—in vain. Thus I consumed the night on foot, tying myhorse to a tree, for he was tired out, and returning to him atsunrise. At noon, the third day, I again heard of her, and in aremote, savage part of the country. The features of the landscapewere changed; there was little foliage and little culture, but theground was broken into moulds and hollows, and covered with patchesof heath and stunted brushwood. She had been seen by a shepherd,and he made the same observation as the first who had guided me onher track,—she looked to him "like some one walking in hersleep." An hour or two later, in a dell, amongst the furze-bushes,I chanced on a knot of ribbon. I recognized the colour Lilianhabitually wore; I felt certain that the ribbon was hers.Calculating the utmost speed I could ascribe to her, she could notbe far off, yet still I failed to discover her. The scene now wasas solitary as a desert. I met no one on my way. At length, alittle after sunset, I found myself in view of the sea. A smalltown nestled below the cliffs, on which I was guiding my wearyhorse. I entered the town, and while my horse was baiting went insearch of the resident policeman. The information I had directed tobe sent round the country had reached him; he had acted on it, butwithout result. I was surprised to hear him address me by name, andlooking at him more narrowly, I recognized him for the policemanWaby. This young man had always expressed so grateful a sense of myattendance on his sister, and had, indeed, so notably evinced hisgratitude in prosecuting with Margrave the inquiries whichterminated in the discovery of Sir Philip Derval's murderer, that Iconfided to him the name of the wanderer, of which he had not beenpreviously informed; but which it would be, indeed, impossible toconceal from him should the search in which his aid was asked provesuccessful,—as he knew Miss Ashleigh by sight. His faceimmediately became thoughtful. He paused a minute or two, and thensaid,—
"I think I have it, but I do not like to say; I may pain you,sir."
"Not by confidence; you pain me by concealment."
The man hesitated still: I encouraged him, and then he spoke outfrankly.
"Sir, did you never think it strange that Mr. Margrave shouldmove from his handsome rooms in the hotel to a somewhatuncomfortable lodging, from the window of which he could look downon Mrs. Ashleigh's garden? I have seen him at night in the balconyof that window, and when I noticed him going so frequently intoMrs. Ashleigh's house during your unjust detention, I own, sir, Ifelt for you—"
"Nonsense! Mr. Margrave went to Mrs. Ashleigh's house as myfriend. He has left L—— weeks ago. What has all this todo with—"
"Patience, sir; hear me out. I was sent from L—— tothis station (on promotion, sir) a fortnight since last Friday, forthere has been a good deal of crime hereabouts; it is a badneighbourhood, and full of smugglers. Some days ago, in watchingquietly near a lonely house, of which the owner is a suspiciouscharacter down in my books, I saw, to my amazement, Mr. Margravecome out of that house,—come out of a private door in it,which belongs to a part of the building not inhabited by the owner,but which used formerly, when the house was a sort of inn, to belet to night lodgers of the humblest description. I followed him;he went down to the seashore, walked about, singing to himself;then returned to the house, and re-entered by the same door. I soonlearned that he lodged in the house,—had lodged there forseveral days. The next morning, a fine yacht arrived at a tolerablyconvenient creek about a mile from the house, and there anchored.Sailors came ashore, rambling down to this town. The yacht belongedto Mr. Margrave; he had purchased it by commission in London. It isstored for a long voyage. He had directed it to come to him in thisout-of-the-way place, where no gentleman's yacht ever put inbefore, though the creek or bay is handy enough for such craft.Well, sir, is it not strange that a rich young gentleman shouldcome to this unfrequented seashore, put up with accommodation thatmust be of the rudest kind, in the house of a man known as adesperate smuggler, suspected to be worse; order a yacht to meethim here; is not all this strange? But would it be strange if hewere waiting for a young lady? And if a young lady has fled atnight from her home, and has come secretly along bypaths, whichmust have been very fully explained to her beforehand, and is nownear that young gentleman's lodging, if not actually in it—ifthis be so, why, the affair is not so very strange after all. Andnow do you forgive me, sir?"
"Where is this house? Lead me to it."
"You can hardly get to it except on foot; rough walking, sir,and about seven miles off by the shortest cut."
"Come, and at once; come quickly. We must be therebefore—before—"
"Before the young lady can get to the place. Well, from what yousay of the spot in which she was last seen, I think, on reflection,we may easily do that. I am at your service, sir. But I should warnyou that the owners of the house, man and wife, are both ofvillanous character,—would do anything for money. Mr.Margrave, no doubt, has money enough; and if the young lady choosesto go away with Mr. Margrave, you know I have no power to helpit."
"Leave all that to me; all I ask of you is to show me thehouse."
We were soon out of the town; the night had closed in; it wasvery dark, in spite of a few stars; the path was rugged andprecipitous, sometimes skirting the very brink of perilous cliffs,sometimes delving down to the seashore—there stopped by rockor wave—and painfully rewinding up the ascent.
"It is an ugly path, sir, but it saves four miles; and anyhowthe road is a bad one."
We came, at last, to a few wretched fishermen's huts. The moonhad now risen, and revealed the squalor of poverty-stricken ruinoushovels; a couple of boats moored to the shore, a moaning, fretfulsea; and at a distance a vessel, with lights on board, lyingperfectly still at anchor in a sheltered curve of the bold rudeshore. The policeman pointed to the vessel.
"The yacht, sir; the wind will be in her favour if she sailstonight."
We quickened our pace as well as the nature of the path wouldpermit, left the huts behind us, and about a mile farther on cameto a solitary house, larger than, from the policeman's descriptionof Margrave's lodgement, I should have presupposed: a house that inthe wilder parts of Scotland might be almost a laird's; but even inthe moonlight it looked very dilapidated and desolate. Most of thewindows were closed, some with panes broken, stuffed with wisps ofstraw; there were the remains of a wall round the house; it wasbroken in some parts (only its foundation left). On approaching thehouse I observed two doors,—one on the side fronting the sea,one on the other side, facing a patch of broken ground that mightonce have been a garden, and lay waste within the enclosure of theruined wall, encumbered with various litter; heaps of rubbish, aruined shed, the carcass of a worn-out boat. This latter door stoodwide open,—the other was closed. The house was still anddark, as if either deserted, or all within it retired to rest.
"I think that open door leads at once to the rooms Mr. Margravehires; he can go in and out without disturbing the other inmates.They used to keep, on the side which they inhabit, a beer-house,but the magistrates shut it up; still, it is a resort for badcharacters. Now, sir, what shall we do?
"Watch separately. You wait within the enclosure of the wall,hid by those heaps of rubbish, near the door; none can enter butwhat you will observe them. If you see her, you will accost andstop her, and call aloud for me; I shall be in hearing. I will goback to the high part of the ground yonder—it seems to methat she must pass that way; and I would desire, if possible, tosave her from the humiliation, the—the shame of coming withinthe precincts of that man's abode. I feel I may trust you now andhereafter. It is a great thing for the happiness and honour of thispoor young lady and her mother, that I may be able to declare thatI did not take her from that man, from any man—from thathouse, from any house. You comprehend me, and will obey? I speak toyou as a confidant,—a friend."
"I thank you with my whole heart, sir, for so doing. You savedmy sister's life, and the least I can do is to keep secret all thatwould pain your life if blabbed abroad. I know what mischief folks'tongues can make. I will wait by the door, never fear, and willrather lose my place than not strain all the legal power I possessto keep the young lady back from sorrow."
This dialogue was interchanged in close hurried whisper behindthe broken wall, and out of all hearing. Waby now crept through awide gap into the inclosure, and nestled himself silently amidstthe wrecks of the broken boat, not six feet from the open door, andclose to the wall of the house itself. I went back some thirtyyards up the road, to the rising ground which I had pointed out tohim. According to the best calculation I couldmake—considering the pace at which I had cleared theprecipitous pathway, and reckoning from the place and time at whichLilian had been last seen-she could not possibly have yet enteredthat house. I might presume it would be more than half an hourbefore she could arrive; I was in hopes that, during the interval,Margrave might show himself, perhaps at the door, or from thewindows, or I might even by some light from the latter be guided tothe room in which to find him. If, after waiting a reasonable time,Lilian should fail to appear, I had formed my plan of action; butit was important for the success of that plan that I should notlose myself in the strange house, nor bring its owners toMargrave's aid,—that I should surprise him alone andunawares. Half an hour, three quarters, a whole hour thus passed.No sign of my poor wanderer; but signs there were of the enemy fromwhom I resolved, at whatever risk, to free and to save her. Awindow on the ground-floor, to the left of the door, which had longfixed my attention because I had seen light through the chinks ofthe shutters, slowly unclosed, the shutters fell back, the casementopened, and I beheld Margrave distinctly; he held something in hishand that gleamed in the moonlight, directed not towards the moundon which I stood, nor towards the path I had taken, but towards anopen space beyond the ruined wall to the right. Hid by a cluster ofstunted shrubs I watched him with a heart that beat with rage, notwith terror. He seemed so intent in his own gaze as to be unheedingor unconscious of all else. I stole from my post, and, still undercover, sometimes of the broken wall, sometimes of the shaggy ridgesthat skirted the path, crept on, on till I reached the side of thehouse itself; then, there secure from his eyes, should he turnthem, I stepped over the ruined wall, scarcely two feet high inthat place, on—on towards the door. I passed the spot onwhich the policeman had shrouded himself; he was seated, his backagainst the ribs of the broken boat. I put my hand to his mouththat he might not cry out in surprise, and whispered in his ear; hestirred not. I shook him by the arm: still he stirred not. A ray ofthe moon fell on his face. I saw that he was in a profound slumber.Persuaded that it was no natural sleep, and that he had becomeuseless to me, I passed him by. I was at the threshold of the opendoor, the light from the window close by falling on the ground; Iwas in the passage; a glimmer came through the chinks of a door tothe left; I turned the handle noiselessly, and, the next moment,Margrave was locked in my grasp.
"Call out," I hissed in his ear, "and I strangle you before anyone can come to your help."
He did not call out; his eye, fixed on mine as he writhed round,saw, perhaps, his peril if he did. His countenance betrayed fear,but as I tightened my grasp that expression gave way to one ofwrath and fierceness; and as, in turn, I felt the grip of his hand,I knew that the struggle between us would be that of two strongmen, each equally bent on the mastery of the other.
I was, as I have said before, endowed with an unusual degree ofphysical power, disciplined in early youth by athletic exercise andcontest. In height and in muscle I had greatly the advantage overmy antagonist; but such was the nervous vigour, the elastic energyof his incomparable frame, in which sinews seemed springs of steel,that had our encounter been one in which my strength was lessheightened by rage, I believe that I could no more have coped withhim than the bison can cope with the boa; but I was animated bythat passion which trebles for a time all our forces,—whichmakes even the weak man a match for the strong. I felt that if Iwere worsted, disabled, stricken down, Lilian might be lost inlosing her sole protector; and on the other hand, Margrave had beentaken at the disadvantage of that surprise which will half unnervethe fiercest of the wild beasts; while as we grappled, reeling androcking to and fro in our struggle, I soon observed that hisattention was distracted,—that his eye was turned towards anobject which he had dropped involuntarily when I first seized him.He sought to drag me towards that object, and when near it stoopedto seize. It was a bright, slender, short wand of steel. Iremembered when and where I had seen it, whether in my waking stateor in vision; and as his hand stole down to take it from the floor,I set on the wand my strong foot. I cannot tell by what rapidprocess of thought and association I came to the belief that thepossession of a little piece of blunted steel would decide theconflict in favor of the possessor; but the struggle now wasconcentred on the attainment of that seemingly idle weapon. I wasbecoming breathless and exhausted, while Margrave seemed everymoment to gather up new force, when collecting all my strength forone final effort, I lifted him suddenly high in the air, and hurledhim to the farthest end of the cramped arena to which our contestwas confined. He fell, and with a force by which most men wouldhave been stunned; but he recovered himself with a quick rebound,and, as he stood facing me, there was something grand as well asterrible in his aspect. His eyes literally flamed, as those of atiger; his rich hair, flung back from his knitted forehead, seemedto erect itself as an angry mane; his lips, slightly parted, showedthe glitter of his set teeth; his whole frame seemed larger in thetension of the muscles, and as, gradually relaxing his firstdefying and haughty attitude, he crouched as the panther crouchesfor its deadly spring, I felt as if it were a wild beast, whoserush was coming upon me,—wild beast, but still Man, the kingof the animals, fashioned forth from no mixture of humbler races bythe slow revolutions of time, but his royalty stamped on his formwhen the earth became fit for his coming.(1)
At that moment I snatched up the wand, directed it towards him,and advancing with a fearless stride, cried,—
"Down to my feet, miserable sorcerer!"
To my own amaze, the effect was instantaneous. My terribleantagonist dropped to the floor as a dog drops at the word of hismaster. The muscles of his frowning countenance relaxed, the glareof his wrathful eyes grew dull and rayless; his limbs lay prostrateand unnerved, his head rested against the wall, his arms limp anddrooping by his side. I approached him slowly and cautiously; heseemed cast into a profound slumber.
"You are at my mercy now!" said I.
He moved his head as in sign of deprecating submission.
"You hear and understand me? Speak!"
His lips faintly muttered, "Yes."
"I command you to answer truly the questions I shall address toyou."
"I must, while yet sensible of the power that has passed to yourhand."
"Is it by some occult magnetic property in this wand that youhave exercised so demoniac an influence over a creature so pure asLilian Ashleigh?"
"By that wand and by other arts which you could notcomprehend."
"And for what infamous object,—her seduction, herdishonour?"
"No! I sought in her the aid of a gift which would cease did shecease to be pure. At first I but cast my influence upon her thatthrough her I might influence yourself. I needed your help todiscover a secret. Circumstances steeled your mind against me. Icould no longer hope that you would voluntarily lend yourself to mywill. Meanwhile, I had found in her the light of a loftierknowledge than that of your science; through that knowledge, dulyheeded and cultivated, I hoped to divine what I cannot of myselfdiscover. Therefore I deepened over her mind the spells I command;therefore I have drawn her hither as the loadstone draws the steel,and therefore I would have borne her with me to the shores to whichI was about this night to sail. I had cast the inmates of the houseand all around it into slumber, in order that none might witnessher departure; had I not done so, I should have summoned others tomy aid, in spite of your threat."
"And would Lilian Ashleigh have passively accompanied you, toher own irretrievable disgrace?"
"She could not have helped it; she would have been unconsciousof her acts; she was, and is, in a trance; nor, had she gone withme, would she have waked from that state while she lived; thatwould not have been long."
"Wretch! and for what object of unhallowed curiosity do youexert an influence which withers away the life of its victim?"
"Not curiosity, but the instinct of self-preservation. I counton no life beyond the grave. I would defy the grave, and liveon."
"And was it to learn, through some ghastly agencies, the secretof renewing existence, that you lured me by the shadow of your ownimage on the night when we met last?"
The voice of Margrave here became very faint as he answered me,and his countenance began to exhibit the signs of an exhaustionalmost mortal.
"Be quick," he murmured, "or I die. The fluid which emanatesfrom that wand, in the hand of one who envenoms that fluid with hisown hatred and rage, will prove fatal to my life. Lower the wandfrom my forehead! low—low,—lower still!"
"What was the nature of that rite in which you constrained me toshare?"
"I cannot say. You are killing me. Enough that you were savedfrom a great danger by the apparition of the protecting imagevouchsafed to your eye; otherwise you would—youwould—Oh, release me! Away! away!"
The foam gathered to his lips; his limbs became fearfullyconvulsed.
"One question more: where is Lilian at this moment? Answer thatquestion, and I depart."
He raised his head, made a visible effort to rally his strength,and gasped out,—
"Yonder. Pass through the open space up the cliff, beside athorn-tree; you will find her there, where she halted when the wanddropped from my hand. But—but—beware! Ha! you willserve me yet, and through her! They said so that night, though youheard them not. They said it!" Here his face became death-like; hepressed his hand on his heart, and shrieked out, "Away! away! oryou are my murderer!"
I retreated to the other end of the room, turning the wand fromhim, and when I gained the door, looked back; his convulsions hadceased, but he seemed locked in a profound swoon.
I left the room,—the house,—paused by Waby; he wasstill sleeping. "Awake!" I said, and touched him with the wand. Hestarted up at once, rubbed his eyes, began stammering out excuses.I checked them, and bade him follow me. I took the way up the openground towards which Margrave had pointed the wand, and there,motionless, beside a gnarled fantastic thorn-tree, stood Lilian.Her arms were folded across her breast; her face, seen by themoonlight, looked so innocent and so infantine, that I needed noother evidence to tell me how unconscious she was of the peril towhich her steps had been drawn. I took her gently by the hand."Come with me," I said in a whisper, and she obeyed me silently,and with a placid smile.
Rough though the way, she seemed unconscious of fatigue. Iplaced her arm in mine, but she did not lean on it. We got back tothe town. I obtained there an old chaise and a pair of horses. Atmorning Lilian was under her mother's roof. About the noon of thatday fever seized her; she became rapidly worse, and, to allappearance, in imminent danger. Delirium set in; I watched besideher night and day, supported by an inward conviction of herrecovery, but tortured by the sight of her sufferings. On the thirdday a change for the better became visible; her sleep was calm, herbreathing regular.
Shortly afterwards she woke out of danger. Her eyes fell at onceon me, with all their old ineffable tender sweetness.
"Oh, Allen, beloved, have I not been very ill? But I am almostwell now. Do not weep; I shall live for you,—for your sake."And she bent forward, drawing my hand from my streaming eyes, andkissed me with a child's guileless kiss on my burning forehead.
(1) And yet, even if we entirely omit the consideration of thesoul, that immaterial and immortal principle which is for a timeunited to his body, and view him only in his merely animalcharacter, man is still the most excellent of animals.—Dr.Kidd, On the Adaptation of External Nature to the PhysicalCondition of Man (Sect. iii. p. 18).
Lilian recovered, but the strange thing was this: all memory ofthe weeks that had elapsed since her return from visiting her auntwas completely obliterated; she seemed in profound ignorance of thecharge on which I had been confined,—perfectly ignorant evenof the existence of Margrave. She had, indeed, a very vaguereminiscence of her conversation with me in the garden,—thefirst conversation which had ever been embittered by adisagreement,—but that disagreement itself she did notrecollect. Her belief was that she had been ill and light-headedsince that evening. From that evening to the hour of her waking,conscious and revived, all was a blank. Her love for me wasrestored, as if its thread had never been broken. Some suchinstances of oblivion after bodily illness or mental shock arefamiliar enough to the practice of all medical men;(1) and I wastherefore enabled to appease the anxiety and wonder of Mrs.Ashleigh, by quoting various examples of loss, or suspension, ofmemory. We agreed that it would be necessary to break to Lilian,though very cautiously, the story of Sir Philip Derval's murder,and the charge to which I had been subjected. She could not fail tohear of those events from others. How shall I express her womanlyterror, her loving, sympathizing pity, on hearing the tale, which Isoftened as well as I could?
"And to think that I knew nothing of this!" she cried, claspingmy hand; "to think that you were in peril, and that I was not byyour side!"
Her mother spoke of Margrave, as a visitor,—an agreeable,lively stranger; Lilian could not even recollect his name, but sheseemed shocked to think that any visitor had been admitted while Iwas in circumstances so awful! Need I say that our engagement wasrenewed? Renewed! To her knowledge and to her heart it had neverbeen interrupted for a moment. But oh! the malignity of the wrongworld! Oh, that strange lust of mangling reputations, which seizeson hearts the least wantonly cruel! Let two idle tongues utter atale against some third person, who never offended the babblers,and how the tale spreads, like fire, lighted none know how, in theherbage of an American prairie! Who shall put it out?
What right have we to pry into the secrets of other men'shearths? True or false, the tale that is gabbled to us, whatconcern of ours can it be? I speak not of cases to which the lawhas been summoned, which law has sifted, on which law haspronounced. But how, when the law is silent, can we assume itsverdicts? How be all judges where there has been no witness-box, nocross-examination, no jury? Yet, every day we put on our ermine,and make ourselves judges,—judges sure to condemn, and onwhat evidence? That which no court of law will receive. Somebodyhas said something to somebody, which somebody repeats toeverybody!
The gossip of L—— had set in full current againstLilian's fair name. No ladies had called or sent to congratulateMrs. Ashleigh on her return, or to inquire after Lilian herselfduring her struggle between life and death.
How I missed the Queen of the Hill at this critical moment! HowI longed for aid to crush the slander, with which I knew not how tograpple,—aid in her knowledge of the world and her ascendancyover its judgments! I had heard from her once since her absence,briefly but kindly expressing her amazement at the ineffablestupidity which could for a moment have subjected me to a suspicionof Sir Philip Derval's strange murder, and congratulating meheartily on my complete vindication from so monstrous a charge. Tothis letter no address was given. I supposed the omission to beaccidental, but on calling at her house to inquire her direction, Ifound that the servants did not know it.
What, then, was my joy when just at this juncture I received anote from Mrs. Poyntz, stating that she had returned the nightbefore, and would be glad to see me.
I hastened to her house. "Ah," thought I, as I sprang lightly upthe ascent to the Hill, "how the tattlers will be silenced by aword from her imperial lips!" And only just as I approached herdoor did it strike me how difficult—nay, howimpossible—to explain to her—the hard positive woman,her who had, less ostensibly but more ruthlessly than myself,destroyed Dr. Lloyd for his belief in the comparatively rationalpretensions of clairvoyance—all the mystical excuses forLilian's flight from her home? How speak to her—or, indeed,to any one—about an occult fascination and a magic wand? Nomatter: surely it would be enough to say that at the time Lilianhad been light-headed, under the influence of the fever which hadafterwards nearly proved fatal, The early friend of Anne Ashleighwould not be a severe critic on any tale that might right the goodname of Anne Ashleigh's daughter. So assured, with a light heartand a cheerful face, I followed the servant into the great lady'spleasant but decorous presence-chamber.
(1) Such instances of suspense of memory are recorded in mostphysiological and in some metaphysical works. Dr. Abercrombienotices some, more or less similar to that related in the text: "Ayoung lady who was present at a catastrophe in Scotland, in whichmany people lost their lives by the fall of the gallery of achurch, escaped without any injury, but with the complete loss ofthe recollection of any of the circumstances; and this extended notonly to the accident, but to everything that had occurred to herfor a certain time before going to church. A lady whom I attendedsome years ago in a protracted illness, in which her memory becamemuch impaired, lost the recollection of a period of about ten ortwelve years, but spoke with perfect consistency of things as theystood before that time." Dr. Aberercmbie adds: "As far as I havebeen able to trace it, the principle in such cases seems to be,that when the memory is impaired to a certain degree, the loss ofit extends backward to some event or some period by which aparticularly deep impression had been made upon themind."—ABERCROMBIE: On the Intellectual Powers, pp. 118, 119(15th edition).
Mrs. Poyntz was on her favourite seat by the window, and for awonder, not knitting—that classic task seemed done; but shewas smoothing and folding the completed work with her white comelyhand, and smiling over it, as if in complacent approval, when Ientered the room. At the fire-side sat the he-colonel inspecting anewly-invented barometer; at another window, in the farthest recessof the room, stood Miss Jane Poyntz, with a young gentleman whom Ihad never before seen, but who turned his eyes full upon me with ahaughty look as the servant announced my name. He was tall, wellproportioned, decidedly handsome, but with that expression of coldand concentred self-esteem in his very attitude, as well as hiscountenance, which makes a man of merit unpopular, a man withoutmerit ridiculous.
The he-colonel, always punctiliously civil, rose from his seat,shook hands with me cordially, and said, "Coldish weather to-day;but we shall have rain to-morrow. Rainy seasons come in cycles. Weare about to commence a cycle of them with heavy showers." Hesighed, and returned to his barometer.
Miss Jane bowed to me graciously enough, but was evidently alittle confused,—a circumstance which might well attract mynotice, for I had never before seen that high-bred young ladydeviate a hairsbreadth from the even tenor of a manner admirablefor a cheerful and courteous ease, which, one felt convinced, wouldbe unaltered to those around her if an earthquake swallowed one upan inch before her feet.
The young gentleman continued to eye me loftily, as theheir-apparent to some celestial planet might eye an inferiorcreature from a half-formed nebula suddenly dropped upon hissublime and perfected, star.
Mrs. Poyntz extended to me two fingers, and said frigidly,"Delighted to see you again! How kind to attend so soon to mynote!"
Motioning me to a seat beside her, she here turned to herhusband, and said, "Poyntz, since a cycle of rain begins tomorrow,better secure your ride to-day. Take these young people with you. Iwant to talk with Dr. Fenwick."
The colonel carefully put away his barometer, and saying to hisdaughter, "Come!" went forth. Jane followed her father; the younggentleman followed Jane.
The reception I had met chilled and disappointed me. I felt thatMrs. Poyntz was changed, and in her change the whole house seemedchanged. The very chairs looked civilly unfriendly, as if preparingto turn their backs on me. However, I was not in the false positionof an intruder; I had been summoned; it was for Mrs. Poyntz tospeak first, and I waited quietly for her to do so.
She finished the careful folding of her work, and then laid itat rest in the drawer of the table at which she sat. Having sodone, she turned to me, and said,—
"By the way, I ought to have introduced to you my young guest,Mr. Ashleigh Sumner. You would like him. He has talents,—notshowy, but solid. He will succeed in public life."
"So that young man is Mr. Ashleigh Sumner? I do not wonder thatMiss Ashleigh rejected him."
I said this, for I was nettled, as well as surprised, at thecoolness with which a lady who had professed a friendship for mementioned that fortunate young gentleman, with so complete anoblivion of all the antecedents that had once made his name painfulto my ear.
In turn, my answer seemed to nettle Mrs. Poyntz.
"I am not so sure that she did reject; perhaps she rathermisunderstood him; gallant compliments are not always proposals ofmarriage. However that be, his spirits were not much damped by MissAshleigh's disdain, nor his heart deeply smitten by her charms; forhe is now very happy, very much attached to another young lady, towhom he proposed three days ago, at Lady Delafield's, and not tomake a mystery of what all our little world will know beforetomorrow, that young lady is my daughter Jane."
"Were I acquainted with Mr. Sumner, I should offer to him mysincere congratulations."
Mrs. Poyntz resumed, without heeding a reply more complimentaryto Miss Jane than to the object of her choice,—
"I told you that I meant Jane to marry a rich country gentleman,and Ashleigh Sumner is the very country gentleman I had then in mythoughts. He is cleverer and more ambitious than I could havehoped; he will be a minister some day, in right of his talents, anda peer, if he wishes it, in right of his lands. So that matter issettled."
There was a pause, during which my mind passed rapidly throughlinks of reminiscence and reasoning, which led me to a mingledsentiment of admiration for Mrs. Poyntz as a diplomatist and ofdistrust for Mrs. Poyntz as a friend. It was now clear why Mrs.Poyntz, before so little disposed to approve my love, had urged meat once to offer my hand to Lilian, in order that she might departaffianced and engaged to the house in which she would meet Mr.Ashleigh Sumner. Hence Mrs. Poyntz's anxiety to obtain all theinformation I could afford her of the sayings and doings at LadyHaughton's; hence, the publicity she had so suddenly given to myengagement; hence, when Mr. Sumner had gone away a rejected suitor,her own departure from L——; she had seized the verymoment when a vain and proud man, piqued by the mortificationreceived from one lady, falls the easier prey to the arts whichallure his suit to another. All was so far clear to me. AndI—was my self-conceit less egregious and less readily dupedthan that of yon glided popinjay's! How skilfully this woman hadknitted me into her work with the noiseless turn of her whitehands! and yet, forsooth, I must vaunt the superior scope of myintellect, and plumb all the fountains of Nature,—I, whocould not fathom the little pool of this female schemer's mind!
But that was no time for resentment to her or rebuke to myself.She was now the woman who could best protect and save from slandermy innocent, beloved Lilian. But how approach that perplexingsubject?
Mrs. Poyntz approached it, and with her usual decision ofpurpose, which bore so deceitful a likeness to candour of mind.
"But it was not to talk of my affairs that I asked you to call,Allen Fenwick." As she uttered my name, her voice softened, and hermanner took that maternal, caressing tenderness which had sometimesamused and sometimes misled me. "No, I do not forget that you askedme to be your friend, and I take without scruple the license offriendship. What are these stories that I have heard already aboutLilian Ashleigh, to whom you were once engaged?"
"To whom I am still engaged."
"Is it possible? Oh, then, of course the stories I have heardare all false. Very likely; no fiction in scandal ever surprisesme. Poor dear Lilian, then, never ran away from her mother'shouse?"
I smothered the angry pain which this mode of questioning causedme; I knew how important it was to Lilian to secure to her thecountenance and support of this absolute autocrat; I spoke ofLilian's long previous distemper of mind; I accounted for it as anyintelligent physician, unacquainted with all that I could notreveal, would account. Heaven forgive me for the venial falsehood,but I spoke of the terrible charge against myself as enough tounhinge for a time the intellect of a girl so acutely sensitive asLilian; I sought to create that impression as to the origin of allthat might otherwise seem strange; and in this state of cerebralexcitement she had wandered from home—but alone. I hadtracked every step of her way; I had found and restored her to herhome. A critical delirium had followed, from which she now rose,cured in health, unsuspicious that there could be a whisper againsther name. And then, with all the eloquence I could command, and inwords as adapted as I could frame them to soften the heart of awoman, herself a mother, I implored Mrs. Poyntz's aid to silenceall the cruelties of calumny, and extend her shield over the childof her own early friend.
When I came to an end, I had taken, with caressing force, Mrs.Poyntz's reluctant hands in mine. There were tears in my voice,tears in my eyes. And the sound of her voice in reply gave me hope,for it was unusually gentle. She was evidently moved. The hope wassoon quelled.
"Allen Fenwick," she said, "you have a noble heart; I grieve tosee how it abuses your reason. I cannot aid Lilian Ashleigh in theway you ask. Do not start back so indignantly. Listen to me aspatiently as I have listened to you. That when you brought back theunfortunate young woman to her poor mother, her mind wasdisordered, and became yet more dangerously so, I can well believe;that she is now recovered, and thinks with shame, or refuses tothink at all, of her imprudent flight, I can believe also; but I donot believe, the World cannot believe, that she did not, knowinglyand purposely, quit her mother's roof, and in quest of that youngstranger so incautiously, so unfeelingly admitted to her mother'shouse during the very time you were detained on the most awful ofhuman accusations. Every one in the town knows that Mr. Margravevisited daily at Mrs. Ashleigh's during that painful period; everyone in the town knows in what strange out-of-the-way place thisyoung man had niched himself; and that a yacht was bought, andlying in wait there. What for? It is said that the chaise in whichyou brought Miss Ashleigh back to her home was hired in a villagewithin an easy reach of Mr. Margrave's lodging—of Mr.Margrave's yacht. I rejoice that you saved the poor girl from ruin;but her good name is tarnished; and if Anne Ashleigh, whom Isincerely pity, asks me my advice, I can but give her this: 'LeaveL——, take your daughter abroad; and if she is not tomarry Mr. Margrave, marry her as quietly and as quickly as possibleto some foreigner.'"
"Madam! madam! this, then, is your friendship to her—tome! Oh, shame on you to insult thus an affianced husband! Shame onme ever to have thought you had a heart!"
"A heart, man!" she exclaimed, almost fiercely, springing up,and startling me with the change in her countenance and voice. "Andlittle you would have valued, and pitilessly have crushed thisheart, if I had suffered myself to show it to you! What right haveyou to reproach me? I felt a warm interest in your career, anunusual attraction in your conversation and society. Do you blameme for that, or should I blame myself? Condemned to live amongstbrainless puppets, my dull occupation to pull the strings thatmoved them, it was a new charm to my life to establish friendshipand intercourse with intellect and spirit and courage. Ah! Iunderstand that look, half incredulous, half inquisitive."
"Inquisitive, no; incredulous, yes! You desired my friendship,and how does your harsh judgment of my betrothed wife prove eitherto me or to her mother, whom you have known from your girlhood, thefirst duty of a friend,—which is surely not that of leaving afriend's side the moment that he needs countenance in calumny,succour in trouble!"
"It is a better duty to prevent the calumny and avert thetrouble. Leave aside Anne Ashleigh, a cipher that I can add orabstract from my sum of life as I please. What is my duty toyourself? It is plain. It is to tell you that your honour commandsyou to abandon all thoughts of Lilian Ashleigh as your wife.Ungrateful that you are! Do you suppose it was no mortification tomy pride of woman and friend, that you never approached me inconfidence except to ask my good offices in promoting yourcourtship to another; no shock to the quiet plans I had formed asto our familiar though harmless intimacy, to hear that you werebent on a marriage in which my friend would be lost to me?"
"Not lost! not lost! On the contrary, the regard I must supposeyou had for Lilian would have been a new link between ourhomes."
"Pooh! Between me and that dreamy girl there could have been nosympathy, there could have grown up no regard. You would have beenchained to your fireside, and—and—but no matter. Istifled my disappointment as soon as I felt it,—stifled it,as all my life I have stifled that which either destiny orduty—duty to myself as to others—forbids me to indulge.Ah, do not fancy me one of the weak criminals who can suffer aworthy liking to grow into a debasing love! I was not in love withyou, Allen Fenwick."
"Do you think I was ever so presumptuous a coxcomb as to fancyit?"
"No," she said, more softly; "I was not so false to my householdties and to my own nature. But there are some friendships which areas jealous as love. I could have cheerfully aided you in any choicewhich my sense could have approved for you as wise; I should havebeen pleased to have found in such a wife my most intimatecompanion. But that silly child!—absurd! Nevertheless, thefreshness and enthusiasm of your love touched me; you asked my aid,and I gave it. Perhaps I did believe that when you saw more ofLilian Ashleigh you would be cured of a fancy conceived by theeye—I should have known better what dupes the wisest men canbe to the witcheries of a fair face and eighteen! When I found yourillusion obstinate, I wrenched myself away from a vain regret,turned to my own schemes and my own ambition, and smiled bitterlyto think that, in pressing you to propose so hastily to Lilian, Imade your blind passion an agent in my own plans. Enough of this. Ispeak thus openly and boldly to you now, because now I have not asentiment that can interfere with the dispassionate soundness of mycounsels. I repeat, you cannot now marry Lilian Ashleigh; I cannottake my daughter to visit her; I cannot destroy the social lawsthat I myself have set in my petty kingdom."
"Be it as you will. I have pleaded for her while she is stillLilian Ashleigh. I plead for no one to whom I have once given myname. Before the woman whom I have taken from the altar, I canplace, as a shield sufficient, my strong breast of man. Who has sodeep an interest in Lilian's purity as I have? Who is so fitted toknow the exact truth of every whisper against her? Yet when I, whomyou admit to have some reputation for shrewd intelligence,—I,who tracked her way,—I, who restored her to herhome,—when I, Allen Fenwick, am so assured of her inviolableinnocence in thought as in deed, that I trust my honour to herkeeping,—surely, surely, I confute the scandal which youyourself do not believe, though you refuse to reject and to annulit?"
"Do not deceive yourself, Allen Fenwick," said she, stillstanding beside me, her countenance now hard and stern. "Look whereI stand, I am the World! The World, not as satirists depreciate, oras optimists extol its immutable properties, its all-persuasiveauthority. I am the World! And my voice is the World's voice whenit thus warns you. Should you make this marriage, your dignity ofcharacter and position would be gone! If you look only to lucre andprofessional success, possibly they may not ultimately suffer. Youhave skill, which men need; their need may still draw patients toyour door and pour guineas into your purse. But you have the pride,as well as the birth of a gentleman, and the wounds to that pridewill be hourly chafed and never healed. Your strong breast of manhas no shelter to the frail name of woman. The World, in itshealth, will look down on your wife, though its sick may look up toyou. This is not all. The World, in its gentlest mood ofindulgence, will say compassionately, 'Poor man! how weak, and howdeceived! What an unfortunate marriage!' But the World is not oftenindulgent,—it looks most to the motives most seen on thesurface. And the World will more frequently say, 'No; much tooclever a man to be duped! Miss Ashleigh had money. A good match tothe man who liked gold better than honour.'"
I sprang to my feet, with difficulty suppressing my rage; and,remembering it was a woman who spoke to me, "Farewell, madam," saidI, through my grinded teeth. "Were you, indeed, the Personation ofThe World, whose mean notions you mouth so calmly, I could notdisdain you more." I turned to the door, and left her stillstanding erect and menacing, the hard sneer on her resolute lip,the red glitter in her remorseless eye.
If ever my heart vowed itself to Lilian, the vow was now themost trustful and the most sacred. I had relinquished ourengagement before; but then her affection seemed, no matter fromwhat cause; so estranged from me, that though I might be miserableto lose her, I deemed that she would be unhappy in our union. Then,too, she was the gem and darling of the little world in which shelived; no whisper assailed her: now I knew that she loved me; Iknew that her estrangement had been involuntary; I knew thatappearances wronged her, and that they never could be explained. Iwas in the true position of man to woman: I was the shield, thebulwark, the fearless confiding protector! Resign her now becausethe world babbled, because my career might be impeded, because mygood name might be impeached,—resign her, and, in thatresignation, confirm all that was said against her! Could I do so,I should be the most craven of gentlemen, the meanest of men!
I went to Mrs. Ashleigh, and entreated her to hasten my unionwith her daughter, and fix the marriage-day.
I found the poor lady dejected and distressed. She was nowsufficiently relieved from the absorbing anxiety for Lilian to beaware of the change on the face of that World which the woman I hadjust quitted personified and concentred; she had learned the causefrom the bloodless lips of Miss Brabazon.
"My child! my poor child!" murmured the mother. "And she soguileless,—so sensitive! Could she know what is said, itwould kill her. She would never marry you, Allen,—she wouldnever bring shame to you!"
"She never need learn the barbarous calumny. Give her to me, andat once; patients, fortune, fame, are not found only atL——. Give her to me at once. But let me name acondition: I have a patrimonial independence, I have amassed largesavings, I have my profession and my repute. I cannot touch herfortune—I cannot,—never can! Take it while you live;when you die, leave it to accumulate for her children, if childrenshe have; not to me; not to her—unless I am dead orruined!"
"Oh, Allen, what a heart! what a heart! No, not heart,Allen,—that bird in its cage has a heart: soul—what asoul!"
How innocent was Lilian's virgin blush when I knelt to her, andprayed that she would forestall the date that had been fixed forour union, and be my bride before the breath of the autumn hadwithered the pomp of the woodland and silenced the song of thebirds! Meanwhile, I was so fearfully anxious that she should riskno danger of hearing, even of surmising, the cruel slander againsther—should meet no cold contemptuous looks, above all, shouldbe safe from the barbed talk of Mrs. Poyntz—that I insistedon the necessity of immediate change of air and scene. I proposedthat we should all three depart, the next day, for the banks of myown beloved and native Windermere. By that pure mountain air,Lilian's health would be soon re-established; in the churchhallowed to me by the graves of my fathers our vows should beplighted. No calumny had ever cast a shadow over those graves. Ifelt as if my bride would be safer in the neighbourhood of mymother's tomb.
I carried my point: it was so arranged. Mrs. Ashleigh, however,was reluctant to leave before she had seen her dear friend,Margaret Poyntz. I had not the courage to tell her what she mightexpect to hear from that dear friend, but, as delicately as Icould, I informed her that I had already seen the Queen of theHill, and contradicted the gossip that had reached her; but that asyet, like other absolute sovereigns, the Queen of the Hill thoughtit politic to go with the popular stream, reserving all check onits direction till the rush of its torrent might slacken; and thatit would be infinitely wiser in Mrs. Ashleigh to postponeconversation with Mrs. Poyntz until Lilian's return toL—— as my wife. Slander by that time would have wearieditself out, and Mrs. Poyntz (assuming her friendship to Mrs.Ashleigh to be sincere) would then be enabled to say with authorityto her subjects, "Dr. Fenwick alone knows the facts of the story,and his marriage with Miss Ashleigh refutes all the gossip to herprejudice."
I made that evening arrangements with a young and risingpractitioner to secure attendance on my patients during my absence.I passed the greater part of the night in drawing up memoranda toguide my proxy in each case, however humble the sufferer. This taskfinished, I chanced, in searching for a small microscope, thewonders of which I thought might interest and amuse Lilian, to opena drawer in which I kept the manuscript of my cherishedPhysiological Work, and, in so doing, my eye fell upon the wandwhich I had taken from Margrave. I had thrown it into that draweron my return home, after restoring Lilian to her mother's house,and, in the anxiety which had subsequently preyed upon my mind, hadalmost forgotten the strange possession I had as strangelyacquired. There it now lay, the instrument of agencies over themechanism of nature which no doctrine admitted by my philosophycould accept, side by side with the presumptuous work which hadanalyzed the springs by which Nature is moved, and decided theprinciples by which reason metes out, from the inch of itsknowledge, the plan of the Infinite Unknown.
I took up the wand and examined it curiously. It was evidentlythe work of an age far remote from our own, scored over withhalf-obliterated characters in some Eastern tongue, perhaps nolonger extant. I found that it was hollow within. A more accurateobservation showed, in the centre of this hollow, an exceedinglyfine thread-like wire, the unattached end of which would slightlytouch the palm when the wand was taken into the hand. Was itpossible that there might be a natural and even a simple cause forthe effects which this instrument produced? Could it serve tocollect, from that great focus of animal heat and nervous energywhich is placed in the palm of the human hand, some such latentfluid as that which Reichenbach calls the "odic," and which,according to him, "rushes through and pervades universal Nature"?After all, why not? For how many centuries lay unknown all thevirtues of the loadstone and the amber? It is but as yesterday thatthe forces of vapour have become to men genii more powerful thanthose conjured up by Aladdin; that light, at a touch, springs forthfrom invisible air; that thought finds a messenger swifter than thewings of the fabled Afrite. As, thus musing, my hand closed overthe wand, I felt a wild thrill through my frame. I recoiled; I wasalarmed lest (according to the plain common-sense theory of JuliusFaber) I might be preparing my imagination to form and to creditits own illusions. Hastily I laid down the wand. But then itoccurred to me that whatever its properties, it had so served thepurposes of the dread Fascinator from whom it had been taken, thathe might probably seek to repossess himself of it; he mightcontrive to enter my house in my absence; more prudent to guard inmy own watchful keeping the incomprehensible instrument ofincomprehensible arts. I resolved, therefore, to take the wand withme, and placed it in my travelling-trunk, with such effects as Iselected for use in the excursion that was to commence with themorrow. I now lay down to rest, but I could not sleep. Therecollections of the painful interview with Mrs. Poyntz becamevivid and haunting. It was clear that the sentiment she hadconceived for me was that of no simple friendship,—somethingmore or something less, but certainly something else; and thisconviction brought before me that proud hard face, disturbed by apang wrestled against but not subdued, and that clear metallicvoice, troubled by the quiver of an emotion which, perhaps, she hadnever analyzed to herself. I did not need her own assurance to knowthat this sentiment was not to be confounded with a love which shewould have despised as a weakness and repelled as a crime; it wasan inclination of the intellect, not a passion of the heart. Butstill it admitted a jealousy little less keen than that which haslove for its cause,—so true it is that jealousy is neverabsent where self-love is always present. Certainly, it was nosusceptibility of sober friendship which had made the sternarbitress of a coterie ascribe to her interest in me her pitilessjudgment of Lilian. Strangely enough, with the image of thisarchetype of conventional usages and the trite social life, camethat of the mysterious Margrave, surrounded by all the attributeswith which superstition clothes the being of the shadowyborder-land that lies beyond the chart of our visual world itself.By what link were creatures so dissimilar riveted together in themetaphysical chain of association? Both had entered into the recordof my life when my life admitted its own first romance of love.Through the aid of this cynical schemer I had been made known toLilian. At her house I had heard the dark story of that LouisGrayle, with whom, in mocking spite of my reason, conjectures,which that very reason must depose itself before it could resolveinto distempered fancies, identified the enigmatical Margrave. Andnow both she, the representative of the formal world most opposedto visionary creeds, and he, who gathered round him all the terrorswhich haunt the realm of fable, stood united against me,—foeswith whom the intellect I had so haughtily cultured knew not how tocope. Whatever assault I might expect from either, I was unable toassail again. Alike, then, in this, are the Slander and thePhantom,—that which appalls us most in their power over us isour impotence against them.
But up rose the sun, chasing the shadows from the earth, andbrightening insensibly the thoughts of man. After all, Margrave hadbeen baffled and defeated, whatever the arts he had practised andthe secrets he possessed. It was, at least, doubtful whether hisevil machinations would be renewed. He had seemed so incapable oflong-sustained fixity of purpose, that it was probable he wasalready in pursuit of some new agent or victim; and as to thiscommonplace and conventional spectre, the so-called World, if it iseverywhere to him whom it awes, it is nowhere to him who despisesit. What was the good or bad word of a Mrs. Poyntz to me? Ay, butto Lilian? There, indeed, I trembled; but still, even in trembling,it was sweet to think that my home would be her shelter,—mychoice her vindication. Ah! how unutterably tender and reverentialLove becomes when it assumes the duties of the guardian, andhallows its own heart into a sanctuary of refuge for thebeloved!
The beautiful lake! We two are on its grassymargin,—twilight melting into night; the stars stealingforth, one after one. What a wonderful change is made within uswhen we come from our callings amongst men, chafed, wearied,wounded; gnawed by our cares, perplexed by the doubts of our verywisdom, stung by the adder that dwells in cities,—Slander;nay, even if renowned, fatigued with the burden of the very namesthat we have won! What a change is made within us when suddenly wefind ourselves transported into the calm solitudes ofNature,—into scenes familiar to our happy dreaming childhood;back, back from the dusty thoroughfares of our toil-worn manhood tothe golden fountain of our youth! Blessed is the change, even whenwe have no companion beside us to whom the heart can whisper itssense of relief and joy. But if the one in whom all our future isgarnered up be with us there, instead of that weary World which hasso magically vanished away from the eye and the thought, then doesthe change make one of those rare epochs of life in which the charmis the stillness. In the pause from all by which our own turbulentstruggles for happiness trouble existence, we feel with a raptamazement how calm a thing it is to be happy. And so as the night,in deepening, brightened, Lilian and I wandered by the starry lake.Conscious of no evil in ourselves, how secure we felt from evil! Afew days more—a few days more, and we two should be as one!And that thought we uttered in many forms of words, brooding overit in the long intervals of enamoured silence.
And when we turned back to the quiet inn at which we had takenup our abode, and her mother, with her soft face, advanced to meetus, I said to Lilian,—
"Would that in these scenes we could fix our home for life, awayand afar from the dull town we have left behind us, with the fretof its wearying cares and the jar of its idle babble!"
"And why not, Allen? Why not? But no, you would not behappy."
"Not be happy, and with you? Sceptic, by what reasoning do youarrive at that ungracious conclusion?"
"The heart loves repose and the soul contemplation, but the mindneeds action. Is it not so?"
"Where learned you that aphorism, out of place on such rosylips?"
"I learned it in studying you," murmured Lilian, tenderly.
Here Mrs. Ashleigh joined us. For the first time I slept underthe same roof as Lilian. And I forgot that the universe containedan enigma to solve or an enemy to fear.
Twenty days—the happiest my life had ever known—thusglided on. Apart from the charm which love bestows on the beloved,there was that in Lilian's conversation which made her a delightfulcompanion. Whether it was that, in this pause from the toils of mycareer, my mind could more pliantly supple itself to her gracefulimagination, or that her imagination was less vague and dreamyamidst those rural scenes, which realized in their loveliness andgrandeur its long-conceived ideals, than it had been in the pettygarden-ground neighboured by the stir and hubbub of the busytown,—in much that I had once slighted or contemned as thevagaries of undisciplined fancy, I now recognized the sparkle andplay of an intuitive genius, lighting up many a depth obscure toinstructed thought. It is with some characters as with the subtlerand more ethereal order of poets,—to appreciate them we mustsuspend the course of artificial life; in the city we call themdreamers, on the mountain-top we find them interpreters.
In Lilian, the sympathy with Nature was not, as in Margrave,from the joyous sense of Nature's lavish vitality; it was refinedinto exquisite perception of the diviner spirit by which thatvitality is informed. Thus, like the artist, from outward forms ofbeauty she drew forth the covert types, lending to things the mostfamiliar exquisite meanings unconceived before. For it is trulysaid by a wise critic of old, that "the attribute of Art is tosuggest infinitely more than it expresses;" and such suggestions,passing from the artist's innermost thought into the mind thatreceives them, open on and on into the Infinite of Ideas, as amoonlit wave struck by a passing oar impels wave upon wave alongone track of light.
So the days glided by, and brought the eve of our bridal morn.It had been settled that, after the ceremony (which was to beperformed by license in the village church, at no great distance,which adjoined my paternal home, now passed away to strangers), weshould make a short excursion into Scotland, leaving Mrs. Ashleighto await our return at the little inn.
I had retired to my own room to answer some letters from anxiouspatients, and having finished these I looked into my trunk for aGuide-Book to the North, which I had brought with me. My hand cameupon Margrave's wand, and remembering that strange thrill which hadpassed through me when I last handled it, I drew it forth, resolvedto examine calmly if I could detect the cause of the sensation. Itwas not now the time of night in which the imagination is mostliable to credulous impressions, nor was I now in the anxious andjaded state of mind in which such impressions may be the morereadily conceived. The sun was slowly setting over the deliciouslandscape; the air cool and serene; my thoughtscollected,—heart and conscience alike at peace. I took, then,the wand, and adjusted it to the palm of the hand as I had donebefore. I felt the slight touch of the delicate wire within, andagain the thrill! I did not this time recoil; I continued to graspthe wand, and sought deliberately to analyze my own sensations inthe contact. There came over me an increased consciousness of vitalpower; a certain exhilaration, elasticity, vigour, such as a strongcordial may produce on a fainting man. All the forces of my frameseemed refreshed, redoubled; and as such effects on the physicalsystem are ordinarily accompanied by correspondent effects on themind, so I was sensible of a proud elation of spirits,—a kindof defying, superb self-glorying. All fear seemed blotted out frommy thought, as a weakness impossible to the grandeur and mightwhich belong to Intellectual Man; I felt as if it were a royaldelight to scorn Earth and its opinions, brave Hades and itsspectres. Rapidly this new-born arrogance enlarged itself intodesires vague but daring. My mind reverted to the wild phenomenaassociated with its memories of Margrave. I said half-aloud, "if acreature so beneath myself in constancy of will and completion ofthought can wrest from Nature favours so marvellous, what could notbe won from her by me, her patient persevering seeker? What ifthere be spirits around and about, invisible to the common eye, butwhom we can submit to our control; and what if this rod be chargedwith some occult fluid, that runs through all creation, and can beso disciplined as to establish communication wherever life andthought can reach to beings that live and think? So would themystics of old explain what perplexes me. Am I sure that themystics of old duped them selves or their pupils? This, then, thisslight wand, light as a reed in my grasp, this, then, was theinstrument by which Margrave sent his irresistible will through airand space, and by which I smote himself, in the midst of histiger-like wrath, into the helplessness of a sick man's swoon! Canthe instrument at this distance still control him; if nowmeditating evil, disarm and disable his purpose?" Involuntarily, asI revolved these ideas, I stretched forth the wand, with aconcentred energy of desire that its influence should reachMargrave and command him. And since I knew not his whereabout, yetwas vaguely aware that, according to any conceivable theory bywhich the wand could be supposed to carry its imagined virtues todefinite goals in distant space, it should be pointed in thedirection of the object it was intended to affect, so I slowlymoved the wand as if describing a circle; and thus, in some pointof the circle—east, west, north, or south—the directioncould not fail to be true. Before I had performed half the circle,the wand of itself stopped, resisting palpably the movement of myhand to impel it onward. Had it, then, found the point to which mywill was guiding it, obeying my will by some magnetic sympathynever yet comprehended by any recognized science? I know not; but Ihad not held it thus fixed for many seconds, before a cold air,well remembered, passed by me, stirring the roots of my hair; and,reflected against the opposite wall, stood the hateful Scin-Laeca.The Shadow was dimmer in its light than when before beheld, and theoutline of the features was less distinct; still it was theunmistakable lemur, or image, of Margrave.
And a voice was conveyed to my senses, saying, as from a greatdistance, and in weary yet angry accents,
"You have summoned me? Wherefore?"
I overcame the startled shudder with which, at first, I beheldthe Shadow and heard the Voice.
"I summoned you not," said I; "I sought but to impose upon youmy will, that you should persecute, with your ghastly influences,me and mine no more. And now, by whatever authority this wandbestows on me, I so abjure and command you!"
I thought there was a sneer of disdain on the lip through whichthe answer seemed to come,—
"Vain and ignorant, it is but a shadow you command. My body youhave cast into a sleep, and it knows not that the shadow is here;nor, when it wakes, will the brain be aware of one reminiscence ofthe words that you utter or the words that you hear."
"What, then, is this shadow that simulates the body? Is it thatwhich in popular language is called the soul?"
"It is not: soul is no shadow."
"What then?"
"Ask not me. Use the wand to invoke Intelligences higher thanmine."
"And how?"
"I will tell you not. Of yourself you may learn, if you guidethe wand by your own pride of will and desire; but in the hands ofhim who has learned not the art, the wand has its dangers. Again Isay you have summoned me! Wherefore?"
"Lying shade, I summoned thee not."
"So wouldst thou say to the demons, did they come in theirterrible wrath, when the bungler, who knows not the springs that hemoves, calls them up unawares, and can neither control nor dispel.Less revengeful than they, I leave thee unharmed, and depart."
"Stay. If, as thou sayest, no command I address to thee—tothee, who art only the image or shadow—can have effect on thebody and mind of the being whose likeness thou art, still thoucanst tell me what passes now in his brain. Does it now harbourschemes against me through the woman I love? Answer truly."
"I reply for the sleeper, of whom I am more than a likeness,though only the shadow. His thought speaks thus: 'I know, AllenFenwick, that in thee is the agent I need for achieving the endthat I seek. Through the woman thou lovest, I hope to subject thee.A grief that will harrow thy heart is at hand; when that griefshall befall, thou wilt welcome my coming. In me alone thy hopewill be placed; through me alone wilt thou seek a path out of thysorrow. I shall ask my conditions: they will make thee my tool andmy slave!'"
The shadow waned,—it was gone. I did not seek to detainit, nor, had I sought, could I have known by what process. But anew idea now possessed me. This shadow, then, that had once soappalled and controlled me, was, by its own confession, nothingmore than a shadow! It had spoken of higher Intelligences; fromthem I might learn what the Shadow could not reveal. As I stillheld the wand firmer and firmer in my grasp, my thoughts grewhaughtier and bolder. Could the wand, then, bring those loftierbeings thus darkly referred to before me? With that thought,intense and engrossing, I guided the wand towards the space,opening boundless and blue from the casement that let in the skies.The wand no longer resisted my hand.
In a few moments I felt the floors of the room vibrate; the airwas darkened; a vaporous, hazy cloud seemed to rise from the groundwithout the casement; an awe, infinitely more deep and solemn thanthat which the Scin-Laeca had caused in its earliest apparition,curdled through my veins, and stilled the very beat of myheart.
At that moment I heard, without, the voice of Lilian, singing asimple, sacred song which I had learned at my mother's knees, andtaught to her the day before: singing low, and as with a warningangel's voice. By an irresistible impulse I dashed the wand to theground, and bowed my head as I had bowed it when my infant mindcomprehended, without an effort, mysteries more solemn than thosewhich perplexed me now. Slowly I raised my eyes, and looked round;the vaporous, hazy cloud had passed away, or melted into theambient rose-tints amidst which the sun had sunk.
Then, by one of those common reactions from a period ofoverstrained excitement, there succeeded to that sentiment ofarrogance and daring with which these wild, half-consciousinvocations had been fostered and sustained, a profound humility, awarning fear.
"What!" said I, inly, "have all those sound resolutions, whichmy reason founded on the wise talk of Julius Faber, melted away inthe wrack of haggard, dissolving fancies! Is this my boastedintellect, my vaunted science! I—I, Allen Fenwick, not onlythe credulous believer, but the blundering practitioner, of an evilmagic! Grant what may be possible, howeveruncomprehended,—grant that in this accursed instrument ofantique superstition there be some real powers—chemical,magnetic, no matter what—by which the imagination can bearoused, inflamed, deluded, so that it shapes the things I haveseen, speaks in the tones I have heard,—grant this, shall Ikeep ever ready, at the caprice of will, a constant tempter tosteal away my reason and fool my senses? Or if, on the other hand,I force my sense to admit what all sober men must reject; if Iunschool myself to believe that in what I have just experiencedthere is no mental illusion; that sorcery is a fact, and a demonworld has gates which open to a key that a mortal canforge,—who but a saint would not shrink from the practice ofpowers by which each passing thought of ill might find in a fiendits abettor? In either case—in any case—while I keepthis direful relic of obsolete arts, I am haunted,—cheatedout of my senses, unfitted for the uses of life. If, as my ear ormy fancy informs me, grief—human grief—is about tobefall me, shall I, in the sting of impatient sorrow, have recourseto an aid which, the same voice declares, will reduce me to a tooland a slave,—tool and slave to a being I dread as a foe? Outon these nightmares! and away with the thing that bewitches thebrain to conceive them!"
I rose; I took up the wand, holding it so that its hollow shouldnot rest on the palm of the hand. I stole from the house by theback way, in order to avoid Lilian, whose voice I still heard,singing low, on the lawn in front. I came to a creek, to the bankof which a boat was moored, undid its chain, rowed on to a deeppart of the lake, and dropped the wand into its waves. It sank atonce; scarcely a ripple furrowed the surface, not a bubble arosefrom the deep. And, as the boat glided on, the star mirrored itselfon the spot where the placid waters had closed over the tempter toevil.
Light at heart, I sprang again on the shore, and hastening toLilian, where she stood on the silvered, shining sward, clasped herto my breast.
"Spirit of my life!" I murmured, "no enchantments for me butthine! Thine are the spells by which creation is beautified, and,in that beauty, hallowed. What though we can see not into themeasureless future from the verge of the moment; what though sorrowmay smite us while we are dreaming of bliss, let the future not robme of thee, and a balm will be found for each wound! Love me everas now, oh, my Lilian; troth to troth, side by side, till thegrave!"
"And beyond the grave," answered Lilian, softly.
Our vows are exchanged at the altar, the rite which made Lilianmy wife is performed; we are returned from the church amongst thehills, in which my fathers had worshipped; the joy-bells that hadpealed for my birth had rung for my marriage. Lilian has gone toher room to prepare for our bridal excursion; while the carriage wehave hired is waiting at the door. I am detaining her mother on thelawn, seeking to cheer and compose her spirits, painfully affectedby that sense of change in the relations of child and parent whichmakes itself suddenly felt by the parent's heart on the day thatsecures to the child another heart on which to lean.
But Mrs. Ashleigh's was one of those gentle womanly natureswhich, if easily afflicted, are easily consoled. And, alreadysmiling through her tears, she was about to quit me and join herdaughter, when one of the inn-servants came to me with someletters, which had just been delivered by the postman. As I tookthem from the servant, Mrs. Ashleigh asked if there were any forher. She expected one from her housekeeper at L——, whohad been taken ill in her absence, and about whom the kind mistressfelt anxious. The servant replied that there was no letter for her,but one directed to Miss Ashleigh, which he had just sent up to theyoung lady.
Mrs. Ashleigh did not doubt that her housekeeper had written toLilian, whom she had known from the cradle and to whom she wastenderly attached, instead of to her mistress; and, sayingsomething to me to that effect, quickened her steps towards thehouse.
I was glancing over my own letters, chiefly from patients, witha rapid eye, when a cry of agony, a cry as if of one suddenlystricken to the heart, pierced my ear,—a cry from within thehouse. "Heavens! was that Lilian's voice?" The same doubt struckMrs. Ashleigh, who had already gained the door. She rushed on,disappearing within the threshold and calling to me to follow. Ibounded forward, passed her on the stairs, was in Lilian's roombefore her.
My bride was on the floor prostrate, insensible: so still, socolourless, that my first dreadful thought was that life had gone.In her hand was a letter, crushed as with a convulsive suddengrasp.
It was long before the colour came back to her cheek, before thebreath was perceptible on her lip. She woke, but not to health, notto sense. Hours were passed in violent convulsions, in which Imomentarily feared her death. To these succeeded stupor, lethargy,not benignant sleep. That night, my bridal night, I passed as insome chamber to which I had been summoned to save youth from thegrave. At length—at length—life was rescued, wasassured! Life came back, but the mind was gone. She knew me not,nor her mother. She spoke little and faintly; in the words sheuttered there was no reason.
I pass hurriedly on; my experience here was in fault, my skillineffectual. Day followed day, and no ray came back to the darkenedbrain. We bore her, by gentle stages, to London. I was sanguine ofgood result from skill more consummate than mine, and moreespecially devoted to diseases of the mind. I summoned the firstadvisers. In vain! in vain!
And the cause of this direful shock? Not this time could it betraced to some evil spell, some phantasmal influence. The cause wasclear, and might have produced effects as sinister on nerves ofstronger fibre if accompanied by a heart as delicately sensitive,an honour as exquisitely pure.
The letter found in her hand was without name; it was dated fromL——, and bore the postmark of that town. It conveyed toLilian, in the biting words which female malice can make so sharp,the tale we had sought sedulously to guard from her ear,—herflight, the construction that scandal put upon it. It affected formy blind infatuation a contemptuous pity; it asked her to pausebefore she brought on the name I offered to her an indelibledisgrace. If she so decided, she was warned not to return toL——, or to prepare there for the sentence that wouldexclude her from the society of her own sex. I cannot repeat more,I cannot minute down all that the letter expressed or implied, towither the orange blossoms in a bride's wreath. The heart that tookin the venom cast its poison on the brain, and the mind fled beforethe presence of a thought so deadly to all the ideas which itsinnocence had heretofore conceived.
I knew not whom to suspect of the malignity of this mean andmiserable outrage, nor did I much care to know. The handwriting,though evidently disguised, was that of a woman, and, therefore,had I discovered the author, my manhood would have forbidden me theidle solace of revenge. Mrs. Poyntz, however resolute and pitilessher hostility when once aroused, was not without a certainlargeness of nature irreconcilable with the most dastardly of allthe weapons that envy or hatred can supply to the vile. She had toolofty a self-esteem and too decorous a regard for the moralsentiment of the world that she typified, to do, or connive at, anact which degrades the gentlewoman. Putting her aside, what otherfemale enemy had Lilian provoked? No matter! What other woman atL—— was worth the condescension of a conjecture?
After listening to all that the ablest of my professionalbrethren in the metropolis could suggest to guide me, and trying invain their remedies, I brought back my charge to L——.Retaining my former residence for the visits of patients, Iengaged, for the privacy of my home, a house two miles from thetown, secluded in its own grounds, and guarded by high walls.
Lilian's mother removed to my mournful dwelling-place. Abbot'sHouse, in the centre of that tattling coterie, had becomedistasteful to her, and to me it was associated with thoughts ofanguish and of terror. I could not, without a shudder, have enteredits grounds,—could not, without a stab at the heart, haveseen again the old fairy-land round the Monks' Well, nor the darkcedar-tree under which Lilian's hand had been placed in mine; and asuperstitious remembrance, banished while Lilian's angel face hadbrightened the fatal precincts, now revived in full force. Thedying man's curse—had it not been fulfilled?
A new occupant for the old house was found within a week afterMrs. Ashleigh had written from London to a house-agent atL——, intimating her desire to dispose of the lease.Shortly before we had gone to Windermere, Miss Brabazon had becomeenriched by a liberal life-annuity bequeathed to her by her uncle,Sir Phelim. Her means thus enabled her to move from thecomparatively humble lodging she had hitherto occupied to Abbot'sHouse; but just as she had there commenced a series of ostentatiousentertainments, implying an ambitious desire to dispute with Mrs.Poyntz the sovereignty of the Hill, she was attacked by some severemalady which appeared complicated with spinal disease, and after myreturn to L—— I sometimes met her, on the spaciousplatform of the Hill, drawn along slowly in a Bath chair, her lividface peering forth from piles of Indian shawls and Siberian furs,and the gaunt figure of Dr. Jones stalking by her side, taciturnand gloomy as some sincere mourner who conducts to the grave thepatron on whose life he himself had conveniently lived. It was inthe dismal month of February that I returned to L——,and I took possession of my plighted nuptial home on theanniversary of the very day in which I had passed through the deaddumb world from the naturalist's gloomy death-room.
Lilian's wondrous gentleness of nature did not desert her in thesuspension of her reason. She was habitually calm,—verysilent; when she spoke it was rarely on earthly things, on thingsfamiliar to her past, things one could comprehend. Her thoughtseemed to have quitted the earth, seeking refuge in some imaginaryheaven. She spoke of wanderings with her father as if he wereliving still; she did not seem to understand the meaning we attachto the word "Death." She would sit for hours murmuring to herself:when one sought to catch the words, they seemed in converse withinvisible spirits. We found it cruel to disturb her at such times,for if left unmolested, her face was serene,—more serenelybeautiful than I had seen it even in our happiest hours; but whenwe called her back to the wrecks of her real life, her eye becametroubled, restless, anxious, and she would sigh—oh, soheavily! At times, if we did not seem to observe her, she wouldquietly resume her once favourite accomplishments,—drawing,music. And in these her young excellence was still apparent, onlythe drawings were strange and fantastic: they had a resemblance tothose with which the painter Blake, himself a visionary,illustrated the Poems of the "Night Thoughts" and "TheGrave,"—faces of exquisite loveliness, forms of aerial grace,coming forth from the bells of flowers, or floating upwards amidstthe spray of fountains, their outlines melting away in fountain orin flower. So with her music: her mother could not recognize theairs she played, for a while so sweetly and with so ineffable apathos, that one could scarcely hear her without weeping; and thenwould come, as if involuntarily, an abrupt discord, and, starting,she would cease and look around, disquieted, aghast.
And still she did not recognize Mrs. Ashleigh nor myself as hermother, her husband; but she had by degrees learned to distinguishus both from others. To her mother she gave no name, seemed pleasedto see her, but not sensibly to miss her when away; me she calledher brother: if longer absent than usual, me she missed. When,after the toils of the day, I came to join her, even if she spokenot, her sweet face brightened. When she sang, she beckoned me tocome near to her, and looked at me fixedly, with eyes ever tender,often tearful; when she drew she would pause and glance over hershoulder to see that I was watching her, and point to the drawingswith a smile of strange significance, as if they conveyed in somecovert allegory messages meant for me; so, at least, I interpretedher smile, and taught myself to say, "Yes, Lilian, Iunderstand!"
And more than once, when I had so answered, she rose, and kissedmy forehead. I thought my heart would have broken when I felt thatspirit-like melancholy kiss.
And yet how marvellously the human mind teaches itself toextract consolations from its sorrows. The least wretched of myhours were those that I had passed in that saddened room, seekinghow to establish fragments of intercourse, invent signs, by whicheach might interpret each, between the intellect I had solaboriously cultured, so arrogantly vaunted, and the fancieswandering through the dark, deprived of their guide in reason. Itwas something even of joy to feel myself needed for herguardianship, endeared and yearned for still by some unshatteredinstinct of her heart; and when, parting from her for the night, Istole the moment in which on her soft face seemed resting least ofshadow, to ask, in a trembling whisper, "Lilian, are the angelswatching over you?" and she would answer "Yes," sometimes in words,sometimes with a mysterious happy smile—then—then Iwent to my lonely room, comforted and thankful.
The blow that had fallen on my hearth effectually, inevitablykilled all the slander that might have troubled me in joy. Beforethe awe of a great calamity the small passions of a mean malignityslink abashed. I had requested Mrs. Ashleigh not to mention thevile letter which Lilian had received. I would not give a triumphto the unknown calumniator, nor wring forth her vain remorse, bythe pain of acknowledging an indignity to my darling's honour; yet,somehow or other, the true cause of Lilian's affliction had creptout,—perhaps through the talk of servants,—and thepublic shock was universal. By one of those instincts of justicethat lie deep in human hearts, though in ordinary moments overlaidby many a worldly layer, all felt (all mothers felt especially)that innocence alone could have been so unprepared for reproach.The explanation I had previously given, discredited then, was nowaccepted without a question. Lilian's present state accounted forall that ill nature had before misconstrued. Her good name wasrestored to its maiden whiteness, by the fate that had severed theties of the bride. The formal dwellers on the Hill vied with thefranker, warmer-hearted households of Low Town in the namelessattentions by which sympathy and respect are rather delicatelyindicated than noisily proclaimed. Could Lilian have then recoveredand been sensible of its repentant homage, how reverently thatpetty world would have thronged around her! And, ah! could fortuneand man's esteem have atoned for the blight of hopes that had beenplanted and cherished on ground beyond their reach, ambition andpride might have been well contented with the largeness of theexchange that courted their acceptance. Patients on patientscrowded on me. Sympathy with my sorrow seemed to create and endeara more trustful belief in my skill. But the profession I had onceso enthusiastically loved became to me wearisome, insipid,distasteful; the kindness heaped on me gave no comfort,—itbut brought before me more vividly the conviction that it came toolate to avail me: it could not restore to me the mind, the love,the life of my life, which lay dark and shattered in the brain ofmy guileless Lilian. Secretly I felt a sullen resentment. I knewthat to the crowd the resentment was unjust. The world itself isbut an appearance; who can blame it if appearances guide its laws?But to those who had been detached from the crowd by theprofessions of friendship,—those who, when the slander wasyet new, and might have been awed into silence had they stood by myside,—to the pressure of their hands, now, I had noresponse.
Against Mrs. Poyntz, above all others, I bore a remembrance ofunrelaxed, unmitigable indignation. Her schemes for her daughter'smarriage had triumphed: Jane was Mrs. Ashleigh Sumner. Her mindwas, perhaps, softened now that the object which had sharpened itsworldly faculties was accomplished: but in vain, on first hearingof my affliction, had this she-Machiavel owned a humane remorse,and, with all her keen comprehension of each facility thatcircumstances gave to her will, availed herself of the generalcompassion to strengthen the popular reaction in favour of Lilian'sassaulted honour; in vain had she written to me with a gentlenessof sympathy foreign to her habitual characteristics; in vainbesought me to call on her; in vain waylaid and accosted me with ahumility that almost implored forgiveness. I vouchsafed noreproach, but I could imply no pardon. I put between her and mygreat sorrow the impenetrable wall of my freezing silence.
One word of hers at the time that I had so pathetically besoughther aid, and the parrot-flock that repeated her very whisper innoisy shrillness would have been as loud to defend as it had beento defame; that vile letter might never have been written. Whoeverits writer, it surely was one of the babblers who took their maliceitself from the jest or the nod of their female despot; and thewriter might have justified herself in saying she did but coarselyproclaim what the oracle of worldly opinion, and the early friendof Lilian's own mother, had authorized her to believe.
By degrees, the bitterness at my heart diffused itself to thecircumference of the circle in which my life went its cheerlessmechanical round. That cordial brotherhood with his patients, whichis the true physician's happiest gift and humanest duty, forsook mybreast. The warning words of Mrs. Poyntz had come true. A patientthat monopolized my thought awaited me at my own hearth! Myconscience became troubled; I felt that my skill was lessened. Isaid to myself, "The physician who, on entering the sick-room,feels, while there, something that distracts the finest powers ofhis intellect from the sufferer's case is unfit for his calling." Ayear had scarcely passed since my fatal wedding day, before I hadformed a resolution to quit L—— and abandon myprofession; and my resolution was confirmed, and my goaldetermined, by a letter I received from Julius Faber.
I had written at length to him, not many days after the blowthat had fallen on me, stating all circumstances as calmly andclearly as my grief would allow; for I held his skill at a higherestimate than that of any living brother of my art, and I was notwithout hope in the efficacy of his advice. The letter I nowreceived from him had been begun, and continued at some length,before my communication reached him; and this earlier portioncontained animated and cheerful descriptions of his Australian lifeand home, which contrasted with the sorrowful tone of thesupplement written in reply to the tidings with which I had wrunghis friendly and tender heart. In this, the latter part of hisletter, he suggested that if time had wrought no material changefor the better, it might be advisable to try the effect of foreigntravel. Scenes entirely new might stimulate observation, and theobservation of things external withdraw the sense from thatbrooding over images delusively formed within, which characterizedthe kind of mental alienation I had described. "Let any intellectcreate for itself a visionary world, and all reasonings built on itare fallacious: the visionary world vanishes in proportion as wecan arouse a predominant interest in the actual."
This grand authority, who owed half his consummate skill as apractitioner to the scope of his knowledge as a philosopher, thenproceeded to give me a hope which I had not dared of myself toform. He said:—
"I distinguish the case you so minutely detail from that insanity which is reason lost; here it seems rather to be reason held in suspense. Where there is hereditary predisposition, where there is organic change of structure in the brain,—nay, where there is that kind of insanity which takes the epithet of moral, whereby the whole character becomes so transformed that the prime element of sound understanding, conscience itself, is either erased or warped into the sanction of what in a healthful state it would most disapprove,—it is only charlatans who promise effectual cure. But here I assume that there is no hereditary taint; here I am convinced, from my own observation, that the nobility of the organs, all fresh as yet in the vigour of youth, would rather submit to death than to the permanent overthrow of their equilibrium in reason; here, where you tell me the character preserves all its moral attributes of gentleness and purity, and but over-indulges its own early habit of estranged contemplation; here, without deceiving you in false kindness, I give you the guarantee of my experience when I bid you 'hope!' I am persuaded that, sooner or later, the mind, thus for a time affected, will right itself; because here, in the cause of the malady, we do but deal with the nervous system. And that, once righted, and the mind once disciplined in those practical duties which conjugal life necessitates, the malady itself will never return; never be transmitted to the children on whom your wife's restoration to health may permit you to count hereafter. If the course of travel I recommend and the prescriptions I conjoin with that course fail you, let me know; and though I would fain close my days in this land, I will come to you. I love you as my son. I will tend your wife as my daughter."
Foreign travel! The idea smiled on me. Julius Faber'scompanionship, sympathy, matchless skill! The very thought seemedas a raft to a drowning mariner. I now read more attentively theearlier portions of his letter. They described, in glowing colours,the wondrous country in which he had fixed his home; the joyouselasticity of its atmosphere; the freshness of its primitive,pastoral life; the strangeness of its scenery, with a Flora and aFauna which have no similitudes in the ransacked quarters of theOld World. And the strong impulse seized me to transfer to thesolitudes of that blithesome and hardy Nature a spirit no longer athome in the civilized haunts of men, and household gods that shrankfrom all social eyes, and would fain have found a wilderness forthe desolate hearth, on which they had ceased to be sacred ifunveiled. As if to give practical excuse and reason for the ideathat seized me, Julius Faber mentioned, incidentally, that thehouse and property of a wealthy speculator in his immediateneighbourhood were on sale at a price which seemed to me alluringlytrivial, and, according to his judgment, far below the value theywould soon reach in the hands of a more patient capitalist. Hewrote at the period of the agricultural panic in the colony whichpreceded the discovery of its earliest gold-fields. But hisgeological science had convinced him that strata within and aroundthe property now for sale were auriferous, and his intelligenceenabled him to predict how inevitably man would be attractedtowards the gold, and how surely the gold would fertilize the soiland enrich its owners. He described the house thus to besold—in case I might know of a purchaser. It had been builtat a cost unusual in those early times, and by one who clung toEnglish tastes amidst Australian wilds, so that in this purchase asettler would escape the hardships he had then ordinarily toencounter; it was, in short, a home to which a man more luxuriousthan I might bear a bride with wants less simple than those whichnow sufficed for my darling Lilian.
This communication dwelt on my mind through the avocations ofthe day on which I received it, and in the evening I read all,except the supplement, aloud to Mrs. Ashleigh in her daughter'spresence. I desired to see if Faber's descriptions of the countryand its life, which in themselves were extremely spirited andstriking, would arouse Lilian's interest. At first she did not seemto heed me while I read; but when I came to Faber's loving accountof little Amy, Lilian turned her eyes towards me, and evidentlylistened with attention. He wrote how the child had already becomethe most useful person in the simple household. How watchful thequickness of the heart had made the service of the eye; all theirassociations of comfort had grown round her active, noiselessmovements; it was she who had contrived to monopolize themanagement, or supervision, of all that added to Home the nameless,interior charm. Under her eyes the rude furniture of the log-housegrew inviting with English neatness; she took charge of the dairy;she had made the garden gay with flowers selected from the wild,and suggested the trellised walk, already covered with hardy vine.She was their confidant in every plan of improvement, theircomforter in every anxious doubt, their nurse in every passingailment, her very smile a refreshment in the weariness of dailytoil. "How all that is best in womanhood," wrote the old man, withthe enthusiasm which no time had reft from his hearty, healthfulgenius,—"how all that is best in womanhood is here openingfast into flower from the bud of the infant's soul! The atmosphereseems to suit it,—the child-woman in the child-world!"
I heard Lilian sigh; I looked towards her furtively; tears stoodin her softened eyes; her lip was quivering. Presently, she beganto rub her right hand over the left—over thewedding-ring—at first slowly; then with quicker movement.
"It is not here," she said impatiently; "it is not here!"
"What is not here?" asked Mrs. Ashleigh, hanging over her.
Lilian leaned back her head on her mother's bosom, and answeredfaintly,—
"The stain! Some one said there was a stain on this hand. I donot see it, do you?"
"There is no stain, never was," said I; "the hand is white asyour own innocence, or the lily from which you take your name."
"Hush! you do not know my name. I will whisper it.Soft!—my name is Nightshade! Do you want to know where thelily is now, brother? I will tell you. There, in that letter. Youcall her Amy,—she is the lily; take her to your breast, hideher. Hist! what are those bells? Marriage-bells. Do not let herhear them; for there is a cruel wind that whispers the bells, andthe bells ring out what it whispers, louder and louder,
"'Stain on lily Shame on lily, Wither lily.'
"If she hears what the wind whispers to the bells, she willcreep away into the dark, and then she, too, will turn toNightshade."
"Lilian, look up, awake! You have been in a long, long dream: itis passing away. Lilian, my beloved, my blessed Lilian!"
Never till then had I heard from her even so vague an allusionto the fatal calumny and its dreadful effect, and while her wordsnow pierced my heart, it beat, amongst its pangs, with a thrillinghope.
But, alas! the idea that had gleamed upon her had vanishedalready. She murmured something about Circles of Fire, and a VeiledWoman in black garments; became restless, agitated, and unconsciousof our presence, and finally sank into a heavy sleep.
That night (my room was next to hers with the intervening dooropen) I heard her cry out. I hastened to her side. She was stillasleep, but there was an anxious labouring expression on her youngface, and yet not an expression wholly of pain—for her lipswere parted with a smile,—that glad yet troubled smile withwhich one who has been revolving some subject of perplexity or feargreets a sudden thought that seems to solve the riddle, or promptthe escape from danger; and as I softly took her hand she returnedmy gentle pressure, and inclining towards me, said, still insleep,—
"Let us go."
"Whither?" I answered, under my breath, so as not to awake her;"is it to see the child of whom I read, and the land that isblooming out of the earth's childhood?"
"Out of the dark into the light; where the leaves do not change;where the night is our day, and the winter our summer. Let us go!let us go!"
"We will go. Dream on undisturbed, my bride. Oh, that the dreamcould tell you that my love has not changed in our sorrow, holierand deeper than on the day in which our vows were exchanged! In youstill all my hopes fold their wings; where you are, there still Imyself have my dreamland!"
The sweet face grew bright as I spoke; all trouble left thesmile; softly she drew her hand from my clasp, and rested it for amoment on my bended head, as if in blessing.
I rose; stole back to my own room, closing the door, lest thesob I could not stifle should mar her sleep.
I unfolded my new prospects to Mrs. Ashleigh. She was moreeasily reconciled to them than I could have supposed, judging byher habits, which were naturally indolent, and averse to all thatdisturbed their even tenor. But the great grief which had befallenher had roused up that strength of devotion which lies dormant inall hearts that are capable of loving another more than self. Withher full consent I wrote to Faber, communicating my intentions,instructing him to purchase the property he had so commended, andinclosing my banker's order for the amount, on an Australian firm.I now announced my intention to retire from my profession; madeprompt arrangements with a successor to my practice; disposed of mytwo houses at L——; fixed the day of my departure.Vanity was dead within me, or I might have been gratified by thesensation which the news of my design created. My faults became atonce forgotten; such good qualities as I might possess wereexaggerated. The public regret vented and consoled itself in acostly testimonial, to which even the poorest of my patientsinsisted on the privilege to contribute, graced with an inscriptionflattering enough to have served for the epitaph on some greatman's tomb. No one who has served an art and striven for a name isa stoic to the esteem of others; and sweet indeed would suchhonours have been to me had not publicity itself seemed a wrong tothe sanctity of that affliction which set Lilian apart from themovement and the glories of the world.
The two persons most active in "getting up" this testimonialwere, nominally, Colonel Poyntz—in truth, his wife—andmy old disparager, Mr. Vigors! It is long since my narrative hasreferred to Mr. Vigors. It is due to him now to state that, in hiscapacity of magistrate, and in his own way, he had been both activeand delicate in the inquiries set on foot for Lilian during theunhappy time in which she had wandered, spellbound, from her home.He, alone, of all the more influential magnates of the town, hadupheld her innocence against the gossips that aspersed it; andduring the last trying year of my residence at L——, hehad sought me, with frank and manly confessions of his regret forhis former prejudice against me, and assurances of the respect inwhich he had held me ever since my marriage—marriage but inrite—with Lilian. He had then, strong in his ruling passion,besought me to consult his clairvoyants as to her case. I declinedthis invitation so as not to affront him,—declined it, not asI should once have done, but with no word nor look of incredulousdisdain. The fact was, that I had conceived a solemn terror of allpractices and theories out of the beaten track of sense andscience. Perhaps in my refusal I did wrong. I know not. I wasafraid of my own imagination. He continued not less friendly inspite of my refusal. And, such are the vicissitudes in humanfeeling, I parted from him whom I had regarded as my most bigotedfoe with a warmer sentiment of kindness than for any of those onwhom I had counted on friendship. He had not deserted Lilian. Itwas not so with Mrs. Poyntz. I would have paid tenfold the value ofthe testimonial to have erased, from the list of those whosubscribed to it, her husband's name.
The day before I quitted L——, and some weeks after Ihad, in fact, renounced my practice, I received an urgent entreatyfrom Miss Brabazon to call on her. She wrote in lines so blurredthat I could with difficulty decipher them, that she was very ill,given over by Dr. Jones, who had been attending her. She imploredmy opinion.
On reaching the house, a formal man-servant, with indifferentface, transferred me to the guidance of a hired nurse, who led meup the stairs, and, before I was well aware of it, into the room inwhich Dr. Lloyd had died. Widely different, indeed, the aspect ofthe walls, the character of the furniture! The dingy paperhangingswere replaced by airy muslins, showing a rose-coloured groundthrough their fanciful openwork; luxurious fauteuils, gildedwardrobes, full-length mirrors, a toilet-table tricked out withlace and ribbons; and glittering with an array of silver gewgawsand jewelled trinkets,—all transformed the sick chamber ofthe simple man of science to a boudoir of death for the vaincoquette. But the room itself, in its high lattice and heavyceiling, was the same—as the coffin itself has the sameconfines, whether it be rich in velvets and bright with blazoning,or rude as a pauper's shell.
And the bed, with its silken coverlet, and its pillows edgedwith the thread-work of Louvain, stood in the same sharp angle asthat over which had flickered the frowning smoke-reek above thedying, resentful foe. As I approached, a man, who was seated besidethe sufferer, turned round his face, and gave me a silent kindlynod of recognition. He was Mr. C——, one of the clergyof the town, the one with whom I had the most frequently come intocontact wherever the physician resigns to the priest the languagethat bids man hope. Mr. C——-, as a preacher, wasrenowned for his touching eloquence; as a pastor, revered for hisbenignant piety; as friend and neighbour, beloved for a sweetnessof nature which seemed to regulate all the movements of a mindeminently masculine by the beat of a heart tender as the gentlestwoman's.
This good man; then whispering something to the sufferer which Idid not overhear, stole towards me, took me by the hand, and said,also in a whisper, "Be merciful as Christians are." He led me tothe bedside, there left me, went out, and closed the door.
"Do you think I am really dying, Dr. Fenwick?" said a feeblevoice. "I fear Dr. Jones has misunderstood my case. I wish I hadcalled you in at the first, but—but I could not—I couldnot! Will you feel my pulse? Don't you think you could do megood?"
I had no need to feel the pulse in that skeleton wrist; theaspect of the face sufficed to tell me that death was drawingnear.
Mechanically, however, I went through the hackneyed formulae ofprofessional questions. This vain ceremony done, as gently anddelicately as I could, I implied the expediency of concluding, ifnot yet settled, those affairs which relate to this world.
"This duty," I said, "in relieving the mind from care for othersto whom we owe the forethought of affection, often relieves thebody also of many a gnawing pain, and sometimes, to the surprise ofthe most experienced physician, prolongs life itself."
"Ah," said the old maid, peevishly, "I understand! But it is notmy will that troubles me. I should not be left to a nurse from ahospital if my relations did not know that my annuity dies with me;and I forestalled it in furnishing this house, Dr. Fenwick, and allthese pretty things will be sold to pay those horridtradesmen!—very hard!—so hard!—just as I gotthings about me in the way I always said I would have them if Icould ever afford it! I always said I would have my bedroom hungwith muslin, like dear Lady L——'s; and the drawing-roomin geranium-coloured silk: so pretty. You have not seen it: youwould not know the house, Dr. Fenwick. And just when all isfinished, to be taken away and thrust into the grave. It is socruel!" And she began to weep. Her emotion brought on a violentparoxysm, which, when she recovered from it, had produced one ofthose startling changes of mind that are sometimes witnessed beforedeath,—changes whereby the whole character of a life seems toundergo solemn transformation. The hard will becomes gentle, theproud meek, the frivolous earnest. That awful moment when thethings of earth pass away like dissolving scenes, leaving deathvisible on the background by the glare that shoots up in the lastflicker of life's lamp.
And when she lifted her haggard face from my shoulder, and heardmy pitying, soothing voice, it was not the grief of a trifler atthe loss of fondled toys that spoke in the fallen lines of her lip,in the woe of her pleading eyes.
"So this is death," she said. "I feel it hurrying on. I mustspeak. I promised Mr. C—— that I would. Forgive me, canyou—can you? That letter—that letter to LilianAshleigh, I wrote it! Oh, do not look at me so terribly; I neverthought it could do such evil! And am I not punished enough? Itruly believed when I wrote that Miss Ashleigh was deceiving you,and once I was silly enough to fancy that you might have liked me.But I had another motive; I had been so poor all my life—Ihad become rich unexpectedly; I set my heart on this house—Ihad always fancied it—and I thought if I could prevent MissAshleigh marrying you, and scare her and her mother from comingback to L——, I could get the house. And I did get it.What for?—to die. I had not been here a week before I got thehurt that is killing me—a fall down the stairs,—comingout of this very room; the stairs had been polished. If I hadstayed in my old lodging, it would not have happened. Oh, say youforgive me! Say, say it, even if you do not feel you can! Say it!"And the miserable woman grasped me by the arm as Dr. Lloyd hadgrasped me.
I shaded my averted face with my hands; my heart heaved with theagony of my suppressed passion. A wrong, however deep, only tomyself, I could have pardoned without effort; such a wrong toLilian,—no! I could not say "I forgive."
The dying wretch was perhaps more appalled by my silence thanshe would have been by my reproach. Her voice grew shrill in herdespair.
"You will not pardon me! I shall die with your curse on my head!Mercy! mercy! That good man, Mr. C——, assured me youwould be merciful. Have you never wronged another? Has the Evil Onenever tempted you?"
Then I spoke in broken accents: "Me! Oh, had it been I whom youdefamed—but a young creature so harmless, so unoffending, andfor so miserable a motive!"
"But I tell you, I swear to you, I never dreamed I could causesuch sorrow; and that young man, that Margrave, put it into myhead!"
"Margrave! He had left L—— long before that letterwas written!"
"But he came back for a day just before I wrote: it was the veryday. I met him in the lane yonder. He asked after you,—afterMiss Ashleigh; and when he spoke he laughed, and I said, 'MissAshleigh had been ill, and was gone away;' and he laughed again.And I thought he knew more than he would tell me, so I asked him ifhe supposed Mrs. Ashleigh would come back, and said how much Ishould like to take this house if she did not; and again helaughed, and said, 'Birds never stay in the nest after the youngones are hurt,' and went away singing. When I got home, his laughand his song haunted me. I thought I saw him still in my room,prompting me to write, and I sat down and wrote. Oh, pardon, pardonme! I have been a foolish poor creature, but never meant to do suchharm. The Evil One tempted me! There he is, near me now! I see himyonder! there, at the doorway. He comes to claim me! As you hopefor mercy yourself, free me from him! Forgive me!"
I made an effort over myself. In naming Margrave as her tempter,the woman had suggested an excuse, echoed from that innermost cellof my mind, which I recoiled from gazing into, for there I shouldbehold his image. Inexpiable though the injury she had wroughtagainst me and mine, still the woman washuman—fellow-creature-like myself;—but he?
I took the pale hand that still pressed my arm, and said, withfirm voice,—
"Be comforted. In the name of Lilian, my wife, I forgive you forher and for me as freely and as fully as we are enjoined by Him,against whose precepts the best of us daily sin, toforgive—we children of wrath—to forgive oneanother!"
"Heaven bless you!—oh, bless you!" she murmured, sinkingback upon her pillow.
"Ah!" thought I, "what if the pardon I grant for a wrong fardeeper than I inflicted on him whose imprecation smote me in thischamber, should indeed be received as atonement, and this blessingon the lips of the dying annul the dark curse that the dead hasleft on my path through the Valley of the Shadow!"
I left my patient sleeping quietly,—the sleep thatprecedes the last. As I went down the stairs into the hall, I sawMrs. Poyntz standing at the threshold, speaking to the man-servantand the nurse.
I would have passed her with a formal bow, but she stoppedme.
"I came to inquire after poor Miss Brabazon," said she.
"You can tell me more than the servants can: is there nohope?"
"Let the nurse go up and watch beside her. She may pass away inthe sleep into which she has fallen."
"Allen Fenwick, I must speak with you—nay, but for a fewminutes. I hear that you leave L—— to-morrow. It isscarcely among the chances of life that we should meet again."While thus saying, she drew me along the lawn down the path thatled towards her own home. "I wish," said she, earnestly, "that youcould part with a kindlier feeling towards me; but I can scarcelyexpect it. Could I put myself in your place, and be moved by yourfeelings, I know that I should be implacable; but I—"
"But you, madam, are The World! and the World governs itself,and dictates to others, by laws which seem harsh to those who askfrom its favour the services which the World cannot tender, for theWorld admits favourites, but ignores friends. You did but act to meas the World ever acts to those who mistake its favour for itsfriendship."
"It is true," said Mrs. Poyntz, with blunt candour; and wecontinued to walk on silently. At length she said abruptly, "But doyou not rashly deprive yourself of your only consolation in sorrow?When the heart suffers, does your skill admit any remedy likeoccupation to the mind? Yet you abandon that occupation to whichyour mind is most accustomed; you desert your career; you turnaside, in the midst of the race, from the fame which awaits at thegoal; you go back from civilization itself, and dream that all yourintellectual cravings can find content in the life of a herdsman,amidst the monotony of a wild! No, you will repent, for you areuntrue to your mind!"
"I am sick of the word 'mind'!" said I, bitterly. And therewithI relapsed into musing.
The enigmas which had foiled my intelligence in the unravelledSibyl Book of Nature were mysteries strange to every man's normalpractice of thought, even if reducible to the fraudulentimpressions of outward sense; for illusions in a brain otherwisehealthy suggest problems in our human organization which thecolleges that record them rather guess at than solve. But the blowwhich had shattered my life had been dealt by the hand of a fool.Here, there were no mystic enchantments. Motives the mostcommonplace and paltry, suggested to a brain as trivial and shallowas ever made the frivolity of woman a theme for the satire ofpoets, had sufficed, in devastating the field of my affections, toblast the uses for which I had cultured my mind; and had myintellect been as great as heaven ever gave to man, it would havebeen as vain a shield as mine against the shaft that had lodged inmy heart. While I had, indeed, been preparing my reason and myfortitude to meet such perils, weird and marvellous, as those bywhich tales round the winter fireside scare the credulous child, acontrivance—so vulgar and hackneyed that not a day passes butwhat some hearth is vexed by an anonymous libel—had wrought acalamity more dread than aught which my dark guess into theShadow-Land unpierced by Philosophy could trace to the prompting ofmalignant witchcraft. So, ever this truth runs through all legendsof ghost and demon—through the uniform records of what wonderaccredits and science rejects as the supernatural—lo! thedread machinery whose wheels roll through Hades! What need suchawful engines for such mean results? The first blockhead we meet inour walk to our grocer's can tell us more than the ghost tells us;the poorest envy we ever aroused hurts us more than the demon. Howtrue an interpreter is Genius to Hell as to Earth! The Fiend comesto Faust, the tired seeker of knowledge; Heaven and Hell staketheir cause in the Mortal's temptation. And what does the Fiend toastonish the Mortal? Turn wine into fire, turn love into crime. Weneed no Mephistopheles to accomplish these marvels every day!
Thus silently thinking, I walked by the side of the world-wisewoman; and when she next spoke, I looked up, and saw that we wereat the Monks' Well, where I had first seen Lilian gazing intoheaven!
Mrs. Poyntz had, as we walked, placed her hand on my arm; and,turning abruptly from the path into the glade, I found myselfstanding by her side in the scene where a new sense of being hadfirst disclosed to my sight the hues with which Love, thepassionate beautifier, turns into purple and gold the gray of thecommon air. Thus, when romance has ended in sorrow, and theBeautiful fades from the landscape, the trite and positive forms oflife, banished for a time, reappear, and deepen our mournfulremembrance of the glories they replace. And the Woman of theWorld, finding how little I was induced to respond to her when shehad talked of myself, began to speak, in her habitual clear,ringing accents, of her own social schemes and devices,—
"I shall miss you when you are gone, Allen Fenwick; for though,during the last year or so, all actual intercourse between us hasceased, yet my interest in you gave some occupation to my thoughtswhen I sat alone,—having lost my main object of ambition insettling my daughter, and having no longer any one in the housewith whom I could talk of the future, or for whom I could form aproject. It is so wearisome to count the changes which pass withinus, that we take interest in the changes that pass without. Poyntzstill has his weather-glass; I have no longer my Jane."
"I cannot linger with you on this spot," said I, impatientlyturning back into the path; she followed, treading over fallenleaves. And unheeding my interruption, she thus continued her hardtalk,—
"But I am not sick of my mind, as you seem to be of yours; I amonly somewhat tired of the little cage in which, since it has beenalone, it ruffles its plumes against the flimsy wires that confineit from wider space. I shall take up my home for a time with thenew-married couple: they want me. Ashleigh Sumner has come intoparliament. He means to attend regularly and work hard, but he doesnot like Jane to go into the world by herself, and he wishes her togo into the world, because he wants a wife to display his wealthfor the improvement of his position. In Ashleigh Sumner's house Ishall have ample scope for my energies, such as they are. I have acuriosity to see the few that perch on the wheels of the State andsay, 'It is we who move the wheels!' It will amuse me to learn if Ican maintain in a capital the authority I have won in a countrytown; if not, I can but return to my small principality. Wherever Ilive I must sway, not serve. If I succeed—as I ought, for inJane's beauty and Ashleigh's fortune I have materials for the woofof ambition, wanting which here, I fall asleep over myknitting—if I succeed, there will be enough to occupy therest of my life. Ashleigh Sumner must be a power; the power will berepresented and enjoyed by my child, and created and maintained byme! Allen Fenwick, do as I do. Be world with the world, and it willonly be in moments of spleen and chagrin that you will sigh tothink that the heart may be void when the mind is full. Confess youenvy me while you listen."
"Not so; all that to you seems so great appears to me so small!Nature alone is always grand, in her terrors as well as her charms.The World for you, Nature for me. Farewell!"
"Nature!" said Mrs. Poyntz, compassionately. "Poor AllenFenwick! Nature indeed,—intellectual suicide! Nay, shakehands, then, if for the last time."
So we shook hands and parted, where the wicket-gate and thestone stairs separated my blighted fairy-land from the commonthoroughfare.
That night as I was employed in collecting the books andmanuscripts which I proposed to take with me, including mylong-suspended physiological work, and such standard authorities asI might want to consult or refer to in the portions yetincompleted, my servant entered to inform me, in answer to theinquiries I had sent him to make, that Miss Brabazon had peacefullybreathed her last an hour before. Well! my pardon had perhapssoothed her last moments; but how unavailing her death-bedrepentance to undo the wrong she had done!
I turned from that thought, and, glancing at the work into whichI had thrown all my learning, methodized into system with all myart, I recalled the pity which Mrs. Poyntz had expressed for mymeditated waste of mind. The tone of superiority which thisincarnation of common-sense accompanied by uncommon will assumedover all that was too deep or too high for her comprehension hadsometimes amused me; thinking over it now, it piqued. I said tomyself, "After all, I shall bear with me such solace asintellectual occupation can afford. I shall have leisure tocomplete this labour; and a record that I have lived and thoughtmay outlast all the honours which worldly ambition may bestow uponAshleigh Summer!" And, as I so murmured, my hand, mechanicallyselecting the books I needed, fell on the Bible that Julius Faberhad given to me.
It opened at the Second Book of Esdras, which our Church placesamongst the Apocrypha, and is generally considered by scholars tohave been written in the first or second century of the Christianera,(1)—but in which the questions raised by man in theremotest ages, to which we can trace back his desire "to comprehendthe ways of the Most High," are invested with a grandeur of thoughtand sublimity of word to which I know of no parallel in writers wecall profane.
My eye fell on this passage in the lofty argument between theAngel whose name was Uriel, and the Prophet, perplexed by his owncravings for knowledge:—
"He (the Angel) answered me, and said, I went into a forest, into a plain, and the trees took counsel, "And said, Come, let us go and make war against the sea, that it may depart away before us, and that we may make us more woods. "The floods of the sea also in like manner took counsel, and said, Come, let us go up and subdue the woods of the plain, that there also we may make us another country. "The thought of the wood was in vain, for the fire came and consumed it. "The thought of the floods of the sea came likewise to nought, for the sand stood up and stopped them. "If thou wert judge now betwixt these two, whom wouldst thou begin to justify; or whom wouldst thou condemn? "I answered and said, Verily it is a foolish thought that they both have devised; for the ground is given unto the wood, and the sea also hath his place to bear his floods. "Then answered he me, and said, Thou hast given a right judgment; but why judgest thou not thyself also? "For like as the ground is given unto the wood, and the sea to his floods, even so they that dwell upon the earth may understand nothing but that which is upon the earth; and He that dwelleth above the heavens may only understand the things that are above the height of the heavens."
I paused at those words, and, closing the Sacred Volume, fellinto deep, unquiet thought.
(1) Such is the supposition of Jahn. Dr. Lee, however, is ofopinion that the author was contemporary, and, indeed, identical,with the author of the Book of Enoch.
I had hoped that the voyage would produce some beneficial effectupon Lilian; but no effect, good or bad, was perceptible, except,perhaps, a deeper silence, a gentler calm. She loved to sit on thedeck when the nights were fair, and the stars mirrored on the deep.And once thus, as I stood beside her, bending over the rail of thevessel, and gazing on the long wake of light which the moon madeamidst the darkness of an ocean to which no shore could be seen, Isaid to myself, "Where is my track of light through the measurelessfuture? Would that I could believe as I did when a child! Woe isme, that all the reasonings I take from my knowledge should lead meaway from the comfort which the peasant who mourns finds in faith!Why should riddles so dark have been thrust upon me,—me, nofond child of fancy; me, sober pupil of schools the severest? Yetwhat marvel—the strangest my senses have witnessed or feignedin the fraud they have palmed on me—is greater than that bywhich a simple affection, that all men profess to have known, haschanged the courses of life prearranged by my hopes and confirmedby my judgment? How calmly before I knew love I have anatomized itsmechanism, as the tyro who dissects the web-work of tissues andnerves in the dead! Lo! it lives, lives in me; and, in living,escapes from my scalpel, and mocks all my knowledge. Can love bereduced to the realm of the senses? No; what nun is more barred byher grate from the realm of the senses than my bride by her solemnaffliction? Is love, then, the union of kindred, harmonious minds?No, my beloved one sits by my side, and I guess not her thoughts,and my mind is to her a sealed fountain. Yet I love hermore—oh, ineffably more!—for the doom which destroysthe two causes philosophy assigns to love—in the form, in themind! How can I now, in my vain physiology, say what is love, whatis not? Is it love which must tell me that man has a soul, and thatin soul will be found the solution of problems never to be solvedin body or mind alone?"
My self-questionings halted here as Lilian's hand touched myshoulder. She had risen from her seat, and had come to me.
"Are not the stars very far from earth?" she said.
"Very far."
"Are they seen for the first time to-night?"
"They were seen, I presume, as we see them, by the fathers ofall human races!"
"Yet close below us they shine reflected in the waters; and yet,see, wave flows on wave before we can count it!"
"Lilian, by what sympathy do you read and answer mythought?"
Her reply was incoherent and meaningless. If a gleam ofintelligence had mysteriously lighted my heart to her view, it wasgone. But drawing her nearer towards me, my eye long followedwistfully the path of light, dividing the darkness on either hand,till it closed in the sloping horizon.
The voyage is over. At the seaport at which we landed I found aletter from Faber. My instructions had reached him in time toeffect the purchase on which his descriptions had fixed my desire.The stock, the implements of husbandry, the furniture of the house,were included in the purchase. All was prepared for my arrival, andI hastened from the then miserable village, which may some day riseinto one of the mightiest capitals of the world, to my lodge in thewilderness.
It was the burst of the Australian spring, which commences inour autumn month of October. The air was loaded with the perfume ofthe acacias. Amidst the glades of the open forest land, or climbingthe craggy banks of winding silvery creeks,(1) creepers and flowersof dazzling hue contrasted the olive-green of the surroundingfoliage. The exhilarating effect of the climate in that seasonheightens the charm of the strange scenery. In the brilliancy ofthe sky, in the lightness of the atmosphere, the sense of life iswondrously quickened. With the very breath the Adventurer draws infrom the racy air, he feels as if inhaling hope.
We have reached our home, we are settled in it; the earlyunfamiliar impressions are worn away. We have learned to dispensewith much that we at first missed, and are reconciled to much thatat first disappointed or displeased.
The house is built but of logs; the late proprietor hadcommenced, upon a rising ground, a mile distant, a more imposingedifice of stone, but it is not half finished.
This log-house is commodious, and much has been done, within andwithout, to conceal or adorn its primitive rudeness. It is ofirregular, picturesque form, with verandas round three sides of it,to which the grape-vine has been trained, with glossy leaves thatclamber up to the gable roof. There is a large garden in front, inwhich many English fruit-trees have been set, and grow fast amongstthe plants of the tropics and the orange-trees of Southern Europe.Beyond stretch undulous pastures, studded not only with sheep, butwith herds of cattle, which my speculative predecessor had bredfrom parents of famous stock, and imported from England at mightycost; but as yet the herds had been of little profit, and theyrange their luxuriant expanse of pasture with as little heed. Tothe left soar up, in long range, the many-coloured hills; to theright meanders a creek, belted by feathery trees; and on itsopposite bank a forest opens, through frequent breaks, intopark-like glades and alleys. The territory, of which I so suddenlyfind myself the lord, is vast, even for a colonial capitalist.
It had been originally purchased as "a special survey,"comprising twenty thousand acres, with the privilege of pastureover forty thousand more. In very little of this land, though itincludes some of the most fertile districts in the known world, hascultivation been even commenced. At the time I entered intopossession, even sheep were barely profitable; labour was scarceand costly. Regarded as a speculation, I could not wonder that mypredecessor fled in fear from his domain. Had I invested the bulkof my capital in this lordly purchase, I should have deemed myselfa ruined man; but a villa near London, with a hundred acres, wouldhave cost me as much to buy, and thrice as much to keep up. I couldafford the investment I had made. I found a Scotch bailiff alreadyon the estate, and I was contented to escape from ruraloccupations, to which I brought no experience, by making it worthhis while to serve me with zeal. Two domestics of my own, and twowho had been for many years with Mrs. Ashleigh, had accompanied us:they remained faithful and seemed contented. So the clockwork ofour mere household arrangements went on much the same as in ournative home. Lilian was not subjected to the ordinary privationsand discomforts that await the wife even of the wealthy emigrant.Alas! would she have heeded them if she had been?
The change of scene wrought a decided change for the better inher health and spirits, but not such as implied a dawn of revivingreason. But her countenance was now more rarely overcast. Its usualaspect was glad with a soft mysterious smile. She would murmursnatches of songs, that were partly borrowed from English poets,and partly glided away into what seemed spontaneous additions ofher own,—wanting intelligible meaning, but never melody norrhyme. Strange, that memory and imitation—the two earliestparents of all inventive knowledge—should still be so active,and judgment—the after faculty, that combines the rest intopurpose and method—be annulled!
Julius Faber I see continually, though his residence is a fewmiles distant. He is sanguine as to Lilian's ultimate recovery;and, to my amazement and to my envy, he has contrived, by some artwhich I cannot attain, to establish between her and himselfintelligible communion. She comprehends his questions, when mine,though the simplest, seem to her in unknown language; and heconstrues into sense her words, that to me are meaninglessriddles.
"I was right," he said to me one day, leaving her seated in thegarden beside her quiet, patient mother, and joining me where Ilay—listless yet fretful—under the shadeless gum-trees,gazing not on the flocks and fields that I could call my own, buton the far mountain range, from which the arch of the horizonseemed to spring,—"I was right," said the great physician;"this is reason suspended, not reason lost. Your wife will recover;but—"
"But what?"
"Give me your arm as I walk homeward, and I will tell you theconclusion to which I have come."
I rose, the old man leaned on me, and we went down the valleyalong the craggy ridges of the winding creek. The woodland on theopposite bank was vocal with the chirp and croak and chatter ofAustralian birds,—all mirthful, all songless, save thatsweetest of warblers, which some early irreverent emigrant degradedto the name of magpie, but whose note is sweeter than thenightingale's, and trills through the lucent air with a distinctecstatic melody of joy that dominates all the discords, soravishing the sense, that, while it sings, the ear scarcely heedsthe scream of the parrots.
(1) Creek is the name given by Australian colonists toprecarious water Courses and tributary streams.
"You may remember," said Julius Faber, "Sir Humphry Davy'seloquent description of the effect produced on him by theinhalation of nitrous oxide. He states that he began to lose theperception of external things; trains of vivid visible imagesrapidly passed through his mind, and were connected with words insuch a manner as to produce perceptions perfectly novel. 'Iexisted,' he said, 'in a world of newly-connected andnewly-modified ideas.' When he recovered, he exclaimed: 'Nothingexists but thoughts; the universe is composed of impressions,ideas, pleasures, and pains!'
"Now observe, that thus a cultivator of positive science,endowed with one of the healthiest of human brains, is, by theinhalation of a gas, abstracted from all externallife,—enters into a new world, which consists of images hehimself creates and animates so vividly that, on waking, heresolves the universe itself into thoughts."
"Well," said I, "but what inference do you draw from thatvoluntary experiment, applicable to the malady of which you bid mehope the cure?"
"Simply this: that the effect produced on a healthful brain bythe nitrous oxide may be produced also by moral causes operating onthe blood, or on the nerves. There is a degree of mental excitementin which ideas are more vivid than sensations, and then the worldof external things gives way to the world within the brain.(1) Butthis, though a suspension of that reason which comprehends accuracyof judgment, is no more a permanent aberration of reason than wereSir Humphry Davy's visionary ecstasies under the influence of thegas. The difference between the two states of suspension is that oftime, and it is but an affair of time with our beloved patient. Yetprepare yourself. I fear that the mind will not recover withoutsome critical malady of the body!"
"Critical! but not dangerous?—say not dangerous! I canendure the pause of her reason; I could not endure the void in theuniverse if her life were to fade from the earth."
"Poor friend! would not you yourself rather lose life thanreason?"
"I—yes! But we men are taught to set cheap value on ourown lives; we do not estimate at the same rate the lives of thosewe love. Did we do so, Humanity would lose its virtues."
"What, then! Love teaches that there is something of noblervalue than mere mind? Yet surely it cannot be the mere body? Whatis it, if not that continuance of being which your philosophydeclines to acknowledge,—namely, soul? If you fear sopainfully that your Lilian should die, is it not that you fear tolose her forever?"
"Oh, cease, cease!" I cried impatiently. "I cannot now argue onmetaphysics. What is it that you anticipate of harm to her life?Her health has been stronger ever since her affliction. She neverseems to know ailment now. Do you not perceive that her cheek has amore hardy bloom, her frame a more rounded symmetry, than when yousaw her in England?"
"Unquestionably. Her physical forces have been silentlyrecruiting themselves in the dreams which half lull, half amuse herimagination. Imagination! that faculty, the most glorious which isbestowed on the human mind, because it is the faculty which enablesthought to create, is of all others the most exhausting to lifewhen unduly stimulated and consciously reasoning on its owncreations. I think it probable that had this sorrow not befallenyou, you would have known a sorrow yet graver,—you would havelong survived your Lilian. As it is now, when she recovers, herwhole organization, physical and mental, will have undergone abeneficent change. But, I repeat my prediction,—some severemalady of the body will precede the restoration of the mind; and itis my hope that the present suspense or aberration of the morewearing powers of the mind may fit the body to endure and surmountthe physical crisis. I remember a case, within my own professionalexperience, in many respects similar to this, but in other respectsit was less hopeful. I was consulted by a young student of a verydelicate physical frame, of great mental energies, and consumed byan intense ambition. He was reading for university honours. Hewould not listen to me when I entreated him to rest his mind. Ithought that he was certain to obtain the distinction for which hetoiled, and equally certain to die a few months after obtaining it.He falsified both my prognostics. He so overworked himself that, onthe day of examination, his nerves were agitated, his memory failedhim; he passed, not without a certain credit, but fell far short ofthe rank amongst his fellow competitors to which he aspired. Here,then, the irritated mind acted on the disappointed heart, andraised a new train of emotions. He was first visited by spectralillusions; then he sank into a state in which the external worldseemed quite blotted out. He heeded nothing that was said to him;seemed to see nothing that was placed before his eyes,—in aword, sensations became dormant, ideas preconceived usurped theirplace, and those ideas gave him pleasure. He believed that hisgenius was recognized, and lived amongst its supposed creationsenjoying an imaginary fame. So it went on for two years, duringwhich suspense of his reason, his frail form became robust andvigorous. At the end of that time he was seized with a fever, whichwould have swept him in three days to the grave had it occurredwhen I was first called in to attend him. He conquered the fever,and, in recovering, acquired the full possession of theintellectual faculties so long suspended. When I last saw him, manyyears afterwards, he was in perfect health, and the object of hisyoung ambition was realized; the body had supported themind,—he had achieved distinction. Now what had so, for atime, laid this strong intellect into visionary sleep? The mostagonizing of human emotions in a noble spirit,—shame! Whathas so stricken down your Lilian? You have told me the story:shame!—the shame of a nature pre-eminently pure. But observethat, in his case as in hers, the shock inflicted does not producea succession of painful illusions: on the contrary, in both, theillusions are generally pleasing. Had the illusions been painful,the body would have suffered, the patient died. Why did a painfulshock produce pleasing illusions? Because, no matter how a shock onthe nerves may originate, if it affects the reason, it does butmake more vivid than impressions from actual external objects theideas previously most cherished. Such ideas in the young studentwere ideas of earthly fame; such ideas in the young maiden areideas of angel comforters and heavenly Edens. You miss her mind onthe earth, and, while we speak, it is in paradise."
"Much that you say, my friend, is authorized by the speculationsof great writers, with whom I am not unfamiliar; but in none ofthose writers, nor in your encouraging words, do I find a solutionfor much that has no precedents in my experience,—much,indeed, that has analogies in my reading, but analogies which Ihave hitherto despised as old wives' fables. I have bared to yoursearching eye the weird mysteries of my life. How do you accountfor facts which you cannot resolve into illusions,—for theinfluence which that strange being, Margrave, exercised overLilian's mind or fancy, so that for a time her love for me was asdormant as is her reason now; so that he could draw her—herwhose nature you admit to be singularly pure and modest—fromher mother's home? The magic wand; the trance into which that wandthrew Margrave himself; the apparition which it conjured up in myown quiet chamber when my mind was without a care and my healthwithout a flaw,—how account for all this: as you endeavoured,and perhaps successfully, to account for all my impressions of theVision in the Museum, of the luminous, haunting shadow in itsearlier apparitions, when my fancy was heated, my heart tormented,and, it might be, even the physical forces of this strong framedisordered?"
"Allen," said the old pathologist, "here we approach a groundwhich few physicians have dared to examine. Honour to those who,like our bold contemporary, Elliotson, have braved scoff andsacrificed dross in seeking to extract what is practical in uses,what can be tested by experiment, from those exceptional phenomenaon which magic sought to found a philosophy, and to whichphilosophy tracks the origin of magic."
"What! do I understand you? Is it you, Julius Faber, who attachfaith to the wonders attributed to animal magnetism andelectro-biology, or subscribe to the doctrines which theirpractitioners teach?"
"I have not examined into those doctrines, nor seen with my owneyes the wonders recorded, upon evidence too respectable,nevertheless, to permit me peremptorily to deny what I have notwitnessed.(2) But wherever I look through the History of Mankind inall ages and all races, I find a concurrence in certain beliefswhich seem to countenance the theory that there is in some peculiarand rare temperaments a power over forms of animated organization,with which they establish some unaccountable affinity; and even,though much more rarely, a power over inanimate matter. You arefamiliar with the theory of Descartes, 'that those particles of theblood which penetrate to the brain do not only serve to nourish andsustain its substance, but to produce there a certain very subtleAura, or rather a flame very vivid and pure, that obtains the nameof the Animal Spirits;' (3) and at the close of his great fragmentupon Man, he asserts that 'this flame is of no other nature thanall the fires which are in inanimate bodies.'(4) This notion doesbut forestall the more recent doctrine that electricity is more orless in all, or nearly all, known matter. Now, whether in theelectric fluid or some other fluid akin to it of which we knowstill less, thus equally pervading all matter, there may be acertain magnetic property more active, more operative upon sympathyin some human constitutions than in others, and which can accountfor the mysterious power I have spoken of, is a query I mightsuggest, but not an opinion I would hazard. For an opinion I musthave that basis of experience or authority which I do not need whenI submit a query to the experience and authority of others. Still,the supposition conveyed in the query is so far worthy of notice,that the ecstatic temperament (in which phrase I comprehend allconstitutional mystics) is peculiarly sensitive to electricatmospheric influences. This is a fact which most medical observerswill have remarked in the range of their practice. Accordingly, Iwas prepared to find Mr. Hare Townshend, in his interestingwork,(5) state that he himself was of 'the electric temperament,'sparks flying from his hair when combed in the dark, etc. Thataccomplished writer, whose veracity no one would impugn, affirmsthat between this electrical endowment and whatever mesmericproperties he might possess, there is a remarkable relationship andparallelism. Whatever state of the atmosphere tends to accumulateand insulate electricity in the body, promotes equally' (says Mr.Townshend) 'the power and facility with which I influence othersmesmerically.' What Mr. Townshend thus observes in himself,American physicians and professors of chemistry depose to haveobserved in those modern magicians, the mediums of (so-called)'spirit manifestation.' They state that all such mediums are of theelectric temperament, thus everywhere found allied with theecstatic, and their power varies in proportion as the state of theatmosphere serves to depress or augment the electricity stored inthemselves. Here, then, in the midst of vagrant phenomena, eithertoo hastily dismissed as altogether the tricks of fraudfulimposture, or too credulously accepted as supernaturalportents—here, at least, in one generalized fact, we may,perhaps, find a starting point, from which inductive experiment mayarrive, soon or late, at a rational theory. But however the powerof which we are speaking (a power accorded to special physicaltemperament) may or may not be accounted for by some patientstudent of nature, I am persuaded that it is in that power we areto seek for whatever is not wholly imposture, in the attributesassigned to magic or witchcraft. It is well said, by a writer whohas gone into the depth of these subjects with the research of ascholar and the science of a pathologist, 'that if magic hadexclusively reposed on credulity and falsehood, its reign wouldnever have endured so long; but that its art took its origin insingular phenomena, proper to certain affections of the nerves, ormanifested in the conditions of sleep. These phenomena, theprinciple of which was at first unknown, served to root faith inmagic, and often abused even enlightened minds. The enchanters andmagicians arrived, by divers practices, at the faculty of provokingin other brains a determined order of dreams, of engenderinghallucinations of all kinds, of inducing fits of hypnotism, trance,mania, during which the persons so affected imagined that they saw,heard, touched, supernatural beings, conversed with them, provedtheir influences, assisted at prodigies of which magic proclaimeditself to possess the secret. The public, the enchanters, and theenchanted were equally dupes.'(6) Accepting this explanation,unintelligible to no physician of a practice so lengthened as minehas been, I draw from it the corollary, that as these phenomena areexhibited only by certain special affections, to which only certainspecial constitutions are susceptible, so not in any superiorfaculties of intellect, or of spiritual endowment, but in peculiarphysical temperaments, often strangely disordered, the power of thesorcerer in affecting the imagination of others is to be sought. Inthe native tribes of Australasia the elders are instructed in thearts of this so-called sorcery, but only in a very fewconstitutions does instruction avail to produce effects in whichthe savages recognize the powers of a sorcerer: it is so with theObi of the negroes. The fascination of Obi is an unquestionablefact, but the Obi man cannot be trained by formal lessons; he isborn a fascinator, as a poet is born a poet. It is so with theLaplanders, of whom Tornoeus reports that of those instructed inthe magical art 'only a few are capable of it.' 'Some,' he says,'are naturally magicians.' And this fact is emphatically insistedupon by the mystics of our own middle ages, who state that a manmust be born a magician; in other words, that the gift isconstitutional, though developed by practice and art. Now, thatthis gift and its practice should principally obtain in imperfectstates of civilization, and fade into insignificance in the busysocial enlightenment of cities, may be accounted for by referenceto the known influences of imagination. In the cruder states ofsocial life not only is imagination more frequently predominantover all other faculties, but it has not the healthful vents whichthe intellectual competition of cities and civilization affords.The man who in a savage tribe, or in the dark feudal ages, would bea magician, is in our century a poet, an orator, a daringspeculator, an inventive philosopher. In other words, hisimagination is drawn to pursuits congenial to those amongst whom itworks. It is the tendency of all intellect to follow the directionsof the public opinion amidst which it is trained. Where a magicianis held in reverence or awe, there will be more practitioners ofmagic than where a magician is despised as an impostor or shut upas a lunatic. In Scandinavia, before the introduction ofChristianity, all tradition records the wonderful powers of theVala, or witch, who was then held in reverence and honour.Christianity was introduced, and the early Church denounced theVala as the instrument of Satan, and from that moment down droppedthe majestic prophetess into a miserable and execrated oldhag!"
"The ideas you broach," said I, musingly, "have at momentscrossed me, though I have shrunk from reducing them to a theorywhich is but one of pure hypothesis. But this magic, after all,then, you would place in the imagination of the operator, acting onthe imagination of those whom it affects? Here, at least, I canfollow you, to a certain extent, for here we get back into thelegitimate realm of physiology."
"And possibly," said Faber, "we may find hints to guide us touseful examination, if not to complete solution of problems that,once demonstrated, may lead to discoveries of infinitevalue,—hints, I say, in two writers of widely oppositegenius, Van Helmont and Bacon. Van Helmont, of all the mediaevalmystics, is, in spite of his many extravagant whims, the one whoseintellect is the most suggestive to the disciplined reasoners ofour day. He supposed that the faculty which he calls Fantasy, andwhich we familiarly call Imagination,—is invested with thepower of creating for itself ideas independent of the senses, eachidea clothed in a form fabricated by the imagination, and becomingan operative entity. This notion is so far favoured by modernphysiologists, that Lincke reports a case where the eye itself wasextirpated; yet the extirpation was followed by the appearance ofluminous figures before the orbit. And again, a woman, stone-blind,complained of 'luminous images, with pale colours, before hereyes.' Abercrombie mentions the case 'of a lady quite blind, hereyes being also disorganized and sunk, who never walked out withoutseeing a little old woman in a red cloak, who seemed to walk beforeher.'(7) Your favourite authority, the illustrious Miller, who washimself in the habit of 'seeing different images in the field ofvision when he lay quietly down to sleep, asserts that these imagesare not merely presented to the fancy, but that even the images ofdreams are really seen,' and that 'any one may satisfy himself ofthis by accustoming himself regularly to open his eyes when wakingafter a dream,—the images seen in the dream are thensometimes visible, and can be observed to disappear gradually.' Heconfirms this statement not only by the result of his ownexperience, but by the observations made by Spinoza, and the yethigher authority of Aristotle, who accounts for spectral appearanceas the internal action of the sense of vision.(8) And this opinionis favoured by Sir David Brewster, whose experience leads him tosuggest 'that the objects of mental contemplation may be seen asdistinctly as external objects, and will occupy the same localposition in the axis of vision as if they had been formed by theagency of light.' Be this as it may, one fact remains,—thatimages can be seen even by the blind as distinctly and vividly asyou and I now see the stream below our feet and the opossums atplay upon yonder boughs. Let us come next to some remarkablesuggestions of Lord Bacon. In his Natural History, treating of theforce of the imagination, and the help it receives 'by one manworking by another,' he cites an instance he had witnessed of akind of juggler, who could tell a person what card he thought of.He mentioned this 'to a pretended learned man, curious in suchthings,' and this sage said to him, 'It is not the knowledge of theman's thought, for that is proper to God, but the enforcing of athought upon him, and binding his imagination by a stronger, sothat he could think of no other card.' You see this sageanticipated our modern electro-biologists! And the learned man thenshrewdly asked Lord Bacon, 'Did the juggler tell the card to theman himself who had thought of it, or bid another tell it?' 'Hebade another tell it,' answered Lord Bacon. 'I thought so,'returned his learned acquaintance, 'for the juggler himself couldnot have put on so strong an imagination; but by telling the cardto the other, who believed the juggler was some strange man whocould do strange things, that other man caught a strongimagination.'(9) The whole story is worth reading, because LordBacon evidently thinks it conveys a guess worth examining. And LordBacon, were he now living, would be the man to solve the mysteriesthat branch out of mesmerism or (so-called) spiritualmanifestation, for he would not pretend to despise their phenomenafor fear of hurting his reputation for good sense. Bacon then goeson to state that there are three ways to fortify the imagination.'First, authority derived from belief in an art and in the man whoexercises it; secondly, means to quicken and corroborate theimagination; thirdly, means to repeat and refresh it.' For thesecond and the third he refers to the practices of magic, andproceeds afterwards to state on what things imagination has mostforce,—'upon things that have the lightest and easiestmotions, and, therefore, above all, upon the spirits of men, and,in them, on such affections as move lightest,—in love, infear, in irresolution. And,' adds Bacon, earnestly, in a verydifferent spirit from that which dictates to the sages of our timethe philosophy of rejecting without trial that which belongs to theMarvellous,—'and whatsoever is of this kind, should bethoroughly inquired into.' And this great founder or renovator ofthe sober inductive system of investigation even so far leaves it amatter of speculative inquiry, whether imagination may not be sopowerful that it can actually operate upon a plant, that he says:'This likewise should be made upon plants, and that diligently; asif you should tell a man that such a tree would die this year, andwill him, at these and these times, to go unto it and see how itthriveth.' I presume that no philosopher has followed suchrecommendations: had some great philosopher done so, possibly weshould by this time know all the secrets of what is popularlycalled witchcraft."
And as Faber here paused, there came a strange laugh from thefantastic she-oak-tree overhanging the stream,—a wild, impishlaugh.
"Pooh! it is but the great kingfisher, the laughing-bird of theAustralian bush," said Julius Faber, amused at my start ofsuperstitious alarm.
We walked on for some minutes in musing silence, and the rudelog-hut in which my wise companion had his home came inview,—the flocks grazing on undulous pastures, the lonedrinking at a watercourse fringed by the slender gum-trees, and afew fields, laboriously won from the luxuriant grassland, ripplingwith the wave of corn.
I halted, and said, "Rest here for a few moments, till I gatherup the conclusions to which your speculative reasoning seems toinvite me."
We sat down on a rocky crag, half mantled by luxuriant creeperswith vermilion buds.
"From the guesses," said I, "which you have drawn from theerudition of others and your own ingenious and reflectiveinductions, I collect this solution of the mysteries, by which theexperience I gain from my senses confounds all the dogmas approvedby my judgment. To the rational conjectures by which, when we firstconversed on the marvels that perplexed me, you ascribe to myimagination, predisposed by mental excitement, physical fatigue orderangement, and a concurrence of singular events tending tostrengthen such predisposition, the phantasmal impressions producedon my senses,—to these conjectures you now add a new one,more startling and less admitted by sober physiologists. Youconceive it possible that persons endowed with a rare and peculiartemperament can so operate on imagination, and, through theimagination, on the senses of others, as to exceed even the powersascribed to the practitioners of mesmerism and electro-biology, andgive a certain foundation of truth to the old tales of magic andwitchcraft. You imply that Margrave may be a person thus gifted,and hence the influence he unquestionably exercised over Lilian,and over, perhaps, less innocent agents, charmed or impelled by hiswill. And not discarding, as I own I should have been originallyinduced to do, the queries or suggestions adventured by Bacon inhis discursive speculations on Nature, to wit, 'that there be manythings, some of them inanimate, that operate upon the spirits ofmen by secret sympathy and antipathy,' and to which Bacon gave thequaint name of 'imaginants,' so even that wand, of which I havedescribed to you the magic-like effects, may have had propertiescommunicated to it by which it performs the work of the magician,as mesmerists pretend that some substance mesmerized by them canact on the patient as sensibly as if it were the mesmerizerhimself. Do I state your suppositions correctly?"
"Yes; always remembering that they are only suppositions, andvolunteered with the utmost diffidence. But since, thus seated inthe early wilderness, we permit ourselves the indulgence ofchildlike guess, may it not be possible, apart from the doubtfulquestion whether a man can communicate to an inanimate materialsubstance a power to act upon the mind or imagination of anotherman—may it not, I say, be possible that such a substance maycontain in itself such a virtue or property potent over certainconstitutions, though not over all. For instance, it is in myexperience that the common hazel-wood will strongly affect somenervous temperaments, though wholly without effect on others. Iremember a young girl, who having taken up a hazel-stick freshlycut, could not relax her hold of it; and when it was wrenched awayfrom her by force, was irresistibly attracted towards it,repossessed herself of it, and, after holding it a few minutes, wascast into a kind of trance, in which she beheld phantasmal visions.Mentioning this curious case, which I supposed unique, to a learnedbrother of our profession, he told me that he had known otherinstances of the effect of the hazel upon nervous temperaments inpersons of both sexes. Possibly it was some such peculiar propertyin the hazel that made it the wood selected for the olddivining-rod. Again, we know that the bay-tree, or laurel, wasdedicated to the oracular Pythian Apollo. Now wherever, in the oldworld, we find that the learning of the priests enabled them toexhibit exceptional phenomena, which imposed upon popularcredulity, there was a something or other which is worth aphilosopher's while to explore; and, accordingly, I alwayssuspected that there was in the laurel some property favourable toecstatic vision in highly impressionable temperaments. Mysuspicion, a few years ago, was justified by the experience of aGerman physician, who had under his care a cataleptic or ecstaticpatient, and who assured me that he found nothing in this patientso stimulated the state of 'sleep-waking,' or so disposed thatstate to indulge in the hallucinations of prevision, as the berryof the laurel.(10) Well, we do not know what this wand thatproduced a seemingly magical effect upon you was really composedof. You did not notice the metal employed in the wire, which yousay communicated a thrill to the sensitive nerves in the palm ofthe hand. You cannot tell how far it might have been the vehicle ofsome fluid force in nature. Or still more probably, whether thepores of your hand insensibly imbibed, and communicated to thebrain, some of those powerful narcotics from which the Buddhistsand the Arabs make unguents that induce visionary hallucinations,and in which substances undetected in the hollow of the wand, orthe handle of the wand itself, might be steeped.(11) One thing wedo know, namely, that amongst the ancients, and especially in theEast, the construction of wands for magical purposes was nocommonplace mechanical craft, but a special and secret artappropriated to men who cultivated with assiduity all that was thenknown of natural science in order to extract from it agencies thatmight appear supernatural. Possibly, then, the rods or wands of theEast, of which Scripture makes mention, were framed upon someprinciples of which we in our day are very naturally ignorant,since we do not ransack science for the same secrets; and thus, inthe selection or preparation of the material employed, mainlyconsisted whatever may be referrible to natural philosophicalcauses in the antique science of Rhabdomancy, or divination andenchantment by wands. The staff, or wand, of which you tell me,was, you say, made of iron or steel and tipped with crystal.Possibly iron and crystal do really contain some properties nothitherto scientifically analyzed, and only, indeed, potential overexceptional temperaments, which may account for the fact that ironand crystal have been favourites with all professed mystics,ancient and modern. The Delphic Pythoness had her iron tripod,Mesmer his iron bed; and many persons, indisputably honest, cannotgaze long upon a ball of crystal but what they begin to seevisions. I suspect that a philosophical cause for such seeminglypreternatural effects of crystal and iron will be found inconnection with the extreme impressionability to changes intemperatures which is the characteristic both of crystal and iron.But if these materials do contain certain powers over exceptionalconstitutions, we do not arrive at a supernatural but at a naturalphenomenon."
"Still," said I, "even granting that your explanatory hypotheseshit or approach the truth;—still what a terrible power youwould assign to man's will over men's reason and deeds!"
"Man's will," answered Faber, "has over men's deeds and reason,habitual and daily, power infinitely greater and, whenuncounterbalanced, infinitely more dangerous than that whichsuperstition exaggerates in magic. Man's will moves a war thatdecimates a race, and leaves behind it calamities little less direthan slaughter. Man's will frames, but it also corrupts laws;exalts, but also demoralizes opinion; sets the world mad withfanaticism, as often as it curbs the heart's fierce instincts bythe wisdom of brother-like mercy. You revolt at the exceptional,limited sway over some two or three individuals which the arts of asorcerer (if sorcerer there be) can effect; and yet, at the verymoment in which you were perplexed and appalled by such sway, or byyour reluctant belief in it, your will was devising an engine tounsettle the reason and wither the hopes of millions!"
"My will! What engine?"
"A book conceived by your intellect, adorned by your learning,and directed by your will, to steal from the minds of other mentheir persuasion of the soul's everlasting Hereafter."
I bowed my head, and felt myself grow pale.
"And if we accept Bacon's theory of 'secret sympathy,' or theplainer physiological maxim that there must be in the imagination,morbidly impressed by the will of another, some trains of idea inaffinity with such influence and preinclined to receive it, nomagician could warp you to evil, except through thoughts thatthemselves went astray. Grant that the Margrave who still hauntsyour mind did really, by some occult, sinister magnetism, guide themadman to murder, did influence the servant-woman's vulgar desireto pry into the secrets of her ill-fated master, or the old maid'scovetous wish and envious malignity: what could this awful magiciando more than any commonplace guilty adviser, to a mind predisposedto accept the advice?"
"You forget one example which destroys your argument,—thespell which this mysterious fascinator could cast upon a creatureso pure from all guilt as Lilian!"
"Will you forgive me if I answer frankly?"
"Speak."
"Your Lilian is spotless and pure as you deem her, and thefascination, therefore, attempts no lure through a sinful desire;it blends with its attraction no sentiment of affection untrue toyourself. Nay, it is justice to your Lilian, and may be melancholycomfort to you, to state my conviction, based on the answers myquestions have drawn from her, that you were never more cherishedby her love than when that love seemed to forsake you. Herimagination impressed her with the illusion that through your lovefor her you were threatened with a great peril. What seemed thelevity of her desertion was the devotion of self-sacrifice. And, inher strange, dream-led wanderings, do not think that she wasconscious of the fascination you impute to this mysteriousMargrave: in her belief it was your own guardian angel that guidedher steps, and her pilgrimage was ordained to disarm the foe thatmenaced you, and dissolve the spell that divided her life fromyours! But had she not, long before this, willingly preparedherself to be so deceived? Had not her fancies been deliberatelyencouraged to dwell remote from the duties we are placed on theearth to perform? The loftiest faculties in our nature are thosethat demand the finest poise, not to fall from their height andcrush all the walls that they crown. With exquisite beauty ofillustration, Hume says of the dreamers of 'bright fancies,' 'thatthey may be compared to those angels whom the Scriptures representas covering their eyes with their wings.' Had you been, like mynephew, a wrestler for bread with the wilderness, what helpmatewould your Lilian have been to you? How often would you have criedout in justifiable anger, 'I, son of Adam, am on earth, not inParadise! Oh, that my Eve were at home on my hearth, and not in theskies with the seraphs!' No Margrave, I venture to say, could havesuspended the healthful affections, or charmed into danger thewide-awake soul of my Amy. When she rocks in its cradle the babethe young parents intrust to her heed; when she calls the kine tothe milking, the chicks to their corn; when she but flits throughmy room to renew the flowers on the stand, or range in neat orderthe books that I read, no spell on her fancy could lead her a stepfrom the range of her provident cares! At day she is contented tobe on the commonplace earth; at evening she and I knock together atthe one door of heaven, which opes to thanksgiving and prayer; andthanksgiving and prayer send us back, calm and hopeful, to the taskthat each morrow renews."
I looked up as the old man paused, and in the limpid clearnessof the Australian atmosphere, I saw the child he thus praisedstanding by the garden-gate, looking towards us, and though stilldistant she seemed near. I felt wroth with her. My heart socherished my harmless, defenceless Lilian, that I was jealous ofthe praise taken from her to be bestowed on another.
"Each of us," said I, coldly, "has his or her own nature, andthe uses harmonious to that nature's idiosyncrasy. The world, Igrant, would get on very ill if women were not more or lessactively useful and quietly good, like your Amy. But the worldwould lose standards that exalt and refine, if no woman werepermitted to gain, through the indulgence of fancy, thoughtsexquisite as those which my Lilian conceived, while thought, alas!flowed out of fancy. I do not wound you by citing your Amy as atype of the mediocre; I do not claim for Lilian the rank we accordto the type of genius. But both are alike to such types in this:namely, that the uses of mediocrity are for every-day life, and theuses of genius, amidst a thousand mistakes which mediocrity nevercommits, are to suggest and perpetuate ideas which raise thestandard of the mediocre to a nobler level. There would be fewerAmys in life if there were no Lilian! as there would be far fewergood men of sense if there were no erring dreamer of genius!"
"You say well, Allen Fenwick. And who should be so indulgent tothe vagaries of the imagination as the philosophers who taught youryouth to doubt everything in the Maker's plan of creation whichcould not be mathematically proved? 'The human mind,' said Luther,'is like a drunkard on horseback; prop it on one side, and it fallson the other.' So the man who is much too enlightened to believe ina peasant's religion, is always sure to set up some insanesuperstition of his own. Open biographical volumes wherever youplease, and the man who has no faith in religion is a man who hasfaith in a nightmare. See that type of the elegantsceptics,—Lord Herbert of Cherbury. He is writing a bookagainst Revelation; he asks a sign from heaven to tell him if hisbook is approved by his Maker, and the man who cannot believe inthe miracles performed by his Saviour gravely tells us of a miraclevouchsafed to himself. Take the hardest and strongest intellectwhich the hardest and strongest race of mankind ever schooled andaccomplished. See the greatest of great men, the great JuliusCaesar! Publicly he asserts in the Senate that the immortality ofthe soul is a vain chimera. He professes the creed which Romanvoluptuaries deduced from Epicurus, and denies all Divineinterference in the affairs of the earth. A great authority for theMaterialists—they have none greater! They can show on theirside no intellect equal to Caesar's! And yet this magnificentfreethinker, rejecting a soul and a Deity, habitually entered hischariot muttering a charm; crawled on his knees up the steps of atemple to propitiate the abstraction called 'Nemesis;' and did notcross the Rubicon till he had consulted the omens. What does allthis prove?—a very simple truth. Man has some instincts withthe brutes; for instance, hunger and sexual love. Man has oneinstinct peculiar to himself, found universally (or with allegedexceptions in savage States so rare, that they do not affect thegeneral law(12)),—an instinct of an invisible power withoutthis earth, and of a life beyond the grave, which that powervouchsafes to his spirit. But the best of us cannot violate aninstinct with impunity. Resist hunger as long as you can, and,rather than die of starvation, your instinct will make you acannibal; resist love when youth and nature impel to it, and whatpathologist does not track one broad path into madness or crime? Sowith the noblest instinct of all. Reject the internal conviction bywhich the grandest thinkers have sanctioned the hope of thehumblest Christian, and you are servile at once to some faithinconceivably more hard to believe. The imagination will not bewithheld from its yearnings for vistas beyond the walls of theflesh, and the span of the present hour. Philosophy itself, inrejecting the healthful creeds by which man finds his safeguards insober prayer and his guide through the wilderness of visionarydoubt, invents systems compared to which the mysteries of theologyare simple. Suppose any man of strong, plain understanding hadnever heard of a Deity like Him whom we Christians adore, then askthis man which he can the better comprehend in his mind, and acceptas a natural faith,—namely, the simple Christianity of hisshepherd or the Pantheism of Spinoza? Place before an accomplishedcritic (who comes with a perfectly unprejudiced mind to eitherinquiry), first, the arguments of David Hume against the gospelmiracles, and then the metaphysical crotchets of David Humehimself. This subtle philosopher, not content, with Berkeley, toget rid of matter,—not content, with Condillac, to get rid ofspirit or mind,—proceeds to a miracle greater than any hisMaker has yet vouchsafed to reveal. He, being then alive and in theact of writing, gets rid of himself altogether. Nay, he confesseshe cannot reason with any one who is stupid enough to think he hasa self. His words are: 'What we call a mind is nothing but a heapor collection of different perceptions or objects united togetherby certain relations, and supposed, though falsely, to be endowedwith perfect simplicity and identity. If any one, upon serious andcandid reflection, thinks he has a different notion of himself, Imust confess I can reason with him no longer.' Certainly I wouldrather believe all the ghost stories upon record than believe thatI am not even a ghost, distinct and apart from the perceptionsconveyed to me, no matter how,—just as I am distinct andapart from the furniture in my room, no matter whether I found itthere or whether I bought it. If some old cosmogonist asked you tobelieve that the primitive cause of the solar system was not to 'betraced to a Divine Intelligence, but to a nebulosity, originally sodiffused that its existence can with difficulty be conceived, andthat the origin of the present system of organized beings equallydispensed with the agency of a creative mind, and could be referredto molecules formed in the water by the power of attraction, tillby modifications of cellular tissue in the gradual lapse of ages,one monad became an oyster and another a Man,—would you notsay this cosmogony could scarce have misled the human understandingeven in the earliest dawn of speculative inquiry? Yet such are thehypotheses to which the desire to philosophize away that simpleproposition of a Divine First Cause, which every child cancomprehend, led two of the greatest geniuses and profoundestreasoners of modern times,—La Place and La Marck.(13)Certainly, the more you examine those arch phantasmagorists, thephilosophers who would leave nothing in the universe but their owndelusions, the more your intellectual pride may be humbled. Thewildest phenomena which have startled you are not more extravagantthan the grave explanations which intellectual presumptionadventures on the elements of our own organism and the relationsbetween the world of matter and the world of ideas."
Here our conversation stopped, for Amy had now joined us, and,looking up to reply, I saw the child's innocent face between me andthe furrowed brow of the old man.
(1) See, on the theory elaborated from this principle, Dr.Hibbert's interesting and valuable work on the "Philosophy ofApparitions."
(2) What Faber here says is expressed with more authority by oneof the most accomplished metaphysicians of our time (Sir W.Hamilton):
"Somnambulism is a phenomenon still more astonishing (thandreaming). In this singular state a person performs a regularseries of rational actions, and those frequently of the mostdifficult and delicate nature; and what is still more marvellous,with a talent to which he could make no pretension when awake. (Cr.Ancillon, Essais Philos. ii. 161.) His memory and reminiscencesupply him with recollections of words and things which, perhaps,never were at his disposal in the ordinary state,—he speaksmore fluently a more refined language. And if we are to credit whatthe evidence on which it rests hardly allows us to disbelieve, hehas not only perception of things through other channels than thecommon organs of sense, but the sphere of his cognition isamplified to an extent far beyond the limits to which sensibleperception is confined. This subject is one of the most perplexingin the whole compass of philosophy; for, on the one hand, thephenomena are so remarkable that they cannot be believed, and yet,on the other, they are of so unambiguous and palpable a character,and the witnesses to their reality are so numerous, so intelligent,and so high above every suspicion of deceit, that it is equallyimpossible to deny credit to what is attested by such ample and unexceptionable evidence."—Sir W. Hamilton: Lectures onMetaphysics and Logic, vol. ii. p. 274.
This perplexity, in which the distinguished philosopher leavesthe judgment so equally balanced that it finds it impossible tobelieve, and yet impossible to disbelieve, forms the right state ofmind in which a candid thinker should come to the examination ofthose more extraordinary phenomena which he has not himself yetwitnessed, but the fair inquiry into which may be tendered to himby persons above the imputation of quackery and fraud. Muffler, whois not the least determined, as he is certainly one of the mostdistinguished, disbelievers of mesmeric phenomena, does not appearto have witnessed, or at least to have carefully examined, them, orhe would, perhaps, have seen that even the more extraordinary ofthose phenomena confirm, rather than contradict, his own generaltheories, and may be explained by the sympathies one sense has withanother,—"the laws of reflection through the medium of thebrain." (Physiology of the Senses, p. 1311.) And again by the maxim"that the mental principle, or cause of the mental phenomena,cannot be confined to the brain, but that it exists in a latentstate in every part of the organism." (Ibid., p. 1355.) The "nervepower," contended for by Mr. Bain, also may suggest a rationalsolution of much that has seemed incredible to those physiologistswho have not condescended to sift the genuine phenomena ofmesmerism from the imposture to which, in all ages, the phenomenaexhibited by what may be called the ecstatic temperament have beenapplied.
(3) Descartes, L'Homme, vol. iv. p. 345. Cousin's Edition.
(4) Ibid., p. 428.
(5) Facts in Mesmerism.
(6) La Magic et l'Astrologie dans l'Antiquitd et an Moyen-Age.Par L. F. Alfred Maury, Membre de Institut. p. 225.
(7) "She had no illusions when within doors."—Abercrombie,On the Intellectual Powers, p. 277. (15th Edition.)
(8) Muller, Physiology of the Senses, Baley's translation, pp.1068-1395, and elsewhere. Mr. Bain, in his thoughtful andsuggestive work on the "Senses and Intellect," makes very powerfuluse of these statements in support of his proposition, which Faberadvances in other words, namely, "the return of the nervouscurrents exactly on their old track in revived sensations."
(9) Perhaps it is for the reason suggested in the text, namely,that the magician requires the interposition of a third imaginationbetween his own and that of the consulting believer, that anylearned adept in (so-called) magic will invariably refuse toexhibit without the presence of a third person. Hence the author of"Dogme et Rituel de la Haute Magic," printed at Parisy1852-53—a book less remarkable for its learning than for theearnest belief of a scholar of our own day in the reality of theart of which he records the history—insists much on thenecessity of rigidly observing Le Ternaire, in the number ofpersons who assist in an enchanter's experiments.
(10) I may add that Dr. Kerner instances the effect oflaurel-berries on the Seeress of Prevorst, corresponding with thatasserted by Julius Faber in the text.
(11) See for these unguents the work of M. Maury, before quoted,"La Magic et l'Astrologie," etc., p. 417.
(12) It seems extremely doubtful whether the very few instancesin which it has been asserted that a savage race has been foundwithout recognition of a Deity and a future state would bearsearching examination. It is set forth, for example, in most of thepopular works on Australia, that the Australian savages have nonotion of a Deity or a Hereafter, that they only worship a devil,or evil spirit. This assumption, though made more peremptorily, andby a greater number of writers than any similar one regarding othersavages, is altogether erroneous, and has no other foundation thanthe ignorance of the writers. The Australian savages recognize aDeity, but He is too august for a name in their own language; inEnglish they call Him the Great Master,—an expressionsynonymous with "The Great Lord." They believe in a hereafter ofeternal joy, and place it amongst the stars.—See Strzelecki'sPhysical Description of New South Wales.
(13) See the observations on La Place and La Marck in theIntroduction to Kirby's "Bridgewater Treatise."
I turned back alone. The sun was reddening the summits of thedistant mountain-range, but dark clouds, that portended rain, weregathering behind my way and deepening the shadows in many a chasmand hollow which volcanic fires had wrought on the surface ofuplands undulating like diluvian billows fixed into stone in themidst of their stormy swell. I wandered on and away from the beatentrack, absorbed in thought. Could I acknowledge in Julius Faber'sconjectures any basis for logical ratiocination; or were they notthe ingenious fancies of that empirical Philosophy of Sentiment bywhich the aged, in the decline of severer faculties, sometimesassimilate their theories to the hazy romance of youth? I can wellconceive that the story I tell will be regarded by most as a wildand fantastic fable; that by some it may be considered a vehiclefor guesses at various riddles of Nature, without or within us,which are free to the license of romance, though forbidden to thecaution of science. But, I—I—know unmistakably my ownidentity, my own positive place in a substantial universe. Andbeyond that knowledge, what do I know? Yet had Faber no ground forhis startling parallels between the chimeras of superstition andthe alternatives to faith volunteered by the metaphysicalspeculations of knowledge? On the theorems of Condillac, I, incommon with numberless contemporaneous students (for, in my youth,Condillac held sway in the schools, as now, driven forth from theschools, his opinions float loose through the talk and the scribbleof men of the world, who perhaps never opened his page),—onthe theorems of Condillac I had built up a system of thoughtdesigned to immure the swathed form of material philosophy from allrays and all sounds of a world not material, as the walls of someblind mausoleum shut out, from the mummy within, the whisper ofwinds and the gleaming of stars.
And did not those very theorems, when carried out to theirstrict and completing results by the close reasonings of Hume,resolve my own living identity, the one conscious indivisible me,into a bundle of memories derived from the senses which had bubbledand duped my experience, and reduce into a phantom, as spectral asthat of the Luminous Shadow, the whole solid frame of creation?
While pondering these questions, the storm whose forewarnings Ihad neglected to heed burst forth with all the suddenness peculiarto the Australian climes. The rains descended like the rushing offloods. In the beds of watercourses, which, at noon, seemed driedup and exhausted, the torrents began to swell and to rave; the graycrags around them were animated into living waterfalls. I lookedround, and the landscape was as changed as a scene that replaces ascene on the player's stage. I was aware that I had wandered farfrom my home, and I knew not what direction I should take to regainit. Close at hand, and raised above the torrents that now rushed inmany a gully and tributary creek, around and before me, the mouthof a deep cave, overgrown with bushes and creeping flowers tossedwildly to and fro between the rain from above and the spray ofcascades below, offered a shelter from the storm. Ientered,—scaring innumerable flocks of bats striking againstme, blinded by the glare of the lightning that followed me into thecavern, and hastening to resettle themselves on the pendants ofstalactites, or the jagged buttresses of primaeval wall.
From time to time the lightning darted into the gloom andlingered amongst its shadows; and I saw, by the flash, that thefloors on which I stood were strewed with strange bones, someamongst them the fossilized relics of races destroyed by theDeluge. The rain continued for more than two hours with unabatedviolence; then it ceased almost as suddenly as it had come on, andthe lustrous moon of Australia burst from the clouds shining brightas an English dawn, into the hollows of the cave. And thensimultaneously arose all the choral songs of thewilderness,—creatures whose voices are heard atnight,—the loud whir of the locusts, the musical boom of thebullfrog, the cuckoo note of the morepork, and, mournful amidst allthose merrier sounds, the hoot of the owl, through the wizardshe-oaks and the pale green of the gum-trees.
I stepped forth into the open air and gazed, first instinctivelyon the heavens, next, with more heedful eye, upon the earth. Thenature of the soil bore the evidence of volcanic fires long sinceextinguished. Just before my feet, the rays fell full upon a brightyellow streak in the block of quartz half imbedded in the softmoist soil. In the midst of all the solemn thoughts and the intensesorrows which weighed upon heart and mind, that yellow gleamstartled the mind into a direction remote from philosophy,quickened the heart to a beat that chimed with no householdaffections. Involuntarily I stooped; impulsively I struck the blockwith the hatchet, or tomahawk, I carried habitually about me, forthe purpose of marking the trees that I wished to clear from thewaste of my broad domain. The quartz was shattered by the stroke,and left disburied its glittering treasure. My first glance had notdeceived me. I, vain seeker after knowledge, had, at least,discovered gold. I took up the bright metal—gold! I paused; Ilooked round; the land that just before had seemed to me soworthless took the value of Ophir. Its features had before been asunknown to me as the Mountains of the Moon, and now my memorybecame wonderfully quickened. I recalled the rough map of mypossessions, the first careless ride round their boundaries. Yes,the land on which I stood—for miles, to the spur of thosefarther mountains—the land was mine, and, beneath itssurface, there was gold! I closed my eyes; for some moments visionsof boundless wealth, and of the royal power which such wealth couldcommand, swept athwart my brain. But my heart rapidly settled backto its real treasure. "What matters," I sighed, "all this dross?Could Ophir itself buy back to my Lilian's smile one ray of thelight which gave 'glory to the grass and splendour to theflower'?"
So muttering, I flung the gold into the torrent that ragedbelow, and went on through the moonlight, sorrowingsilently,—only thankful for the discovery that had quickenedmy reminiscence of the landmarks by which to steer my way throughthe wilderness.
The night was half gone, for even when I had gained the familiartrack through the pastures, the swell of the many winding creeksthat now intersected the way obliged me often to retrace my steps;to find, sometimes, the bridge of a felled tree which had beenprovidently left unremoved over the now foaming torrent, and, morethan once, to swim across the current, in which swimmers lessstrong or less practised would have been dashed down the falls,where loose logs and torn trees went clattering and whirling: for Iwas in danger of life. A band of the savage natives were stealthilycreeping on my track,—the natives in those parts were notthen so much awed by the white man as now. A boomerang(1) hadwhirred by me, burying itself amongst the herbage close before myfeet. I had turned, sought to find and to face these dastardlyfoes; they contrived to elude me. But when I moved on, my ear,sharpened by danger, heard them moving, too, in my rear. Once onlythree hideous forms suddenly faced me, springing up from a thicket,all tangled with honeysuckles and creepers of blue and vermilion. Iwalked steadily up to them. They halted a moment or so in suspense;but perhaps they were scared by my stature or awed by my aspect;and the Unfamiliar, though Human, had terror for them, as theUnfamiliar, although but a Shadow, had had terror for me. Theyvanished, and as quickly as if they had crept into the earth.
At length the air brought me the soft perfume of my well-knownacacias, and my house stood before me, amidst English flowers andEnglish fruit-trees, under the effulgent Australian moon. Just as Iwas opening the little gate which gave access from the pasturelandinto the garden, a figure in white rose up from under light,feathery boughs, and a hand was laid on my arm. I started; but mysurprise was changed into fear when I saw the pale face and sweeteyes of Lilian.
"Heavens! you here! you! at this hour! Lilian, what isthis?"
"Hush!" she whispered, clinging to me; "hush! do not tell: noone knows. I missed you when the storm came on; I have missed youever since. Others went in search of you and came back. I could notsleep, but the rest are sleeping, so I stole down to watch for you.Brother, brother, if any harm chanced to you, even the angels couldnot comfort me; all would be dark, dark! But you are safe, safe,safe!" And she clung to me yet closer.
"Ah, Lilian, Lilian, your vision in the hour I first beheld youwas indeed prophetic,—'each has need of the other.' Do youremember?"
"Softly, softly," she said, "let me think!" She stood quietly bymy side, looking up into the sky, with all its numberless stars,and its solitary moon now sinking slow behind the verge of theforest. "It comes back to me," she murmured softly,—"the Longago,—the sweet Long ago!"
I held my breath to listen.
"There, there!" she resumed, pointing to the heavens; "do yousee? You are there, and my father, and—and—Oh! thatterrible face, those serpent eyes, the dead man's skull! Save me!save me!"
She bowed her head upon my bosom, and I led her gently backtowards the house. As we gained the door which she had left open,the starlight shining across the shadowy gloom within, she liftedher face from my breast, and cast a hurried fearful look round theshining garden, then into the dim recess beyond the threshold.
"It is there—there!—the Shadow that lured me on,whispering that if I followed it I should join my beloved. False,dreadful Shadow! it will fade soon,—fade into the grinninghorrible skull. Brother, brother, where is my Allen? Is hedead—dead—or is it I who am dead to him?"
I could but clasp her again to my breast, and seek to mantle hershivering form with my dripping garments, all the while myeyes—following the direction which hers had taken—dwelton the walls of the nook within the threshold, half lost indarkness, half white in starlight. And there I, too, beheld thehaunting Luminous Shadow, the spectral effigies of the mysteriousbeing, whose very existence in the flesh was a riddle unsolved bymy reason. Distinctly I saw the Shadow, but its light was farpaler, its outline far more vague, than when I had beheld itbefore. I took courage, as I felt Lilian's heart beating against myown. I advanced, I crossed the threshold,—the Shadow wasgone.
"There is no Shadow here,—no phantom to daunt thee, mylife's life," said I, bending over Lilian.
"It has touched me in passing; I feel it—cold, cold,cold!" she answered faintly.
I bore her to her room, placed her on her bed, struck a light,watched over her. At dawn there was a change in her face, and fromthat time health gradually left her; strength slowly, slowly, yetto me perceptibly, ebbed from her life away.
(1) A missile weapon peculiar to the Australian savages.
Months upon months have rolled on since the night in whichLilian had watched for my coming amidst the chillingairs—under the haunting moon. I have said that from the dateof that night her health began gradually to fail, but in her mindthere was evidently at work some slow revolution. Her visionaryabstractions were less frequent; when they occurred, lessprolonged. There was no longer in her soft face that celestialserenity which spoke her content in her dreams, but often a look ofanxiety and trouble. She was even more silent than before; but whenshe did speak, there were now evident some struggling gleams ofmemory. She startled us, at times, by a distinct allusion to theevents and scenes of her early childhood. More than once she spokeof commonplace incidents and mere acquaintances at L——.At last she seemed to recognize Mrs. Ashleigh as her mother; butme, as Allen Fenwick, her betrothed, her bridegroom, no! Once ortwice she spoke to me of her beloved as of a stranger to myself,and asked me not to deceive her—should she ever see himagain? There was one change in this new phase of her state thatwounded me to the quick. She had always previously seemed towelcome my presence; now there were hours, sometimes days together,in which my presence was evidently painful to her. She would becomeagitated when I stole into her room, make signs to me to leave her,grow yet more disturbed if I did not immediately obey, and becomecalm again when I was gone.
Faber sought constantly to sustain my courage and administer tomy hopes by reminding me of the prediction he hadhazarded,—namely, that through some malady to the frame thereason would be ultimately restored.
He said, "Observe! her mind was first roused from its slumber bythe affectionate, unconquered impulse of her heart. You wereabsent; the storm alarmed her, she missed you,—feared foryou. The love within her, not alienated, though latent, drew herthoughts into definite human tracks. And thus, the words that youtell me she uttered when you appeared before her were words oflove, stricken, though as yet irregularly, as the winds strike theharp-strings from chords of awakened memory. The same unwontedexcitement, together with lengthened exposure to the coldnight-air, will account for the shock to her physical system, andthe languor and waste of strength by which it has beensucceeded."
"Ay, and the Shadow that we both saw within the threshold. Whatof that?"
"Are there no records on evidence, which most physicians of veryextended practice will perhaps allow that their experience more orless tend to confirm—no records of the singular coincidencesbetween individual impressions which are produced by sympathy? Now,whether you or your Lilian were first haunted by this Shadow I knownot. Perhaps before it appeared to you in the wizard's chamber ithad appeared to her by the Monks' Well. Perhaps, as it came to youin the prison, so it lured her through the solitudes, associatingits illusory guidance with dreams of you. And again, when she sawit within your threshold, your fantasy, so abruptly invoked, madeyou see with the eyes of your Lilian! Does this doctrine ofsympathy, though by that very mystery you two loved each other atfirst,—though, without it, love at first sight were in itselfan incredible miracle,—does, I say, this doctrine of sympathyseem to you inadmissible? Then nothing is left for us but torevolve the conjecture I before threw out. Have certainorganizations like that of Margrave the power to impress, throughspace, the imaginations of those over whom they have forced acontrol? I know not. But if they have, it is not supernatural; itis but one of those operations in Nature so rare and exceptional,and of which testimony and evidence are so imperfect and so liableto superstitious illusions, that they have not yet beentraced—as, if truthful, no doubt they can be, by the patientgenius of science—to one of those secondary causes by whichthe Creator ordains that Nature shall act on Man."
By degrees I became dissatisfied with my conversations withFaber. I yearned for explanations; all guesses but bewildered memore. In his family, with one exception, I found no congenialassociation. His nephew seemed to me an ordinary specimen of a verytrite human nature,—a young man of limited ideas, fair moraltendencies, going mechanically right where not tempted to wrong.The same desire of gain which had urged him to gamble and speculatewhen thrown in societies rife with such example, led him, now inthe Bush, to healthful, industrious, persevering labour. "Spesfovet agricolas," says the poet; the same Hope which entices thefish to the hook impels the plough of the husband-man. The youngfarmer's young wife was somewhat superior to him; she had morerefinement of taste, more culture of mind, but, living in his life,she was inevitably levelled to his ends and pursuits; and, next tothe babe in the cradle, no object seemed to her so important asthat of guarding the sheep from the scab and the dingoes. I wasamazed to see how quietly a man whose mind was so stored by lifeand by books as that of Julius Faber—a man who had loved theclash of conflicting intellects, and acquired the rewards offame—could accommodate himself to the cabined range of hiskinsfolks' half-civilized existence, take interest in their trivialtalk, find varying excitement in the monotonous household of apeasant-like farmer. I could not help saying as much to him once."My friend," replied the old man, "believe me that the happiest artof intellect, however lofty, is that which enables it to becheerfully at home with the Real!"
The only one of the family in which Faber was domesticated inwhom I found an interest, to whose talk I could listen withoutfatigue, was the child Amy. Simple though she was in language,patient of labour as the most laborious, I recognized in her aquiet nobleness of sentiment, which exalted above the commonplacethe acts of her commonplace life. She had no precocious intellect,no enthusiastic fancies, but she had an exquisite activity ofheart. It was her heart that animated her sense of duty, and madeduty a sweetness and a joy. She felt to the core the kindness ofthose around her; exaggerated, with the warmth of her gratitude,the claims which that kindness imposed. Even for the blessing oflife, which she shared with all creation, she felt as if singledout by the undeserved favour of the Creator, and thus was filledwith religion, because she was filled with love.
My interest in this child was increased and deepened by mysaddened and not wholly unremorseful remembrance of the night onwhich her sobs had pierced my ear,—the night from which Isecretly dated the mysterious agencies that had wrenched from theirproper field and career both my mind and my life. But a gentlerinterest endeared her to my thoughts in the pleasure that Lilianfelt in her visits, in the affectionate intercourse that sprang upbetween the afflicted sufferer and the harmless infant. Often whenwe failed to comprehend some meaning which Lilian evidently wishedto convey to us—we, her mother and her husband—she wasunderstood with as much ease by Amy, the unlettered child, as byFaber, the gray-haired thinker.
"How is it,—how is it?" I asked, impatiently andjealously, of Faber. "Love is said to interpret where wisdom fails,and you yourself talk of the marvels which sympathy may effectbetween lover and beloved; yet when, for days together, I cannotsucceed in unravelling Lilian's wish or her thought—and herown mother is equally in fault—you or Amy, closeted alonewith her for five minutes, comprehend and are comprehended."
"Allen," answered Faber, "Amy and I believe in spirit; and she,in whom mind is dormant but spirit awake, feels in such belief asympathy which she has not, in that respect, with yourself, noreven with her mother. You seek only through your mind to conjecturehers. Her mother has sense clear enough where habitual experiencecan guide it, but that sense is confused, and forsakes her whenforced from the regular pathway in which it has been accustomed totread. Amy and I through soul guess at soul, and though mostlycontented with earth, we can both rise at times into heaven. Wepray."
"Alas!" said I, half mournfully, half angrily, "when you thusspeak of Mind as distinct from Soul, it was only in that Visionwhich you bid me regard as the illusion of a fancy stimulated bychemical vapours, producing on the brain an effect similar to thatof opium or the inhalation of the oxide gas, that I have ever seenthe silver spark of the Soul distinct from the light of the Mind.And holding, as I do, that all intellectual ideas are derived fromthe experiences of the body, whether I accept the theory of Locke,or that of Condillac, or that into which their propositions reachtheir final development in the wonderful subtlety of Hume, I cannotdetect the immaterial spirit in the material substance,—muchless follow its escape from the organic matter in which theprinciple of thought ceases with the principle of life. When themetaphysician, contending for the immortality of the thinkingfaculty, analyzes Mind, his analysis comprehends the mind of thebrute, nay, of the insect, as well as that of man. Take Reid'sdefinition of Mind, as the most comprehensive which I can at themoment remember: 'By the mind of a man we understand that in himwhich thinks, remembers, reasons, and wills.(1) But this definitiononly distinguishes the mind of man from that of the brute bysuperiority in the same attributes, and not by attributes denied tothe brute. An animal, even an insect, thinks, remembers, reasons,and wills.(1) Few naturalists will now support the doctrine thatall the mental operations of brute or insect are to be exclusivelyreferred to instincts; and, even if they do, the word 'instinct' isa very vague word,—loose and large enough to cover an abysswhich our knowledge has not sounded. And, indeed, in proportion asan animal like the dog becomes cultivated by intercourse, hisinstincts grow weaker, and his ideas formed by experience (namely,his mind), more developed, often to the conquest of the instinctsthemselves. Hence, with his usual candour, Dr. Abercrombie—incontending 'that everything mental ceases to exist after death,when we know that everything corporeal continues to exist, is agratuitous assumption contrary to every rule of philosophicalinquiry'—feels compelled, by his reasoning, to admit theprobability of a future life even to the lower animals. His wordsare: 'To this anode of reasoning it has been objected that it wouldgo to establish an immaterial principle in the lower animals whichin them exhibits many of the phenomena of mind. I have only toanswer, Be it so. There are in the lower animals many of thephenomena of mind, and with regard to these, we also contend thatthey are entirely distinct from anything we know of the propertiesof matter, which is all that we mean, or can mean, by beingimmaterial.'(2) Am I then driven to admit that if man's mind isimmaterial and imperishable, so also is that of the ape and theant?"
"I own," said Faber, with his peculiar smile, arch and genial,"that if I were compelled to make that admission, it would notshock my pride. I do not presume to set any limit to the goodnessof the Creator; and should be as humbly pleased as the Indian, ifin—
"'yonder sky, My faithful dog should bear me company.'
"You are too familiar with the works of that Titan in wisdom anderror, Descartes, not to recollect the interesting correspondencebetween the urbane philosopher and our combative countryman, HenryMore,(3) on this very subject; in which certainly More has the bestof it when Descartes insists on reducing what he calls the soul(l'ame) of brutes into the same kind of machines as man constructsfrom inorganized matter. The learning, indeed, lavished on theinsoluble question involved in the psychology of the inferioranimals is a proof at least of the all-inquisitive, redundantspirit of man.(4) We have almost a literature in itself devoted toendeavours to interpret the language of brutes.(5) Dupont deNemours has discovered that dogs talk in vowels, using only twoconsonants, G, Z, when they are angry. He asserts that cats employthe same vowels as dogs; but their language is more affluent inconsonants, including M, N, B, R, V, F. How many laborious effortshave been made to define and to construe the song of thenightingale! One version of that song, by Beckstein, thenaturalist, published in 1840, I remember to have seen. And I hearda lady, gifted with a singularly charming voice, chant themysterious vowels with so exquisite a pathos, that one could notrefuse to believe her when she declared that she fully comprehendedthe bird's meaning, and gave to the nightingale's warble the tenderinterpretation of her own woman's heart.
"But leaving all such discussions to their proper place amongstthe Curiosities of Literature, I come in earnest to the questionyou have so earnestly raised; and to me the distinction between manand the lower animals in reference to a spiritual nature designedfor a future existence, and the mental operations whose uses arebounded to an existence on earth, seems ineffaceably clear. Whetherideas or even perceptions be innate or all formed by experience isa speculation for metaphysicians, which, so far as it affects thequestion of as immaterial principle, I am quite willing to layaside. I can well understand that a materialist may admit innateideas in Man, as he must admit them in the instinct of brutes,tracing them to hereditary predispositions. On the other hand, weknow that the most devout believers in our spiritual nature haveinsisted, with Locke, in denying any idea, even of the Deity, to beinnate.
"But here comes my argument. I care not how ideas areformed,—the material point is, how are the capacities toreceive ideas formed? The ideas may all come from experience, butthe capacity to receive the ideas must be inherent. I take the word'capacity' as a good plain English word, rather than the moretechnical word 'receptivity,' employed by Kant. And by capacity Imean the passive power(6) to receive ideas, whether in man or inany living thing by which ideas are received. A man and an elephantis each formed with capacities to receive ideas suited to theseveral places in the universe held by each.
"The more I look through Nature the more I find that on allvarieties of organized life is carefully bestowed the capacity toreceive the impressions, be they called perceptions or ideas, whichare adapted to the uses each creature is intended to derive fromthem. I find, then, that Man alone is endowed with the capacity toreceive the ideas of a God, of Soul, of Worship, of a Hereafter. Isee no trace of such a capacity in the inferior races; nor, howevertheir intelligence may be refined by culture, is such capacity everapparent in them.
"But wherever capacities to receive impressions are sufficientlygeneral in any given species of creature to be called universal tothat species, and yet not given to another species, then, from allanalogy throughout Nature, those capacities are surely designed byProvidence for the distinct use and conservation of the species towhich they are given.
"It is no answer to me to say that the inherent capacities thusbestowed on Man do not suffice in themselves to make him form rightnotions of a Deity or a Hereafter; because it is plainly the designof Providence that Man must learn to correct and improve all hisnotions by his own study and observation. He must build a hutbefore he can build a Parthenon; he must believe with the savage orthe heathen before he can believe with the philosopher orChristian. In a word, in all his capacities, Man has only given tohim, not the immediate knowledge of the Perfect, but the means tostrive towards the Perfect. And thus one of the most accomplishedof modern reasoners, to whose lectures you must have listened withdelight, in your college days, says well:—
"'Accordingly the sciences always studied with keenest interest are those in a state of progress and uncertainty; absolute certainty and absolute completion would be the paralysis of any study, and the last worst calamity that could befall Man, as he is at present constituted, would be that full and final possession of speculative truth which he now vainly anticipates as the consummation of his intellectual happiness.'(7)
"Well, then, in all those capacities for the reception ofimpressions from external Nature which are given to Man and not tothe brutes, I see the evidence of Man's Soul. I can understand whythe inferior animal has no capacity to receive the idea of a Deityand of Worship—simply because the inferior animal, even ifgraciously admitted to a future life, may not therein preserve thesense of its identity. I can understand even why that sympathy witheach other which we men possess and which constitutes the greatvirtue we emphatically call Humanity, is not possessed by thelesser animals (or, at least, in a very rare and exceptionaldegree) even where they live in communities, like beavers, or bees,or ants; because men are destined to meet, to know, and to loveeach other in the life to come, and the bond between the bruteceases here.
"Now the more, then, we examine the inherent capacities bestoweddistinctly and solely on Man, the more they seem to distinguish himfrom the other races by their comprehension of objects beyond hislife upon this earth.
"'Man alone,' says Muller, 'can conceive abstract notions; and it is in abstract notions—such as time, space, matter, spirit, light, form, quantity, essence—that man grounds, not only all philosophy, all science, but all that practically improves one generation for the benefit of the next.'
"And why? Because all these abstract notions unconsciously leadthe mind away from the material into the immaterial,—from thepresent into the future. But if Man ceases to exist when hedisappears in the grave, you must be compelled to affirm that he isthe only creature in existence whom Nature or Providence hascondescended to deceive and cheat by capacities for which there areno available objects. How nobly and how truly has Chalmerssaid:—
"'What inference shall we draw from this remarkable law in Nature that there is nothing waste and nothing meaningless in the feelings and faculties wherewith living creatures are endowed? For each desire there is a counterpart object; for each faculty there is room and opportunity for exercise either in the present or the coming futurity. Now, but for the doctrine of immortality, Man would be an exception to this law,-he would stand forth as an anomaly in Nature, with aspirations in his heart for which the universe had no antitype to offer, with capacities of understanding and thought that never were to be followed by objects of corresponding greatness through the whole history of his being! ............ "'With the inferior animals there is a certain squareness of adjustment, if we may so term it, between each desire and its correspondent gratification. The one is evenly met by the other, and there is a fulness and definiteness of enjoyment up to the capacity of enjoyment. Not so with Man, who, both from the vastness of his propensities and the vastness of his powers, feels himself chained and beset in a field too narrow for him. He alone labours under the discomfort of an incongruity between his circumstances and his powers; and unless there be new circumstances awaiting him in a more advanced state of being, he, the noblest of Nature's products here, would turn out to be the greatest of her failures.'(8)
"This, then, I take to be the proof of Soul in Man, not that hehas a mind—because, as you justly say, inferior animals havethat, though in a lesser degree—but because he has thecapacities to comprehend, as soon as he is capable of any abstractideas whatsoever, the very truths not needed for self-conservationon earth, and therefore not given to yonder ox andopossum,—namely, the nature of Deity, Soul, Hereafter. And inthe recognition of these truths, the Human society, that excels thesociety of beavers, bees, and ants, by perpetual and progressiveimprovement on the notions inherited from its progenitors, restsits basis. Thus, in fact, this world is benefited for men by theirbelief in the next, while the society of brutes remains age afterage the same. Neither the bee nor the beaver has, in allprobability, improved since the Deluge.
"But inseparable from the conviction of these truths is theimpulse of prayer and worship. It does not touch my argument when aphilosopher of the school of Bolingbroke or Lucretius says, 'thatthe origin of prayer is in Man's ignorance of the phenomena ofNature.' That it is fear or ignorance which, 'when rocked themountains or when groaned the ground, taught the weak to bend, theproud to pray.' My answer is, the brutes are much more forciblyimpressed by natural phenomena than Man is; the bird and the beastknow before you and I do when the mountain will rock and the groundgroan, and their instinct leads them to shelter; but it does notlead them to prayer. If my theory be right that Soul is to besought not in the question whether mental ideas be innate or formedby experience, by the sense, by association or habit, but in theinherent capacity to receive ideas, then, the capacity bestowed onMan alone, to be impressed by Nature herself with the idea of aPower superior to Nature, with which Power he can establishcommune, is a proof that to Man alone the Maker has made Natureitself proclaim His existence,—that to Man alone the Deityvouchsafes the communion with Himself which comes from prayer."
"Even were this so," said I, "is not the Creator omniscient? Ifall-wise, all-foreseeing? If all-foreseeing, all-pre-ordaining? Canthe prayer of His creature alter the ways of His will?"
"For the answer to a question," returned Faber, "which is notunfrequently asked by the clever men of the world, I ought to referyou to the skilled theologians who have so triumphantly carried thereasoner over that ford of doubt which is crossed every day by theinfant. But as we have not their books in the wilderness, I amcontented to draw my reply as a necessary and logical sequence fromthe propositions I have sought to ground on the plain observationof Nature. I can only guess at the Deity's Omniscience, or Hismodes of enforcing His power by the observation of His generallaws; and of all His laws, I know of none more general than theimpulse which bids men pray,—which makes Nature so act, thatall the phenomena of Nature we can conceive, however startling andinexperienced, do not make the brute pray, but there is not atrouble that can happen to Man, but what his impulse is topray,—always provided, indeed, that he is not a philosopher.I say not this in scorn of the philosopher, to whose wildest guessour obligations are infinite, but simply because for all which isimpulsive to Man, there is a reason in Nature which no philosophycan explain away. I do not, then, bewilder myself by seeking tobind and limit the Omniscience of the Deity to my finite ideas. Icontent myself with supposing that somehow or other, He has made itquite compatible with His Omniscience that Man should obey theimpulse which leads him to believe that, in addressing a Deity, heis addressing a tender, compassionate, benignant Father, and inthat obedience shall obtain beneficial results. If that impulse bean illusion, then we must say that Heaven governs the earth by alie; and that is impossible, because, reasoning by analogy, allNature is truthful,—that is, Nature gives to no speciesinstincts or impulses which are not of service to it. Should I notbe a shallow physician if, where I find in the human organization aprinciple or a property so general that I must believe it normal tothe healthful conditions of that organization, I should refuse toadmit that Nature intended it for use? Reasoning by all analogy,must I not say the habitual neglect of its use must more or lessinjure the harmonious well-being of the whole human system? I couldhave much to add upon the point in dispute by which the creedimplied in your question would enthrall the Divine mercy by thenecessities of its Divine wisdom, and substitute for a benignantDeity a relentless Fate. But here I should exceed my province. I amno theologian. Enough for me that in all my afflictions, all myperplexities, an impulse, that I obey as an instinct, moves me atonce to prayer. Do I find by experience that the prayer is heard,that the affliction is removed, the doubt is solved? That, indeed,would be presumptuous to say. But it is not presumptuous to thinkthat by the efficacy of prayer my heart becomes more fortifiedagainst the sorrow, and my reason more serene amidst thedoubt."
I listened, and ceased to argue. I felt as if in that solitude,and in the pause of my wonted mental occupations, my intellect wasgrowing languid, and its old weapons rusting in disuse. My pridetook alarm. I had so from my boyhood cherished the idea of fame,and so glorified the search after knowledge, that I recoiled indismay from the thought that I had relinquished knowledge, and cutmyself off from fame. I resolved to resume my once favouritephilosophical pursuits, re-examine and complete the Work to which Ihad once committed my hopes of renown; and, simultaneously, arestless desire seized me to communicate, though but at briefintervals, with other minds than those immediately within myreach,—minds fresh from the old world, and reviving thememories of its vivid civilization. Emigrants frequently passed mydoors, but I had hitherto shrunk from tendering the hospitalitiesso universally accorded in the colony. I could not endure to exposeto such rough strangers my Lilian's mournful affliction, and thatthought was not less intolerable to Mrs. Ashleigh. I now hastilyconstructed a log-building a few hundred yards from the house, andnear the main track taken by travellers through the spaciouspastures. I transported to this building my books and scientificinstruments. In an upper story I placed my telescopes and lenses,my crucibles and retorts. I renewed my chemical experiments; Isought to invigorate my mind by other branches of science which Ihad hitherto less cultured,—meditated new theories on Lightand Colour, collected specimens in Natural History, subjectedanimalcules to my microscope, geological fossils to my hammer. Withall these quickened occupations of thought, I strove to distractmyself from sorrow, and strengthen my reason against the illusionof my fantasy. The Luminous Shadow was not seen again on my wall,and the thought of Margrave himself was banished.
In this building I passed many hours of each day; more and moreearnestly plunging my thoughts into depths of abstract study, asLilian's unaccountable dislike to my presence became more and moredecided. When I thus ceased to think that my life cheered andcomforted hers, my heart's occupation was gone. I had annexed tothe apartment reserved for myself in the log-hut a couple of sparerooms, in which I could accommodate passing strangers. I learned tolook forward to their coming with interest, and to see them departwith regret; yet, for the most part, they were of the ordinaryclass of colonial adventurers,—bankrupt tradesmen, unluckyfarmers, forlorn mechanics, hordes of unskilled labourers, now andthen a briefless barrister, or a sporting collegian who had losthis all on the Derby. One day, however, a young man of educationand manners that unmistakably proclaimed the cultured gentleman ofEurope, stopped at my door. He was a cadet of a noble Prussianfamily, which for some political reasons had settled itself inParis; there he had become intimate with young French nobles, andliving the life of a young French noble had soon scandalized hisGerman parents, forestalled his slender inheritance, and beencompelled to fly his father's frown and his tailor's bills. Allthis he told me with a lively frankness which proved how much thewit of a German can be quickened in the atmosphere of Paris. An oldcollege friend, of birth inferior to his own, had been asunfortunate in seeking to make money as this young prodigal hadbeen an adept in spending it. The friend, a few years previously,had accompanied other Germans in a migration to Australia, and wasalready thriving; the spendthrift noble was on his way to join thebankrupt trader, at a German settlement fifty miles distant from myhouse. This young man was unlike any German I ever met. He had allthe exquisite levity by which the well-bred Frenchman gives to thedoctrines of the Cynic the grace of the Epicurean. He owned himselfto be good for nothing with an elegance of candour which not onlydisarmed censure, but seemed to challenge admiration; and, withal,the happy spendthrift was so inebriate with hope,—sure thathe should be rich before he was thirty. How and wherefore rich, hecould have no more explained than I can square the circle. When thegrand serious German nature does Frenchify itself, it can become soextravagantly French!
I listened, almost enviously, to this light-hearted profligate'sbabble, as we sat by my rude fireside,—I, sombre man ofscience and sorrow, he, smiling child of idleness and pleasure, somuch one of Nature's courtier-like nobles, that there, as he smokedhis villanous pipe, in his dust-soiled shabby garments, and withhis ruffianly revolver stuck into his belt, I would defy thedaintiest Aristarch who ever presided as critic over the holidayworld not to have said, "There smiles the genius beyond my laws,the born darling of the Graces, who in every circumstance, in everyage, like Aristippus, would have socially charmed; would have beenwelcome to the orgies of a Caesar or a Clodius, to the boudoirs ofa Montespan or a Pompadour; have lounged through the MulberryGardens with a Rochester and a Buckingham, or smiled from thedeath-cart, with a Richelieu and a Lauzun, a gentleman's disdain ofa mob!"
I was so thinking as we sat, his light talk frothing up from hiscareless lips, when suddenly from the spray and the sparkle of thatlight talk was flung forth the name of Margrave.
"Margrave!" I exclaimed. "Pardon me. What of him?"
"What of him! I asked if, by chance, you knew the onlyEnglishman I ever had the meanness to envy?"
"Perhaps you speak of one person, and I thought of another."
"Pardieu, my dear host, there can scarcely be two Margraves! Theone of whom I speak flashed like a meteor upon Paris, bought from aprince of the Bourse a palace that might have lodged a prince ofthe blood-royal, eclipsed our Jew bankers in splendour, ourjeunesse doree in good looks and hair-brain adventures, and,strangest of all, filled his salons with philosophers andcharlatans, chemists and spirit-rappers; insulting the gravest donsof the schools by bringing them face to face with the most impudentquacks, the most ridiculous dreamers,—and yet, withal,himself so racy and charming, so bon prince, so bon enfant! For sixmonths he was the rage at Paris: perhaps he might have continued tobe the rage there for six years, but all at once the meteorvanished as suddenly as it had flashed. Is this the Margrave whomyou know?"
"I should not have thought the Margrave whom I knew could havereconciled his tastes to the life of cities."
"Nor could this man: cities were too tame for him. He has goneto some far-remote wilds in the East,—some say in search ofthe Philosopher's Stone; for he actually maintained in his house aSicilian adventurer, who, when at work on that famous discovery,was stifled by the fumes of his own crucible. After thatmisfortune, Margrave took Paris in disgust, and we lost him."
"So this is the only Englishman whom you envy! Envy him?Why?"
"Because he is the only Englishman I ever met who contrived tobe rich and yet free from the spleen; I envied him because one hadonly to look at his face and see how thoroughly he enjoyed the lifeof which your countrymen seem to be so heartily tired. But now thatI have satisfied your curiosity, pray satisfy mine. Who and what isthis Englishman?"
"Who and what was he supposed at Paris to be?"
"Conjectures were numberless. One of your countrymen suggestedthat which was the most generally favoured. This gentleman, whosename I forget, but who was one of those old roues who fancythemselves young because they live with the young, no sooner seteyes upon Margrave, than he exclaimed, 'Louis Grayle come to lifeagain, as I saw him forty-four years ago! But no—stillyounger, still handsomer—it must be his son!"
"Louis Grayle, who was said to be murdered at Aleppo?"
"The same. That strange old man was enormously rich; but itseems that he hated his lawful heirs, and left behind him a fortuneso far below that which he was known to possess that he mustcertainly have disposed of it secretly before his death. Why sodispose of it, if not to enrich some natural son, whom, for privatereasons, he might not have wished to acknowledge, or point out tothe world by the signal bequest of his will? All that Margrave eversaid of himself and the source of his wealth confirmed this belief.He frankly proclaimed himself a natural son, enriched by a fatherwhose name he knew not nor cared to know."
"It is true. And Margrave quitted Paris for the East. When?"
"I can tell you the date within a day or two, for his flightpreceded mine by a week; and, happily, all Paris was so busy intalking of it, that I slipped away without notice."
And the Prussian then named a date which it thrilled me to hear,for it was in that very month, and about that very day, that theLuminous Shadow had stood within my threshold.
The young count now struck off into other subjects of talk:nothing more was said of Margrave. An hour or two afterwards hewent on his way, and I remained long gazing musingly on the embersof the dying glow on my hearth.
(1) "Are intelligence and instinct, thus differing in theirrelative proportion in man as compared with all other animals, yetthe same in kind and manner of operation in both? To this questionwe must give at once an affirmative answer. The expression ofCuvier, regarding the faculty of reasoning in lower animals, 'Leurintelligence execute des operations du meme genre,' is true in itsfull sense. We can in no manner define reason so as to exclude actswhich are at every moment present to our observation, and which wefind in many instances to contravene the natural instincts of thespecies. The demeanour and acts of the dog in reference to hismaster, or the various uses to which he is put by man, are asstrictly logical as those we witness in the ordinary transactionsof life."—Sir Henry Holland, chapters on "Mental Physiology,"p. 220.
The whole of the chapter on Instincts and Habits in this workshould be read in connection with the passage just quoted. The workitself, at once cautious and suggestive, is not one of the leastobligations which philosophy and religion alike owe to thelucubrations of English medical men.
(2) Abercrombie's Intellectual Powers, p. 26. (15thEdition.)
(3) OEuvres de Descartes, vol. x. p. 178, et seq. (Cousin'sEdition.)
(4) M. Tissot the distinguished Professor of Philosophy atDijon, in his recent work, "La Vie dans l'Homme," p. 255, gives along and illustrious list of philosophers who assign a rationalsoul (ame) to the inferior animals, though he truly adds, "thatthey have not always the courage of their opinion."
(5) Some idea of the extent of research and imagination bestowedon this subject may be gleaned from the sprightly work of Pierquinde Gemblouz, "Idiomologie des Animaux," published at Paris,1844.
(6) "Faculty is active power: capacity is passivepower."—Sir W. Hamilton: Lectures on Metaphysics and Logic,vol. i. p.178.
(7) Sir W. Hamilton's "Lectures," vol. i. p. 10.
(8) Chalmers, "Bridgewater Treatise," vol. ii. pp. 28, 30.Perhaps I should observe, that here and elsewhere in the dialoguesbetween Faber and Fenwick, it has generally been thought better tosubstitute the words of the author quoted for the mere outline orpurport of the quotation which memory afforded to theinterlocutor.
My Work, my Philosophical Work—the ambitious hope of myintellectual life—how eagerly I returned to it again! Faraway from my household grief, far away from my haggardperplexities—neither a Lilian nor a Margrave there!
As I went over what I had before written, each link in its chainof reasoning seemed so serried, that to alter one were to derangeall; and the whole reasoning was so opposed to the possibility ofthe wonders I myself had experienced, so hostile to the subtlehypotheses of a Faber, or the childlike belief of an Amy, that Imust have destroyed the entire work if I had admitted suchcontradictions to its design!
But the work was I myself!—I, in my solid, sober,healthful mind, before the brain had been perplexed by a phantom.Were phantoms to be allowed as testimonies against science? No; inreturning to my Book, I returned to my former Me!
How strange is that contradiction between our being as man andour being as Author! Take any writer enamoured of a system: athousand things may happen to him every day which might shake hisfaith in that system; and while he moves about as mere man, hisfaith is shaken. But when he settles himself back into the phase ofhis being as author, the mere act of taking pen in hand andsmoothing the paper before him restores his speculations to theirancient mechanical train. The system, the beloved system, reassertsits tyrannic sway, and he either ignores, or moulds into freshproofs of his theory as author, all which, an hour before, hadgiven his theory the lie in his living perceptions as man.
I adhered to my system,—I continued my work. Here, in thebarbarous desert, was a link between me and the Cities of Europe.All else might break down under me. The love I had dreamed of wasblotted out from the world, and might never be restored; my heartmight be lonely, my life be an exile's. My reason might, at last,give way before the spectres which awed my senses, or the sorrowwhich stormed my heart. But here at least was a monument of myrational thoughtful Me,—of my individualized identity inmultiform creation. And my mind, in the noon of its force, wouldshed its light on the earth when my form was resolved to itselements. Alas! in this very yearning for the Hereafter, though butthe Hereafter of a Name, could I see only the craving of Mind, andhear not the whisper of Soul!
The avocation of a colonist, usually so active, had littleinterest for me. This vast territorial lordship, in which, could Ihave endeared its possession by the hopes that animate a Founder, Ishould have felt all the zest and the pride of ownership, was butthe run of a common to the passing emigrant, who would leave no sonto inherit the tardy products of his labour. I was not goaded toindustry by the stimulus of need. I could only be ruined if Irisked all my capital in the attempt to improve. I lived,therefore, amongst my fertile pastures, as careless of culture asthe English occupant of the Highland moor, which he rents for therange of its solitudes.
I knew, indeed, that if ever I became avaricious, I might swellmy modest affluence into absolute wealth. I had revisited the spotin which I had discovered the nugget of gold, and had found theprecious metal in rich abundance just under the first coverings ofthe alluvial soil. I concealed my discovery from all. I knew that,did I proclaim it, the charm of my bush-life would be gone. Myfields would be infested by all the wild adventurers who gather togold as the vultures of prey round a carcass; my servants woulddesert me, my very flocks would be shepherdless!
Months again rolled on months. I had just approached the closeof my beloved Work, when it was again suspended, and by an anguishkeener than all which I had previously known.
Lilian became alarmingly ill. Her state of health, longgradually declining, had hitherto admitted checkered intervals ofimprovement, and exhibited no symptoms of actual danger. But nowshe was seized with a kind of chronic fever, attended with absoluteprivation of sleep, an aversion to even the lightest nourishment,and an acute nervous susceptibility to all the outward impressionsof which she had long seemed so unconscious; morbidly alive to thefaintest sound, shrinking from the light as from a torture. Herprevious impatience at my entrance into her room became aggravatedinto vehement emotions, convulsive paroxysms of distress; so thatFaber banished me from her chamber, and, with a heart bleeding atevery fibre, I submitted to the cruel sentence.
Faber had taken up his abode in my house and brought Amy withhim; one or the other never left Lilian, night or day. The greatphysician spoke doubtfully of the case, but not despairingly.
"Remember," he said, "that in spite of the want of sleep, theabstinence from food, the form has not wasted as it would do werethis fever inevitably mortal. It is upon that phenomenon I build ahope that I have not been mistaken in the opinion I hazarded fromthe first. We are now in the midst of the critical struggle betweenlife and reason; if she preserve the one, my conviction is that shewill regain the other. That seeming antipathy to yourself is a goodomen. You are inseparably associated with her intellectual world;in proportion as she revives to it, must become vivid and powerfulthe reminiscences of the shock that annulled, for a time, thatworld to her. So I welcome, rather than fear, theover-susceptibility of the awakening senses to external sights andsounds. A few days will decide if I am right. In this climate theprogress of acute maladies is swift, but the recovery from them isyet more startlingly rapid. Wait, endure, be prepared to submit tothe will of Heaven; but do not despond of its mercy."
I rushed away from the consoler,—away into the thick ofthe forests, the heart of the solitude. All around me, there, wasjoyous with life; the locust sang amidst the herbage; the cranesgambolled on the banks of the creek; the squirrel-like opossumsfrolicked on the feathery boughs. "And what," said I tomyself,—"what if that which seems so fabulous in the distantbeing whose existence has bewitched my own, be substantially true?What if to some potent medicament Margrave owes his gloriousvitality, his radiant youth? Oh, that I had not so disdainfullyturned away from his hinted solicitations—to what?—tonothing guiltier than lawful experiment. Had I been less devoted abigot to this vain schoolcraft, which we call the Medical Art, andwhich, alone in this age of science, has made no perceptibleprogress since the days of its earliest teachers—had I said,in the true humility of genuine knowledge, 'these alchemists weremen of genius and thought; we owe to them nearly all the grandhints of our chemical science,—is it likely that they wouldhave been wholly drivellers and idiots in the one faith they clungto the most?'—had I said that, I might now have no fear oflosing my Lilian. Why, after all, should there not be in Nature oneprimary essence, one master substance; in which is stored thespecific nutriment of life?"
Thus incoherently muttering to the woods what my pride of reasonwould not have suffered me gravely to say to my fellow-men, Ifatigued my tormented spirits into a gloomy calm, and mechanicallyretraced my steps at the decline of day. I seated myself at thedoor of my solitary log-hut, lean ing my cheek upon my hand, andmusing. Wearily I looked up, roused by a discord of clatteringhoofs and lumbering wheels on the hollow-sounding grass-track. Acrazy groaning vehicle, drawn by four horses, emerged from thecopse of gum-trees,—fast, fast along the road, which no suchpompous vehicle had traversed since that which had borneme—luxurious satrap for an early colonist—to my lodgein the wilderness. What emigrant rich enough to squander in thehire of such an equipage more than its cost in England, could thusbe entering on my waste domain? An ominous thrill shot throughme.
The driver—perhaps some broken-down son of luxury in theOld World, fit for nothing in the New World but to ply, for hire,the task that might have led to his ruin when plied insport—stopped at the door of my hut, and called out, "Friend,is not this the great Fenwick Section, and is not yonder long pileof building the Master's house?"
Before I could answer I heard a faint voice, within the vehicle,speaking to the driver; the last nodded, descended from his seat,opened the carriage-door, and offered his arm to a man, who, wavingaside the proffered aid, descended slowly and feebly; paused amoment as if for breath, and then, leaning on his staff, walkedfrom the road, across the sward rank with luxuriant herbage,through the little gate in the new-set fragrant wattle-fence,wearily, languidly, halting often, till he stood facing me, leaningboth wan and emaciated hands upon his staff, and his meagre formshrinking deep within the folds of a cloak lined thick with costlysables. His face was sharp, his complexion of a livid yellow, hiseyes shone out from their hollow orbits, unnaturally enlarged andfatally bright. Thus, in ghastly contrast to his former splendourof youth and opulence of life, Margrave stood before me.
"I come to you," said Margrave, in accents hoarse and broken,"from the shores of the East. Give me shelter and rest. I have thatto say which will more than repay you."
Whatever, till that moment, my hate and my fear of thisunexpected visitant, hate would have been inhumanity, fear ameanness, conceived for a creature so awfully stricken down.
Silently, involuntarily, I led him into the house. There herested a few minutes, with closed eyes and painful gasps forbreath. Meanwhile, the driver brought from the carriage atravelling-bag and a small wooden chest or coffer, strongly bandedwith iron clamps. Margrave, looking up as the man drew near,exclaimed fiercely, "Who told you to touch that chest? How dareyou? Take it from that man, Fenwick! Place it here,—here bymy side!"
I took the chest from the driver, whose rising anger at being soimperiously rated in the land of democratic equality was appeasedby the gold which Margrave lavishly flung to him.
"Take care of the poor gentleman, squire," he whispered to me,in the spontaneous impulse of gratitude, "I fear he will nottrouble you long. He must be monstrous rich. Arrived in a vesselhired all to himself, and a train of outlandish attendants, whom hehas left behind in the town yonder. May I bait my horses in yourstables? They have come a long way."
I pointed to the neighbouring stables, and the man nodded histhanks, remounted his box, and drove off.
I returned to Margrave. A faint smile came to his lips as Iplaced the chest beside him.
"Ay, ay," he muttered. "Safe! safe! I shall soon be wellagain,—very soon! And now I can sleep in peace!"
I led him into an inner room, in which there was a bed. He threwhimself on it with a loud sigh of relief. Soon, half raisinghimself on his elbow, he exclaimed, "The chest—bring ithither! I need it always beside me! There, there! Now for a fewhours of sleep; and then, if I can take food, or some suchrestoring cordial as your skill may suggest, I shall be strongenough to talk. We will talk! we will talk!"
His eyes closed heavily as his voice fell into a drowsy mutter:a moment more and he was asleep.
I watched beside him, in mingled wonder and compassion. Lookinginto that face, so altered yet still so young, I could not sternlyquestion what had been the evil of that mystic life, which seemednow oozing away through the last sands in the hour-glass. I placedmy hand softly on his pulse: it scarcely beat. I put my ear to hisbreast, and involuntarily sighed, as I distinguished in itsfluttering heave that dull, dumb sound, in which the heart seemsknelling itself to the greedy grave!
Was this, indeed, the potent magician whom I had sofeared!—this the guide to the Rosicrucian's secret of life'srenewal, in whom, but an hour or two ago, my fancies gulled mycredulous trust!
But suddenly, even while thus chiding my wild superstitions, afear, that to most would seem scarcely less superstitious, shotacross me. Could Lilian be affected by the near neighbourhood ofone to whose magnetic influence she had once been so strangelysubjected? I left Margrave still sleeping, closed and locked thedoor of the hut, went back to my dwelling, and met Amy at thethreshold. Her smile was so cheering that I felt at oncerelieved.
"Hush!" said the child, putting her finger to her lips, "she isso quiet! I was coming in search of you, with a message fromher."
"From Lilian to me—what! to me!"
"Hush! About an hour ago, she beckoned me to draw near to her,and then said, very softly: 'Tell Allen that light is coming backto me, and it all settles on him—on him. Tell him that I prayto be spared to walk by his side on earth, hand-in-hand to thatheaven which is no dream, Amy. Tell him that,—no dream!'"
While the child spoke my tears gushed, and the strong hands inwhich I veiled my face quivered like the leaf of the aspen. Andwhen I could command my voice, I said plaintively,—
"May I not, then, see her?—only for a moment, and answerher message though but by a look?"
"No, no!"
"No! Where is Faber?"
"Gone into the forest, in search of some herbs, but he gave methis note for you."
I wiped the blinding tears from my eyes, and read theselines:—
"I have, though with hesitation, permitted Amy to tell you thecheering words, by which our beloved patient confirms my beliefthat reason is coming back to her,—slowly, labouringly, butif she survive, for permanent restoration. On no account attempt toprecipitate or disturb the work of nature. As dangerous as a suddenglare of light to eyes long blind and newly regaining vision in thefriendly and soothing dark would be the agitation that yourpresence at this crisis would cause. Confide in me."
I remained brooding over these lines and over Lilian's messagelong and silently, while Amy's soothing whispers stole into my ear,soft as the murmurs of a rill heard in the gloom of forests.Rousing myself at length, my thoughts returned to Margrave.Doubtless he would soon awake. I bade Amy bring me such slightnutriment as I thought best suited to his enfeebled state, tellingher it was for a sick traveller, resting himself in my hut. WhenAmy returned, I took from her the little basket with which she wascharged, and having, meanwhile, made a careful selection from thecontents of my medicine-chest, went back to the hut. I had not longresumed my place beside Margrave's pillow before he awoke.
"What o'clock is it?" he asked, with an anxious voice.
"About seven."
"Not later? That is well; my time is precious."
"Compose yourself, and eat."
I placed the food before him, and he partook of it, thoughsparingly, and as if with effort. He then dozed for a short time,again woke up, and impatiently demanded the cordial, which I hadprepared in the mean while. Its effect was greater and moreimmediate than I could have anticipated, proving, perhaps, how muchof youth there was still left in his system, however undermined andravaged by disease. Colour came back to his cheek, his voice grewperceptibly stronger. And as I lighted the lamp on the table nearus—for it was growing dark—he gathered himself up, andspoke thus,—
"You remember that I once pressed on you certain experiments. Myobject then was to discover the materials from which is extractedthe specific that enables the organs of life to expel disease andregain vigour. In that hope I sought your intimacy,—anintimacy you gave, but withdrew."
"Dare you complain? Who and what was the being from whoseintimacy I shrank appalled?"
"Ask what questions you please," cried Margrave, impatiently,"later—if I have strength left to answer them; but do notinterrupt me, while I husband my force to say what alone isimportant to me and to you. Disappointed in the hopes I had placedin you, I resolved to repair to Paris,—that great furnace ofall bold ideas. I questioned learned formalists; I listened toaudacious empirics. The first, with all their boasted knowledge,were too timid to concede my premises; the second, with all theirspeculative daring, too knavish to let me trust to theirconclusions. I found but one man, a Sicilian, who comprehended thesecrets that are called occult, and had the courage to meet Natureand all her agencies face to face. He believed, and sincerely, thathe was approaching the grand result, at the very moment when heperished from want of the common precautions which a tyro inchemistry would have taken. At his death the gaudy city becamehateful; all its pretended pleasures only served to exhaust lifethe faster. The true joys of youth are those of the wild bird andwild brute, in the healthful enjoyment of Nature. In cities, youthis but old age with a varnish. I fled to the East; I passed throughthe tents of the Arabs; I was guided—no matter by whom or bywhat—to the house of a Dervish, who had had for his teacherthe most erudite master of secrets occult, whom I knew years ago atAleppo—-Why that exclamation?"
"Proceed. What I have to say will come—later."
"From this Dervish I half forced and half purchased the secret Isought to obtain. I now know from what peculiar substance theso-called elixir of life is extracted; I know also the steps of theprocess through which that task is accomplished. You smileincredulously. What is your doubt? State it while I rest for amoment. My breath labours; give me more of the cordial."
"Need I tell you my doubt? You have, you say, at your commandthe elixir of life of which Cagliostro did not leave his disciplesthe recipe; and you stretch out your hand for a vulgar cordialwhich any village chemist could give you!"
"I can explain this apparent contradiction. The process by whichthe elixir is extracted from the material which hoards its essenceis one that requires a hardihood of courage which few possess. ThisDervish, who had passed through that process once, was deaf to allprayer, and unmoved by all bribes, to attempt it again. He waspoor; for the secret by which metals may be transmuted is not, asthe old alchemists seem to imply, identical with that by which theelixir of life is extracted. He had only been enabled to discover,in the niggard strata of the lands within range of his travel, afew scanty morsels of the glorious substance. From these he hadextracted scarcely enough of the elixir to fill a third of thatlittle glass which I have just drained. He guarded every drop forhimself. Who that holds healthful life as the one boon above allprice to the living, would waste upon others what prolongs andrecruits his own being? Therefore, though he sold me his secret, hewould not sell me his treasure."
"Any quack may sell you the information how to make not only anelixir, but a sun and a moon, and then scare you from theexperiment by tales of the danger of trying it! How do you knowthat this essence which the Dervish possessed was the elixir oflife, since, it seems, you have not tried on yourself what effectits precious drops could produce? Poor wretch, who once seemed tome so awfully potent! do you come to the Antipodes in search of adrug that only exists in the fables by which a child isamused?"
"The elixir of life is no fable," cried Margrave, with akindling of eye, a power of voice, a dilatation of form, thatstartled me in one just before so feeble. "That elixir was brightin my veins when we last met. From that golden draught of thelife-spring of joy I took all that can gladden creation. What sagewould not have exchanged his wearisome knowledge for my lustyrevels with Nature? What monarch would not have bartered his crown,with its brain-ache of care, for the radiance that circled mybrows, flashing out from the light that was in me? Oh again, ohagain! to enjoy the freedom of air with the bird, and the glow ofthe sun with the lizard; to sport through the blooms of the earth,Nature's playmate and darling; to face, in the forest and desert,the pard and the lion,—Nature's bravest andfiercest,—her firstborn, the heir of her realm, with the restof her children for slaves!"
As these words burst from his lips, there was a wild grandeur inthe aspect of this enigmatical being which I had never beheld inthe former time of his affluent, dazzling youth. And, indeed, inhis language, and in the thoughts it clothed, there was anearnestness, a concentration, a directness, a purpose, which hadseemed wanting to his desultory talk in the earlier days I expectedthat reaction of languor and exhaustion would follow his vehementoutbreak of passion, but, after a short pause, he went on withsteady accents. His will was sustaining his strength. He wasdetermined to force his convictions on me, and the vitality, onceso rich, rallied all its lingering forces to the aid of its intensedesire.
"I tell you, then," he resumed, with deliberate calmness, "that,years ago, I tested in my own person that essence which is thesovereign medicament. In me, as you saw me at L——, youbeheld the proof of its virtues. Feeble and ill as I am now, mystate was incalculably more hopeless when formerly restored by theelixir. He from whom I then took the sublime restorative diedwithout revealing the secret of its composition. What I obtainedwas only just sufficient to recruit the lamp of my life, then dyingdown—and no drop was left for renewing the light which wastesits own rays in the air that it gilds. Though the Dervish would notsell me his treasure, he permitted me to see it. The appearance andodour of this essence are strangely peculiar,—unmistakable byone who has once beheld and partaken of it. In short, I recognizedin the hands of the Dervish the bright life-renewer, as I had borneit away from the corpse of the Sage of Aleppo."
"Hold! Are you then, in truth, the murderer of Haroun, and isyour true name Louis Grayle?"
"I am no murderer, and Louis Grayle did not leave me his name. Iagain adjure you to postpone, for this night at least, thequestions you wish to address to me.
"Seeing that this obstinate pauper possessed that for which thepale owners of millions, at the first touch of palsy or gout, wouldconsent to be paupers, of course I coveted the possession of theessence even more than the knowledge of the substance from which itis extracted. I had no coward fear of the experiment, which thistimid driveller had not the nerve to renew. But still theexperiment might fail. I must traverse land and sea to find the fitplace for it, while, in the rags of the Dervish, the unfailingresult of the experiment was at hand. The Dervish suspected mydesign, he dreaded my power. He fled on the very night in which Ihad meant to seize what he refused to sell me. After all, I shouldhave done him no great wrong; for I should have left him wealthenough to transport himself to any soil in which the material forthe elixir may be most abundant; and the desire of life would havegiven his shrinking nerves the courage to replenish its ravishedstore. I had Arabs in my pay, who obeyed me as hounds their master.I chased the fugitive. I came on his track, reached a house in amiserable village, in which, I was told, he had entered but an hourbefore. The day was declining, the light in the room imperfect. Isaw in a corner what seemed to me the form of theDervish,—stooped to seize it, and my hand closed on an asp.The artful Dervish had so piled his rags that they took the shapeof the form they had clothed, and he had left, as a substitute forthe giver of life, the venomous reptile of death.
"The strength of my system enabled me to survive the effect ofthe poison; but during the torpor that numbed me, my Arabs,alarmed, gave no chase to my quarry. At last, though enfeebled andlanguid, I was again on my horse. Again the pursuit, again thetrack! I learned—but this time by a knowledge surer thanman's—that the Dervish had taken his refuge in a hamlet thathad sprung up over the site of a city once famed through Assyria.The same voice that informed me of his whereabouts warned me not topursue. I rejected the warning. In my eager impatience I sprang onto the chase; in my fearless resolve I felt sure of the prey. Iarrived at the hamlet wearied out, for my forces were no longer thesame since the bite of the asp. The Dervish eluded me still; he hadleft the floor, on which I sank exhausted, but a few minutes beforemy horse stopped at the door. The carpet, on which he had rested,still lay on the ground. I dismissed the youngest and keenest of mytroop in search of the fugitive. Sure that this time he would notescape, my eyes closed in sleep.
"How long I slept I know not,—a long dream of solitude,fever, and anguish. Was it the curse of the Dervish's carpet? Wasit a taint in the walls of the house, or of the air, which broodssickly and rank over places where cities lie buried? I know not;but the Pest of the East had seized me in slumber. When my sensesrecovered I found myself alone, plundered of my arms, despoiled ofsuch gold as I had carried about me. All had deserted and left me,as the living leave the dead whom the Plague has claimed for itsown. As soon as I could stand I crawled from the threshold. Themoment my voice was heard, my face seen, the whole squalid populacerose as on a wild beast,—a mad dog. I was driven from theplace with imprecations and stones, as a miscreant whom the Plaguehad overtaken while plotting the death of a holy man. Bruised andbleeding, but still defying, I turned in wrath on that dastardlyrabble; they slunk away from my path. I knew the land for milesaround. I had been in that land years, long years ago. I came atlast to the road which the caravans take on their way to Damascus.There I was found, speechless and seemingly lifeless, by someEuropean travellers. Conveyed to Damascus, I languished for weeksbetween life and death. But for the virtue of that essence, whichlingered yet in my veins, I could not have survived—even thusfeeble and shattered. I need not say that I now abandoned allthought of discovering the Dervish. I had at least his secret, if Ihad failed of the paltry supply he had drawn from its uses. Suchappliances as he had told me were needful are procured in the Eastwith more ease than in Europe. To sum up, I am here, instructed inall the knowledge, and supplied with all the aids, which warrant mein saying, 'Do you care for new life in its richest enjoyments, ifnot for yourself, for one whom you love and would reprieve from thegrave? Then, share with me in a task that a single night willaccomplish, and ravish a prize by which the life that you value themost will be saved from the dust and the worm, to live on, everyoung, ever blooming, when each infant, new-born while I speak,shall have passed to the grave. Nay, where is the limit to life,while the earth hides the substance by which life is renewed?"
I give as faithfully as I can recall them the words in whichMargrave addressed me. But who can guess by cold words transcribed,even were they artfully ranged by a master of language, the effectwords produce when warm from the breath of the speaker? Ask one ofan audience which some orator held enthralled, why his words do notquicken a beat in the reader's pulse, and the answer of one who hadlistened will be, "The words took their charm from the voice andthe eye, the aspect, the manner, the man!" So it was with theincomprehensible being before me. Though his youth was faded,though his beauty was dimmed, though my fancies clothed him withmemories of abhorrent dread, though my reason opposed his audaciousbeliefs and assumptions, still he charmed and spell-bound me; stillhe was the mystical fascinator; still, if the legends of magic hadtruth for their basis, he was the born magician,—as genius,in what calling soever, is born with the gift to enchant and subdueus.
Constraining myself to answer calmly, I said, "You have told meyour story; you have defined the object of the experiment in whichyou ask me to aid. You do right to bid me postpone my replies or myquestions. Seek to recruit by sleep the strength you have so sorelytasked. To-morrow—"
"To-morrow, ere night, you will decide whether the man whom outof all earth I have selected to aid me shall be the foe to condemnme to perish! I tell you plainly I need your aid, and your promptaid. Three days from this, and all aid will be too late!"
I had already gained the door of the room, when he called to meto come back.
"You do not live in this but, but with your family yonder. Donot tell them that I am here; let no one but yourself see me as Inow am. Lock the door of the hut when you quit it. I should notclose my eyes if I were not secure from intruders."
"There is but one in my house, or in these parts, whom I wouldexcept from the interdict you impose. You are aware of your ownimminent danger; the life, which you believe the discovery of aDervish will indefinitely prolong, seems to my eye of physician tohang on a thread. I have already formed my own conjecture as to thenature of the disease that enfeebles you. But I would fain comparethat conjecture with the weightier opinion of one whose experienceand skill are superior to mine. Permit me, then, when I return toyou to-morrow, to bring with me the great physician to whom Irefer. His name will not, perhaps, be unknown to you: I speak ofJulius Faber."
"A physician of the schools! I can guess well enough howlearnedly he would prate, and how little he could do. But I willnot object to his visit, if it satisfies you that, since I shoulddie under the hands of the doctors, I may be permitted to indulgemy own whim in placing my hopes in a Dervish. Yet stay. You have,doubtless, spoken of me to this Julius Faber, your fellow-physicianand friend? Promise me, if you bring him here, that you will notname me,—that you will not repeat to him the tale I have toldyou, or the hope which has led me to these shores. What I have toldyou, no matter whether, at this moment, you consider me the dupe ofa chimera, is still under the seal of the confidence which apatient reposes in the physician he himself selects for hisconfidant. I select you, and not Julius Faber!"
"Be it as you will," said I, after a moment's reflection. "Themoment you make yourself my patient, I am bound to consider what isbest for you. And you may more respect, and profit by, an opinionbased upon your purely physical condition than by one in which youmight suppose the advice was directed rather to the disease of themind than to that of the body."
"How amazed and indignant your brother-physician will be if heever see me a second time! How learnedly he will prove that,according to all correct principles of science and nature, I oughtto be dead!"
He uttered this jest with a faint weary echo of his old merry,melodious laugh, then turned his face to the wall; and so I lefthim to repose.
I found Mrs. Ashleigh waiting for me in our usual sitting-room.She was in tears. She had begun to despond of Lilian's recovery,and she infected me with her own alarm. However, I disguised myparticipation in her fears, soothed and sustained her as I bestcould, and persuaded her to retire to rest. I saw Faber for a fewminutes before I sought my own chamber. He assured me that therewas no perceptible change for the worse in Lilian's physical statesince he had last seen me, and that her mind, even within the lastfew hours, had become decidedly more clear. He thought that, withinthe next twenty-four hours, the reason would make a strong andsuccessful effort for complete recovery; but he declined to hazardmore than a hope that the effort would not exhaust the enfeebledpowers of the frame. He himself was so in need of a few hours ofrest that I ceased to harass him with questions which he could notanswer, and fears which he could not appease. Before leaving himfor the night, I told him briefly that there was a traveller in mybut smitten by a disease which seemed to me so grave that I wouldask his opinion of the case, if he could accompany me to the hutthe next morning.
My own thoughts that night were not such as would suffer me tosleep.
Before Margrave's melancholy state much of my former fear andabhorrence faded away. This being, so exceptional that fancy mightwell invest him with preternatural attributes, was now reduced byhuman suffering to human sympathy and comprehension; yet his utterwant of conscience was still as apparent as in his day of joyousanimal spirits. With what hideous candour he had related hisperfidy and ingratitude to the man to whom, in his belief, he owedan inestimable obligation, and with what insensibility to thesignal retribution which in most natures would have awakenedremorse!
And by what dark hints and confessions did he seem to confirmthe incredible memoir of Sir Philip Derval! He owned that he hadborne from the corpse of Haroun the medicament to which he ascribedhis recovery from a state yet more hopeless than that under whichhe now laboured! He had alluded, rapidly, obscurely, to someknowledge at his command "surer than man's." And now, even now themere wreck of his former existence—by what strange charm didhe still control and confuse my reason? And how was it that I feltmyself murmuring, again and again, "But what, after all, if hishope be no chimera, and if Nature do hide a secret by which I couldsave the life of my beloved Lilian?"
And again and again, as that thought would force itself on me, Irose and crept to Lilian's threshold, listening to catch thefaintest sound of her breathing. All still, all dark! In thatsufferer recognized science detects no mortal disease, yet daresnot bid me rely on its amplest resources of skill to turn asidefrom her slumber the stealthy advance of death; while in yonlog-hut one whose malady recognized science could not doubt to bemortal has composed himself to sleep, confident of life! Recognizedscience?—recognized ignorance! The science of to-day is theignorance of to-morrow! Every year some bold guess lights up atruth to which, but the year before, the schoolmen of science wereas blinded as moles.
"What, then," my lips kept repeating,—"what if Nature dohide a secret by which the life of my life can be saved? What do weknow of the secrets of Nature? What said Newton himself of hisknowledge? 'I am like a child picking up pebbles and shells on thesand, while the great ocean of Truth lies all undiscovered aroundme!' And did Newton himself, in the ripest growth of his matchlessintellect, hold the creed of the alchemists in scorn? Had he notgiven to one object of their research, in the transmutation ofmetals, his days and his nights? Is there proof that he everconvinced himself that the research was the dream, which we, whoare not Newtons, call it?(1) And that other great sage, inferioronly to Newton—the calculating doubt-weigher,Descartes—had he not believed in the yet nobler hope of thealchemists,—believed in some occult nostrum or process bywhich human life could attain to the age of the Patriarchs?"(2)
In thoughts like these the night wore away, the moonbeams thatstreamed through my window lighting up the spacious solitudesbeyond,—mead and creek, forest-land, mountaintop,—andthe silence without broken by the wild cry of the night hawk andthe sibilant melancholy dirge of the shiningchrysococyx,(3)—bird that never sings but at night, andobstinately haunts the roofs of the sick and dying, ominous of woeand death.
But up sprang the sun, and, chasing these gloomy sounds, outburst the wonderful chorus of Australian groves, the greatkingfisher opening the jocund melodious babble with the glee of hissocial laugh.
And now I heard Faber's step in Lilian's room,—heardthrough the door her soft voice, though I could not distinguish thewords. It was not long before I saw the kind physician standing atthe threshold of my chamber. He pressed his finger to his lip, andmade me a sign to follow him. I obeyed, with noiseless tread andstifled breathing. He awaited me in the garden under the floweringacacias, passed his arm in mine, and drew me into the openpasture-land.
"Compose yourself," he then said; "I bring you tidings both ofgladness and of fear. Your Lilian's mind is restored: even thememories which had been swept away by the fever that followed herreturn to her home in L—— are returning, though as yetindistinct. She yearns to see you, to bless you for all your nobledevotion, your generous, greathearted love; but I forbid suchinterview now. If, in a few hours, she become either decidedlystronger or decidedly more enfeebled, you shall be summoned to herside. Even if you are condemned to a loss for which the soleconsolation must be placed in the life hereafter, you shall have,at least, the last mortal commune of soul with soul. Courage!courage! You are man! Bear as man what you have so often bid othermen submit to endure."
I had flung myself on the ground,—writhing worm that hadno home but on earth! Man, indeed! Man! All, at that moment, I tookfrom manhood was its acute sensibility to love and to anguish!
But after all such paroxysms of mortal pain, there comes astrange lull. Thought itself halts, like the still hush of waterbetween two descending torrents. I rose in a calm, which Fabermight well mistake for fortitude.
"Well," I said quietly, "fulfil your promise. If Lilian is topass away from me, I shall see her, at least, again; no wall, youtell me, between our minds; mind to mind once more,—oncemore!"
"Allen," said Faber, mournfully and softly, "why do you shun torepeat my words—soul to soul?"
"Ay, ay,—I understand. Those words mean that you haveresigned all hope that Lilian's life will linger here, when hermind comes back in full consciousness; I know well that lastlightning flash and the darkness which swallows it up!"
"You exaggerate my fears. I have not resigned the hope thatLilian will survive the struggle through which she is passing, butit will be cruel to deceive you—my hope is weaker than itwas."
"Ay, ay. Again, I understand! Your science is in fault,—itdesponds. Its last trust is in the wonderful resources of Nature,the vitality stored in the young!"
"You have said,—those resources of Nature are wondrous.The vitality of youth is a fountain springing up from the deeps outof sight, when, a moment before, we had measured the drops oozingout from the sands, and thought that the well was exhausted."
"Come with me,—come. I told you of another suffereryonder. I want your opinion of his case. But can you be spared afew minutes from Lilian's side?"
"Yes; I left her asleep. What is the case that perplexes youreye of physician, which is usually keener than mine, despite allthe length of my practice?"
"The sufferer is young, his organization rare in its vigour. Hehas gone through and survived assaults upon life that are commonlyfatal. His system has been poisoned by the fangs of a venomous asp,and shattered by the blast of the plague. These alone, I believe,would not suffice to destroy him. But he is one who has a strongdread of death; and while the heart was thus languid and feeble, ithas been gnawed by emotions of hope or of fear. I suspect that heis dying, not from the bite of the reptile, not from the taint ofthe pestilence, but from the hope and the fear that have overtaskedthe heart's functions. Judge for yourself."
We were now at the door of the hut. I unlocked it: we entered.Margrave had quitted his bed, and was pacing the room slowly. Hisstep was less feeble, his countenance less haggard than on theprevious evening.
He submitted himself to Faber's questioning with a quietindifference, and evidently cared nothing for any opinion which thegreat physician might found on his replies.
When Faber had learned all he could, he said, with a gravesmile: "I see that my advice will have little weight with you; suchas it is, at least reflect on it. The conclusions to which yourhost arrived in his view of your case, and which he confided to me,are, in my humble judgment, correct. I have no doubt that the greatorgan of the heart is involved in the cause of your sufferings; butthe heart is a noble and much-enduring organ. I have known men inwhom it has been more severely and unequivocally affected withdisease than it is in you, live on for many years, and ultimatelydie of some other disorder. But then life was held, as yours mustbe held, upon one condition,—repose. I enjoin you to abstainfrom all violent action, to shun all excitements that cause moraldisturbance. You are young: would you live on, you must live as theold. More than this,—it is my duty to warn you that yourtenure on earth is very precarious; you may attain to many years;you may be suddenly called hence tomorrow. The best mode to regardthis uncertainty with the calm in which is your only chance of longlife, is so to arrange all your worldly affairs, and so todiscipline all your human anxieties, as to feel always prepared forthe summons that may come without warning. For the rest, quit thisclimate as soon as you can,—it is the climate in which theblood courses too quickly for one who should shun all excitement.Seek the most equable atmosphere, choose the most tranquilpursuits; and Fenwick himself, in his magnificent pride of statureand strength, may be nearer the grave than you are."
"Your opinion coincides with that I have just heard?" askedMargrave, turning to me.
"In much—yes."
"It is more favourable than I should have supposed. I am farfrom disdaining the advice so kindly offered. Permit me, in turn,two or three questions, Dr. Faber. Do you prescribe to me no drugsfrom your pharmacopoeia?"
"Drugs may palliate many sufferings incidental to organicdisease, but drugs cannot reach organic disease itself."
"Do you believe that, even where disease is plainly organic,Nature herself has no alternative and reparative powers, by whichthe organ assailed may recover itself?"
"A few exceptional instances of such forces in Nature are uponrecord; but we must go by general laws, and not by exceptions."
"Have you never known instances—do you not at this momentknow one—in which a patient whose malady baffles the doctor'sskill, imagines or dreams of a remedy? Call it a whim if youplease, learned sir; do you not listen to the whim, and, in despairof your own prescriptions, comply with those of the patient?"
Faber changed countenance, and even started. Margrave watchedhim and laughed.
"You grant that there are such cases, in which the patient givesthe law to the physician. Now, apply your experience to my case.Suppose some strange fancy had seized upon myimagination—that is the doctor's cant word for all phenomenawhich we call exceptional—some strange fancy that I hadthought of a cure for this disease for which you have no drugs; andsuppose this fancy of mine to be so strong, so vivid, that to denyme its gratification would produce the very emotion from which youwarn me as fatal,—storm the heart, that you would soothe torepose, by the passions of rage and despair,—would you, as mytrusted physician, concede or deny me my whim?"
"Can you ask? I should grant it at once, if I had no reason toknow that the thing that you fancied was harmful."
"Good man and wise doctor! I have no other question to ask. Ithank you."
Faber looked hard on the young, wan face, over which played asmile of triumph and irony; then turned away with an expression ofdoubt and trouble on his own noble countenance. I followed himsilently into the open air.
"Who and what is this visitor of yours?" he asked abruptly.
"Who and what? I cannot tell you."
Faber remained some moments musing, and muttering slowly tohimself, "Tut! but a chance coincidence,—a haphazard allusionto a fact which he could not have known!"
"Faber," said I, abruptly, "can it be that Lilian is the patientin whose self-suggested remedies you confide more than in thevarious learning at command of your practised skill?"
"I cannot deny it," replied Faber, reluctantly. "In theintervals of that suspense from waking sense, which in her is notsleep, nor yet altogether catalepsy, she has, for the last fewdays, stated accurately the precise moment in which thetrance—if I may so call it—would pass away, andprescribed for herself the remedies that should be thenadministered. In every instance, the remedies so self-prescribed,though certainly not those which would have occurred to my mind,have proved efficacious. Her rapid progress to reason I ascribe tothe treatment she herself ordained in her trance, withoutremembrance of her own suggestions when she awoke. I had meant todefer communicating these phenomena in the idiosyncrasy of her caseuntil our minds could more calmly inquire into the process by whichideas—not apparently derived, as your metaphysical schoolwould derive all ideas, from preconceived experiences—willthus sometimes act like an instinct on the human sufferer forself-preservation, as the bird is directed to the herb or the berrywhich heals or assuages its ailments. We know how the mesmeristswould account for this phenomenon of hygienic introvision andclairvoyance. But here, there is no mesmerizer, unless the patientcan be supposed to mesmerize herself. Long, however, beforemesmerism was heard of, medical history attests examples in whichpatients who baffled the skill of the ablest physicians have fixedtheir fancies on some remedy that physicians would call inoperativefor good or for harm, and have recovered by the remedies thussingularly self-suggested. And Hippocrates himself, if I construehis meaning rightly, recognizes the powers for self-cure which thecondition of trance will sometimes bestow on the sufferer, 'where'(says the father of our art) 'the sight being closed to theexternal, the soul more truthfully perceives the affections of thebody.' In short—I own it—in this instance, the skill ofthe physician has been a compliant obedience to the instinct calledforth in the patient; and the hopes I have hitherto permittedmyself to give you were founded on my experience that her ownhopes, conceived in trance, had never been fallacious orexaggerated. The simples that I gathered for her yesterday she haddescribed; they are not in our herbal. But as they are sometimesused by the natives, I had the curiosity to analyze their chemicalproperties shortly after I came to the colony, and they seemed tome as innocent as lime-blossoms. They are rare in this part ofAustralia, but she told me where I should find them,—a remotespot, which she has certainly never visited. Last night, when yousaw me disturbed, dejected, it was because, for the first time, thedocility with which she had hitherto, in her waking state, obeyedher own injunctions in the state of trance, forsook her. She couldnot be induced to taste the decoction I had made from the herbs;and if you found me this morning with weaker hopes than before,this is the real cause,—namely, that when I visited her atsunrise, she was not in sleep but in trance, and in that trance shetold me that she had nothing more to suggest or reveal; that on thecomplete restoration of her senses, which was at hand, the abnormalfaculties vouchsafed to trance would be withdrawn. 'As for mylife,' she said quietly, as if unconscious of our temporary joy orwoe in the term of its tenure here,—'as for my life, your aidis now idle; my own vision obscure; on my life a dark and coldshadow is resting. I cannot foresee if it will pass away. When Istrive to look around, I see but my Allen—'"
"And so," said I, mastering my emotions, "in bidding me hope,you did not rely on your own resources of science, but on thewhisper of Nature in the brain of your patient?"
"It is so."
We both remained silent some moments, and then, as hedisappeared within my house, I murmured,—
"And when she strives to look beyond the shadow, she sees onlyme! Is there some prophet-hint of Nature there also, directing menot to scorn the secret which a wanderer, so suddenly dropped on mysolitude, assures me that Nature will sometimes reveal to herseeker? And oh! that dark wanderer—has Nature a marvel moreweird than himself?"
(1) "Besides the three great subjects of Newton'slabours—the fluxional calculus, physical astronomy, andoptics—a very large portion of his time, while resident inhis college, was devoted to researches of which scarcely a traceremains. Alchemy, which had fascinated so many eager and ambitiousminds, seems to have tempted Newton with an overwhelming force.What theories he formed, what experiments he tried, in thatlaboratory where, it is said, the fire was scarcely extinguishedfor weeks together, will never be known. It is certain that nosuccess attended his labours; and Newton was not a man—likeKepler—to detail to the world all the hopes anddisappointments, all the crude and mystical fancies, which mixedthemselves up with his career of philosophy... Many years later wefind Newton in correspondence with Locke, with reference to amysterious red earth by which Boyle, who was then recently dead,had asserted that he could effect the grand desideratum ofmultiplying gold. By this time, however, Newton's faith had becomesomewhat shaken by the unsatisfactory communications which he hadhimself received from Boyle on the subject of the golden recipe,though he did not abandon the idea of giving the experiment afurther trial as soon as the weather should become suitable forfurnace experiments."—Quarterly Review, No. 220, pp. 125,126.
(2) Southey, in his "Doctor," vol. vi. p. 2, reports theconversation of Sir Kenelm Digby with Descartes, in which the greatgeometrician said, "That as for rendering man immortal, it was whathe could not venture to promise, but that he was very sure he couldprolong his life to the standard of the patriarchs." And Southeyadds, "that St. Evremond, to whom Digby repeated this, says thatthis opinion of Descartes was well known both to his friends inHolland and in France." By the stress Southey lays on this hearsayevidence, it is clear that he was not acquainted with the works andbiography of Descartes, or he would have gone to the fountain-headfor authority on Descartes's opinions, namely, Descartes himself.It is to be wished that Southey had done so, for no one more thanhe would have appreciated the exquisitely candid and lovable natureof the illustrious Frenchman, and the sincerity with which hecherished in his heart whatever doctrine he conceived in hisunderstanding. Descartes, whose knowledge of anatomy wasconsiderable, had that passion for the art of medicine which isalmost inseparable from the pursuit of natural philosophy. At theage of twenty-four he had sought (in Germany) to obtain initiationinto the brotherhood of the Rosicrucians, but unluckily could notdiscover any member of the society to introduce him. "He desired,"says Cousin, "to assure the health of man, diminish his ills,extend his existence. He was terrified by the rapid and almostmomentary passage of man upon earth. He believed it was not,perhaps, impossible to prolong its duration." There is a hiddenrecess of grandeur in this idea, and the means proposed byDescartes for the execution of his project were not less grand. Inhis "Discourse on Method," Descartes says, "If it is possible tofind some means to render generally men more wise and more ablethan they have been till now, it is, I believe, in medicine thatthose means must be sought... I am sure that there is no one, evenin the medical profession, who will not avow that all which oneknows of the medical art is almost nothing in comparison to thatwhich remains to learn, and that one could be exempted from aninfinity of maladies, both of body and mind, and even, perhaps,from the decrepitude of old age, if one had sufficient lore oftheir causes and of all the remedies which nature provides forthem. Therefore, having design to employ all my life in theresearch of a science so necessary, and having discovered a pathwhich appears to me such that one ought infallibly, in following,to find it, if one is not hindered prematurely by the brevity oflife or by the defects of experience, I consider that there is nobetter remedy against those two hindrances than to communicatefaithfully to the public the little I have found," etc. ("Discoursde la Methode," vol. i. OEuvres de Descartes, Cousin's Edition.)And again, in his "Correspondence" (vol. ix. p. 341), he says: "Theconservation of health has been always the principal object of mystudies, and I have no doubt that there is a means of acquiringmuch knowledge touching medicine which, up to this time, isignored." He then refers to his meditated Treatise on Animals asonly an entrance upon that knowledge. But whatever secretsDescartes may have thought to discover, they are not made known tothe public according to his promise. And in a letter to M. Chanut,written in 1646 (four years before he died), he says ingenuously:"I will tell you in confidence that the notion, such as it is,which I have endeavoured to acquire in physical philosophy, hadgreatly assisted me to establish certain foundations for moralphilosophy; and that I am more easily satisfied upon this pointthan I am on many others touching medicine, to which I have,nevertheless, devoted much more time. So that"—(adds thegrand thinker, with a pathetic nobleness )—"so that, insteadof finding the means to preserve life, I have found another good,more easy and more sure, which is—not to fear death."
(3) Chrysococyx lucidus,—namely, the bird popularly calledthe shining or bronzed cuckoo. "Its note is an exceedinglymelancholy whistle, heard at night, when it is very annoying to anysick or nervous person who may be inclined to sleep. I have knownmany instances where the bird has been perched on a tree in thevicinity of the room of an invalid, uttering its mournful notes,and it was only with the greatest difficulty that it could bedislodged from its position."—Dr. Bennett: Gatherings of aNaturalist in Australasia.
I strayed through the forest till noon, in debate with myself,and strove to shape my wild doubts into purpose, before I couldnerve and compose myself again to face Margrave alone.
I re-entered the hut. To my surprise, Margrave was not in theroom in which I had left him, nor in that which adjoined it. Iascended the stairs to the kind of loft in which I had beenaccustomed to pursue my studies, but in which I had not set footsince my alarm for Lilian had suspended my labours. There I sawMargrave quietly seated before the manuscript of my Ambitious Work,which lay open on the rude table, just as I had left it, in themidst of its concluding summary.
"I have taken the license of former days, you see," saidMargrave, smiling, "and have hit by chance on a passage I canunderstand without effort. But why such a waste of argument toprove a fact so simple? In man, as in brute, life once lost is lostforever; and that is why life is so precious to man."
I took the book from his hand, and flung it aside in wrath. Hisapproval revolted me more with my own theories than all theargumentative rebukes of Faber.
"And now," I said, sternly, "the time has come for theexplanation you promised. Before I can aid you in any experimentthat may serve to prolong your life, I must know how far that lifehas been a baleful and destroying influence?"
"I have some faint recollection of having saved your life froman imminent danger, and if gratitude were the attribute of man, asit is of the dog, I should claim your aid to serve mine as a right.Ask me what you will. You must have seen enough of me to know thatI do not affect either the virtues or vices of others. I regardboth with so supreme an indifference, that I believe I am viciousor virtuous unawares. I know not if I can explain what seems tohave perplexed you, but if I cannot explain I have no intention tolie. Speak—I listen! We have time enough now before us."
So saying, he reclined back in the chair, stretching out hislimbs wearily. All round this spoilt darling of Material Naturewere the aids and appliances of Intellectual Science,—booksand telescopes and crucibles, with the light of day coming througha small circular aperture in the boarded casement, as I hadconstructed the opening for my experimental observation of theprismal rays.
While I write, his image is as visible before my remembrance asif before the actual eye,—beautiful even in its decay, awfuleven in its weakness, mysterious as is Nature herself amidst allthe mechanism by which our fancied knowledge attempts to measureher laws and analyze her light.
But at that moment no such subtle reflections delayed myinquisitive eager mind from its immediate purpose,—who andwhat was this creature boasting of a secret through which I mightrescue from death the life of her who was my all upon theearth?
I gathered rapidly and succinctly together all that I knew andall that I guessed of Margrave's existence and arts. I commencedfrom my vision in that mimic Golgotha of creatures inferior to man,close by the scene of man's most trivial and meaningless pastime. Iwent on,—Derval's murder; the missing contents of the casket;the apparition seen by the maniac assassin guiding him to thehorrid deed; the luminous haunting shadow; the positive charge inthe murdered man's memoir connecting Margrave with Louis Grayle,and accusing him of the murder of Haroun; the night in the moonlitpavilion at Derval Court; the baneful influence on Lilian; thestruggle between me and himself in the house by theseashore,—the strange All that is told in this StrangeStory.
But warming as I spoke, and in a kind of fierce joy to beenabled thus to free my own heart of the doubts that had burdenedit, now that I was fairly face to face with the being by whom myreason had been so perplexed and my life so tortured. I wasrestrained by none of the fears lest my own fancy deceived me, withwhich in his absence I had striven to reduce to natural causes theportents of terror and wonder. I stated plainly, directly, thebeliefs, the impressions which I had never dared even to myself toown without seeking to explain them away. And coming at last to aclose, I said: "Such are the evidences that seem to me to justifyabhorrence of the life that you ask me to aid in prolonging. Yourown tale of last night but confirms them. And why to me—tome—do you come with wild entreaties to lengthen the life thathas blighted my own? How did you even learn the home in which Isought unavailing refuge? How—as your hint to Faber clearlyrevealed—were you aware that, in yon house, where the sorrowis veiled, where the groan is suppressed, where the foot-treadfalls ghostlike, there struggles now between life and death myheart's twin, my world's sunshine? Ah! through my terror for her,is it a demon that tells you how to bribe my abhorrence intosubmission, and supple my reason into use to your ends?"
Margrave had listened to me throughout with a fixed attention,at times with a bewildered stare, at times with exclamations ofsurprise, but not of denial. And when I had done, he remained forsome moments silent, seemingly stupefied, passing his handrepeatedly over his brow, in the gesture so familiar to him informer days.
At length he said quietly, without evincing any sign either ofresentment or humiliation,—
"In much that you tell me I recognize myself; in much I am aslost in amazement as you in wild doubt or fierce wrath. Of theeffect that you say Philip Derval produced on me I have norecollection. Of himself I have only this,—that he was myfoe, that he came to England intent on schemes to shorten my lifeor destroy its enjoyments. All my faculties tend toself-preservation; there, they converge as rays in a focus; in thatfocus they illume and—they burn. I willed to destroy myintended destroyer. Did my will enforce itself on the agent towhich it was guided? Likely enough. Be it so. Would you blame mefor slaying the tiger or serpent—not by the naked hand, butby weapons that arm it? But what could tiger and serpent do moreagainst me than the man who would rob me of life? He had his artsfor assault, I had mine for self-defence. He was to me as the tigerthat creeps through the jungle, or the serpent uncoiling his foldsfor the spring. Death to those whose life is destruction to mine,be they serpent or tiger or man! Derval perished. Yes! the spot inwhich the maniac had buried the casket was revealed to me—nomatter how; the contents of the casket passed into my hands. Icoveted that possession because I believed that Derval had learnedfrom Haroun of Aleppo the secret by which the elixir of life isprepared, and I supposed that some stores of the essence would befound in his casket. I was deceived—not a drop! What I therefound I knew not how to use or apply, nor did I care to learn. WhatI sought was not there. You see a luminous shadow of myself; ithaunts, it accosts, it compels you. Of this I know nothing. Was itthe emanation of my intense will really producing this spectre ofmyself, or was it the thing of your own imagination,—animagination which my will impressed and subjugated? I know not. Atthe hours when my shadow, real or supposed, was with you, my senseswould have been locked in sleep. It is true, however, that Iintensely desire to learn from races always near to man, butconcealed from his every-day vision, the secret that I believedPhilip Derval had carried with him to the tomb; and from some causeor another I cannot now of myself alone, as I could years ago,subject those races to my command,—I must, in that, actthrough or with the mind of another. It is true that I sought toimpress upon your waking thoughts the images of the circle, thepowers of the wand, which, in your trance or sleep-walking, madeyou the involuntary agent of my will. I knew by a dream—forby dreams, more or less vivid, are the results of my waking willsometimes divulged to myself—that the spell had been broken,the discovery I sought not effected. All my hopes were thentransferred from yourself, the dull votary of science, to the girlwhom I charmed to my thraldom through her love for you and throughher dreams of a realm which the science of schools never enters. Inher, imagination was all pure and all potent; and tell me, Opractical reasoner, if reason has ever advanced one step intoknowledge except through that imaginative faculty which isstrongest in the wisdom of ignorance, and weakest in the ignoranceof the wise. Ponder this, and those marvels that perplex you willcease to be marvellous. I pass on to the riddle that puzzles youmost. By Philip Derval's account I am, in truth, Louis Graylerestored to youth by the elixir, and while yet infirm, decrepit,murdered Haroun,—a man of a frame as athletic as yours! Byaccepting this notion you seem to yourself alone to unravel themysteries you ascribe to my life and my powers. O wise philosopher!O profound logician! you accept that notion, yet hold my belief inthe Dervish's tale a chimera! I am Grayle made young by the elixir,and yet the elixir itself is a fable!"
He paused and laughed, but the laugh was no longer even an echoof its former merriment or playfulness,—a sinister andterrible laugh, mocking, threatening, malignant.
Again he swept his hand over his brow, and resumed,—
"Is it not easier to so accomplished a sage as you to believethat the idlers of Paris have guessed the true solution of thatproblem, my place on this earth? May I not be the love-son of LouisGrayle? And when Haroun refused the elixir to him, or he found thathis frame was too far exhausted for even the elixir to repairorganic lesions of structure in the worn frame of old age, may henot have indulged the common illusion of fathers, and soothed hisdeath-pangs with the thought that he should live again in his son?Haroun is found dead on his carpet—rumour said strangled.What proof of the truth of that rumour? Might he not have passedaway in a fit? Will it lessen your perplexity if I staterecollections? They are vague,—they often perplex myself; butso far from a wish to deceive you, my desire is to relate them sotruthfully that you may aid me to reduce them into more definiteform."
His face now became very troubled, the tone of his voice veryirresolute,—the face and the voice of a man who is eitherblundering his way through an intricate falsehood, or throughobscure reminiscences.
"This Louis Grayle! this Louis Grayle! I remember him well, asone remembers a nightmare. Whenever I look back, before the illnessof which I will presently speak, the image of Louis Grayle returnsto me. I see myself with him in African wilds, commanding thefierce Abyssinians. I see myself with him in the fair Persianvalley,—lofty, snow-covered mountains encircling the gardenof roses. I see myself with him in the hush of the golden noon,reclined by the spray of cool fountains,—now listening tocymbals and lutes, now arguing with graybeards on secretsbequeathed by the Chaldees,—with him, with him in moonlitnights, stealing into the sepulchres of mythical kings. I seemyself with him in the aisles of dark caverns, surrounded by awfulshapes, which have no likeness amongst the creatures of earth.Louis Grayle! Louis Grayle! all my earlier memories go back toLouis Grayle! All my arts and powers, all that I have learned ofthe languages spoken in Europe, of the sciences taught in herschools, I owe to Louis Grayle. But am I one and the same with him?No—I am but a pale reflection of his giant intellect. I havenot even a reflection of his childlike agonies of sorrow. LouisGrayle! He stands apart from me, as a rock from the tree that growsout from its chasms. Yes, the gossip was right; I must be hisson."
He leaned his face on both hands, rocking himself to and fro. Atlength, with a sigh, he resumed,—
"I remember, too, a long and oppressive illness, attended withracking pains, a dismal journey in a wearisome litter, the lighthand of the woman Ayesha, so sad and so stately, smoothing mypillow or fanning my brows. I remember the evening on which mynurse drew the folds of the litter aside, and said, 'See Aleppo!and the star of thy birth shining over its walls!'
"I remember a face inexpressibly solemn and mournful. I rememberthe chill that the calm of its ominous eye sent through myveins,—the face of Haroun, the Sage of Aleppo. I remember thevessel of crystal he bore in his hand, and the blessed relief frommy pains that a drop from the essence which flashed through thecrystal bestowed! And then—and then—I remember no moretill the night on which Ayesha came to my couch and said,'Rise.'
"And I rose, leaning on her, supported by her. We went throughdim narrow streets, faintly lit by wan stars, disturbing the prowlof the dogs, that slunk from the look of that woman. We came to asolitary house, small and low, and my nurse said, 'Wait.'
"She opened the door and went in; I seated myself on thethreshold. And after a time she came out from the house, and ledme, still leaning on her, into her chamber.
"A man lay, as in sleep, on the carpet, and beside him stoodanother man, whom I recognized as Ayesha's specialattendant,—an Indian. 'Haroun is dead,' said Ayesha. 'Searchfor that which will give thee new life. Thou hast seen, and wiltknow it, not I.'
"And I put my hand on the breast of Haroun—for the deadman was he—and drew from it the vessel of crystal.
"Having done so, the frown of his marble brow appalled me. Istaggered back, and swooned away.
"I came to my senses, recovering and rejoicing, miles afar fromthe city, the dawn red on its distant wall. Ayesha had tended me;the elixir had already restored me.
"My first thought, when full consciousness came back to me,rested on Louis Grayle, for he also had been at Aleppo; I was butone of his numerous train. He, too, was enfeebled and suffering; hehad sought the known skill of Haroun for himself as for me; andthis woman loved and had tended him as she had loved and tended me.And my nurse told me that he was dead, and forbade me henceforth tobreathe his name.
"We travelled on,—she and I, and the Indian herservant,—my strength still renewed by the wondrous elixir. Nolonger supported by her, what gazelle ever roved through itspasture with a bound more elastic than mine?
"We came to a town, and my nurse placed before me a mirror. Idid not recognize myself. In this town we rested, obscure, till theletter there reached me by which I learned that I was the offspringof love, and enriched by the care of a father recently dead. Is itnot clear that Louis Grayle was this father?"
"If so, was the woman Ayesha your mother?"
"The letter said that 'my mother had died in my infancy.'Nevertheless, the care with which Ayesha had tended me induced asuspicion that made me ask her the very question you put. She weptwhen I asked her, and said, 'No, only my nurse. And now I needed anurse no more.' The day after I received the letter which announcedan inheritance that allowed me to vie with the nobles of Europe,this woman left me, and went back to her tribe."
"Have you never seen her since?"
Margrave hesitated a moment, and then answered, though withseeming reluctance, "Yes, at Damascus. Not many days after I wasborne to that city by the strangers who found me half-dead on theirroad, I woke one morning to find her by my side. And she said, 'Injoy and in health you did not need me. I am needed now."'
"Did you then deprive yourself of one so devoted? You have notmade this long voyage—from Egypt toAustralia—alone,—you, to whom wealth gave no excuse forprivation?"
"The woman came with me; and some chosen attendants. I engagedto ourselves the vessel we sailed in."
"Where have you left your companions?"
"By this hour," answered Margrave, "they are in reach of mysummons; and when you and I have achieved the discovery—inthe results of which we shall share—I will exact no more fromyour aid. I trust all that rests for my cure to my nurse and herswarthy attendants. You will aid me now, as a matter of course; thephysician whose counsel you needed to guide your own skill enjoinsyou to obey my whim—if whim you still call it; you will obeyit, for on that whim rests your own sole hope ofhappiness,—you, who can love—I love nothing but life.Has my frank narrative solved all the doubts that stood between youand me, in the great meeting-grounds of an interest in common?"
"Solved all the doubts! Your wild story but makes some thedarker, leaving others untouched: the occult powers of which youboast, and some of which I have witnessed,—your very insightinto my own household sorrows, into the interests I have, withyourself, in the truth of a faith so repugnant toreason—"
"Pardon me," interrupted Margrave, with that slight curve of thelip which is half smile and half sneer, "if, in my account ofmyself, I omitted what I cannot explain, and you cannot conceive:let me first ask how many of the commonest actions of the commonestmen are purely involuntary and wholly inexplicable. When, forinstance, you open your lips and utter a sentence, you have not thefaintest idea beforehand what word will follow another. When youmove a muscle can you tell me the thought that prompts to themovement? And, wholly unable thus to account for your own simplesympathies between impulse and act, do you believe that thereexists a man upon earth who can read all the riddles in the heartand brain of another? Is it not true that not one drop of water,one atom of matter, ever really touches another? Between each andeach there is always a space, however infinitesimally small. How,then, could the world go on, if every man asked another to make hiswhole history and being as lucid as daylight before he would buyand sell with him? All interchange and alliance rest but onthis,—an interest in common. You and I have established thatinterest: all else, all you ask more, is superfluous. Could Ianswer each doubt you would raise, still, whether the answer shouldplease or revolt you, your reason would come back to the samestarting-point,—namely, In one definite proposal have we twoan interest in common?"
And again Margrave laughed, not in mirth, but in mockery. Thelaugh and the words that preceded it were not the laugh and thewords of the young. Could it be possible that Louis Grayle hadindeed revived to false youth in the person of Margrave, such mighthave been his laugh and such his words. The whole mind of Margraveseemed to have undergone change since I last saw him; more rich inidea, more crafty even in candour, more powerful, more concentred.As we see in our ordinary experience, that some infirmity,threatening dissolution, brings forth more vividly thereminiscences of early years, when impressions were vigorouslystamped, so I might have thought that as Margrave neared the tomb,the memories he had retained from his former existence, in a beingmore amply endowed, more formidably potent, struggled back to thebrain; and the mind that had lived in Louis Grayle moved the lipsof the dying Margrave.
"For the powers and the arts that it equally puzzles your reasonto assign or deny to me," resumed my terrible guest, "I will saybriefly but this: they come from faculties stored within myself,and doubtless conduce to my self-preservation,—faculties moreor less, perhaps (so Van Helmont asserts), given to all men, thoughdormant in most; vivid and active in me because in meself-preservation has been and yet is the strong master-passion, orinstinct; and because I have been taught how to use and direct suchfaculties by disciplined teachers,—some by Louis Grayle, theenchanter; some by my nurse, the singer of charmed songs. But inmuch that I will to have done, I know no more than yourself how theagency acts. Enough for me to will what I wish, and sink calmlyinto slumber, sure that the will would work somehow its way. Butwhen I have willed to know what, when known, should shape my owncourses, I could see, without aid from your pitiful telescopes, allobjects howsoever far. What wonder in that? Have you no learnedpuzzle-brained metaphysicians who tell you that space is but anidea, all this palpable universe an idea in the mind, and no more?Why am I an enigma as dark as the Sibyls, and your metaphysiciansas plain as a hornbook?" Again the sardonic laugh. "Enough: letwhat I have said obscure or enlighten your guesses, we come back tothe same link of union, which binds man to man, bids States arisefrom the desert, and foeman embrace as brothers. I need you and youneed me; without your aid my life is doomed; without my secret thebreath will have gone from the lips of your Lilian before the sunof to-morrow is red on the hill-tops."
"Fiend or juggler," I cried in rage, "you shall not so enslaveand enthrall me by this mystic farrago and jargon. Make yourfantastic experiment on yourself if you will: trust to your artsand your powers. My Lilian's life shall not hang on your fiat. Itrust it—to—"
"To what—to man's skill? Hear what the sage of the collegeshall tell you, before I ask you again for your aid. Do you trustto God's saving mercy? Ah, of course you believe in a God? Who,except a philosopher, can reason a Maker away? But that the Makerwill alter His courses to hear you; that, whether or not you trustin Him, or in your doctor, it will change by a hairbreadth thething that must be—do you believe this, Allen Fenwick?"
And there sat this reader of hearts! a boy in his aspect,mocking me and the graybeards of schools.
I could listen no more; I turned to the door and fled down thestairs, and heard, as I fled, a low chant: feeble and faint, it wasstill the old barbaric chant, by which the serpent is drawn fromits hole by the charmer.
To those of my readers who may seek with Julius Faber toexplore, through intelligible causes, solutions of the marvels Inarrate, Margrave's confession may serve to explain away much thatmy own superstitious beliefs had obscured. To them Margrave isevidently the son of Louis Grayle. The elixir of life is reduced tosome simple restorative, owing much of its effect to the faith of acredulous patient: youth is so soon restored to its joy in the sun,with or without an elixir. To them Margrave's arts of enchantmentare reduced to those idiosyncrasies of temperament on which thedisciples of Mesmer build up their theories,—exaggerated, inmuch, by my own superstitions; aided, in part, by such natural,purely physical magic as, explored by the ancient priest-crafts, isdespised by the modern philosophies, and only remains occultbecause Science delights no more in the slides of the lantern whichfascinated her childhood with simulated phantoms. To them Margraveis, perhaps, an enthusiast, but, because an enthusiast, not less animpostor. "L'Homme se pique," says Charron. Man cogs the dice forhimself ere he rattles the box for his dupes. Was there eversuccessful impostor who did not commence by a fraud on his ownunderstanding? Cradled in Orient Fableland, what though Margravebelieves in its legends; in a wand, an elixir; in sorcerers orAfrites? That belief in itself makes him keen to detect, andskilful to profit by, the latent but kindred credulities of others.In all illustrations of Duper and Duped through the records ofsuperstition—from the guile of a Cromwell, a Mahomet, down tothe cheats of a gypsy—professional visionaries are amongstthe astutest observers. The knowledge that Margrave had gained ofmy abode, of my affliction, or of the innermost thoughts in mymind, it surely demanded no preternatural aids to acquire. An OldBailey attorney could have got at the one, and any quick student ofhuman hearts have readily mastered the other. In fine, Margrave,thus rationally criticised, is no other prodigy (save in degree andconcurrence of attributes simple, though not very common) than maybe found in each alley that harbours a fortune-teller who has justfaith enough in the stars or the cards to bubble himself while heswindles his victims; earnest, indeed, in the self-conviction thathe is really a seer, but reading the looks of his listeners,divining the thoughts that induce them to listen, and acquiring bypractice a startling ability to judge what the listeners will deemit most seer-like to read in the cards or divine from thestars.
I leave this interpretation unassailed. It is that which is themost probable; it is clearly that which, in a case not my own, Ishould have accepted; and yet I revolved and dismissed it. Themoment we deal with things beyond our comprehension, and in whichour own senses are appealed to and baffled, we revolt from theProbable, as it seems to the senses of those who have notexperienced what we have. And the same principle of Wonder that ledour philosophy up from inert ignorance into restless knowledge, nowwinding back into shadow land, reverses its rule by the way, and,at last, leaves us lost in the maze, our knowledge inert, and ourignorance restless.
And putting aside all other reasons for hesitating to believethat Margrave was the son of Louis Grayle,—reasons which hisown narrative might suggest,—was it not strange that SirPhilip Derval, who had instituted inquiries so minute, and reportedthem in his memoir with so faithful a care, should not havediscovered that a youth, attended by the same woman who hadattended Grayle, had disappeared from the town on the same night asGrayle himself disappeared? But Derval had related truthfully,according to Margrave's account, the flight of Ayesha and herIndian servant, yet not alluded to the flight, not even to theexistence of the boy, who must have been of no mean importance inthe suite of Louis Grayle, if he were, indeed, the son whom Graylehad made his constant companion, and constituted his principalheir. Not many minutes did I give myself up to the cloud ofreflections through which no sunbeam of light forced its way. Onethought overmastered all; Margrave had threatened death to myLilian, and warned me of what I should learn from the lips ofFaber, "the sage of the college." I stood, shuddering, at the doorof my home; I did not dare to enter.
"Allen," said a voice, in which my ear detected the unwontedtremulous faltering, "be firm,—be calm. I keep my promise.The hour is come in which you may again see the Lilian of old, mindto mind, soul to soul."
Faber's hand took mine, and led me into the house.
"You do, then, fear that this interview will be too much for herstrength?" said I, whisperingly.
"I cannot say; but she demands the interview, and I dare notrefuse it."
I left Faber on the stairs, and paused at the door of Lilian'sroom. The door opened suddenly, noiselessly, and her mother cameout with one hand before her face, and the other locked in Amy's,who was leading her as a child leads the blind. Mrs. Ashleighlooked up, as I touched her, with a vacant, dreary stare. She wasnot weeping, as was her womanly wont in every pettier grief, butAmy was. No word was exchanged between us. I entered, and closedthe door; my eyes turned mechanically to the corner in which wasplaced the small virgin bed, with its curtains white as a shroud.Lilian was not there. I looked around, and saw her half reclined ona couch near the window. She was dressed, and with care. Was notthat her bridal robe?
"Allen! Allen!" she murmured. "Again, again myAllen—again, again your Lilian!" And, striving in vain torise, she stretched out her arms in the yearning of reunited love.And as I knelt beside her, those arms closed round me for the firsttime in the frank, chaste, holy tenderness of a wife's embrace.
"Ah!" she said, in her low voice (her voice, like Cordelia's,was ever low), "all has come back to me,—all that I owe toyour protecting, noble, trustful, guardian love!"
"Hush! hush! the gratitude rests with me; it is so sweet tolove, to trust, to guard! my own, my beautiful—still mybeautiful! Suffering has not dimmed the light of those dear eyes tome! Put your lips to my ear. Whisper but these words: 'I love you,and for your sake I wish to live.'"
"For your sake, I pray—with my whole weak humanheart—I pray to live! Listen. Some day hereafter, if I amspared, under the purple blossoms of yonder waving trees I shalltell you all, as I see it now; all that darkened or shone on me inmy long dream, and before the dream closed around me, like a nightin which cloud and star chase each other! Some day hereafter, somequiet, sunlit, happy, happy day! But now, all I would say is this:Before that dreadful morning—" Here she paused, shuddered,and passionately burst forth, "Allen, Allen! you did not believethat slanderous letter! God bless you! God bless you!Great-hearted, high-souled—God bless you, my darling! myhusband! And He will! Pray to Him humbly as I do, and He will blessyou." She stooped and kissed away my tears; then she resumed,feebly, meekly, sorrowfully,—
"Before that morning I was not worthy of such a heart, such alove as yours. No, no; hear me. Not that a thought of love foranother ever crossed me! Never, while conscious and reasoning, wasI untrue to you, even in fancy. But I was a child,—wayward asthe child who pines for what earth cannot give, and covets the moonfor a toy. Heaven had been so kind to my lot on earth, and yet withmy lot on earth I was secretly discontented. When I felt that youloved me, and my heart told me that I loved again, I said tomyself, 'Now the void that my soul finds on earth will be filled.'I longed for your coming, and yet when you went I murmured, 'But isthis the ideal of which I have dreamed?' I asked for an impossiblesympathy. Sympathy with what? Nay, smile on me,dearest!—sympathy with what? I could not have said. Ah,Allen, then, then, I was not worthy of you! Infant that I was, Iasked you to understand me: now I know that I am a woman, and mytask is to study you. Do I make myself clear? Do you forgive me? Iwas not untrue to you; I was untrue to my own duties in life. Ibelieved, in my vain conceit, that a mortal's dim vision of heavenraised me above the earth; I did not perceive the truth that earthis a part of the same universe as heaven! Now, perhaps, in theawful affliction that darkened my reason, my soul has been mademore clear. As if to chastise but to teach me, my soul has beenpermitted to indulge its own presumptuous desire; it has wanderedforth from the trammels of mortal duties and destinies; it comesback, alarmed by the dangers of its own rash and presumptuousescape from the tasks which it should desire upon earth to perform.Allen, Allen, I am less unworthy of you now! Perhaps in my darknessone rapid glimpse of the true world of spirit has been vouchsafedto me. If so, how unlike to the visions my childhood indulged asdivine! Now, while I know still more deeply that there is a worldfor the angels, I know, also, that the mortal must pass throughprobation in the world of mortals. Oh, may I pass through it withyou, grieving in your griefs, rejoicing in your joy!"
Here language failed her. Again the dear arms embraced me, andthe dear face, eloquent with love, hid itself on my humanbreast.
That interview is over! Again I am banished from Lilian's room;the agitation, the joy of that meeting has overstrained herenfeebled nerves. Convulsive tremblings of the whole frame,accompanied with vehement sobs, succeeded our brief interchange ofsweet and bitter thoughts. Faber, in tearing me from her side,imperiously and sternly warned me that the sole chance yet left ofpreserving her life was in the merciful suspense of the emotionsthat my presence excited. He and Amy resumed their place in herchamber. Even her mother shared my sentence of banishment. So Mrs.Ashleigh and I sat facing each other in the room below; over me aleaden stupor had fallen, and I heard, as a voice from afar or in adream, the mother's murmured wailings,
"She will die! she will die! Her eyes have the same heavenlylook as my Gilbert's on the day on which his closed forever. Hervery words are his last words,—'Forgive me all my faults toyou.' She will die! she will die!"
Hours thus passed away. At length Faber entered the room; hespoke first to Mrs. Ashleigh,—meaningless soothings, familiarto the lips of all who pass from the chamber of the dying to thepresence of mourners, and know that it is a falsehood to say"hope," and a mockery as yet, to say, "endure."
But he led her away to her own room, docile as a wearied childled to sleep, stayed with her some time, and then returned to me,pressing me to his breast father-like.
"No hope! no hope!" said I, recoiling from his embrace. "You aresilent. Speak! speak! Let me know the worst."
"I have a hope, yet I scarcely dare to bid you share it; for itgrows rather out of my heart as man than my experience asphysician. I cannot think that her soul would be now so reconciledto earth, so fondly, so earnestly, cling to this mortal life, if itwere about to be summoned away. You know how commonly even thesufferers who have dreaded death the most become calmly resigned toits coming, when death visibly reveals itself out from the shadowsin which its shape has been guessed and not seen. As it is a badsign for life when the patient has lost all will to live on, sothere is hope while the patient, yet young and with no perceptiblebreach in the great centres of life (however violently their fortsmay be stormed), has still intense faith in recovery, perhaps drawn(who can say?) from the whispers conveyed from above to thesoul.
"I cannot bring myself to think that all the uses for which areason, always so lovely even in its errors, has been restored, areyet fulfilled. It seems to me as if your union, as yet soimperfect, has still for its end that holy life on earth by whichtwo mortal beings strengthen each other for a sphere of existenceto which this is the spiritual ladder. Through yourself I have hopeyet for her. Gifted with powers that rank you high in the manifoldorders of man,—thoughtful, laborious, and brave; with a heartthat makes intellect vibrate to every fine touch of humanity; inerror itself, conscientious; in delusion, still eager for truth; inanger, forgiving; in wrong, seeking how to repair; and, best ofall, strong in a love which the mean would have shrunk to defendfrom the fangs of the slanderer,—a love, raising passionitself out of the realm of the senses, made sublime by the sorrowsthat tried its devotion,—with all these noble proofs inyourself of a being not meant to end here, your life has stoppedshort in its uses, your mind itself has been drifted, a barkwithout rudder or pilot, over seas without shore, under skieswithout stars. And wherefore? Because the mind you so haughtilyvaunted has refused its companion and teacher in Soul.
"And therefore, through you, I hope that she will be spared yetto live on; she, in whom soul has been led dimly astray, byunheeding the checks and the definite goals which the mind isordained to prescribe to its wanderings while here; the mind takingthoughts from the actual and visible world, and the soul but vagueglimpses and hints from the instinct of its ultimate heritage. Eachof you two seems to me as yet incomplete, and your destinies yetuncompleted. Through the bonds of the heart, through the trials oftime, ye have both to consummate your marriage. I donot—believe me—I do not say this in the fanciful wisdomof allegory and type, save that, wherever deeply examined, allegoryand type run through all the most commonplace phases of outward andmaterial life. I hope, then, that she may yet be spared to you;hope it, not from my skill as physician, but my inward belief as aChristian. To perfect your own being and end, 'Ye will need oneanother!'"
I started—the very words that Lilian had heard in hervision!
"But," resumed Faber, "how can I presume to trace the numberlesslinks of effect up to the First Cause, far off—oh; faroff—out of the scope of my reason. I leave that tophilosophers, who would laugh my meek hope to scorn. Possibly,probably, where I, whose calling has been but to save flesh fromthe worm, deem that the life of your Lilian is needed yet, todevelop and train your own convictions of soul, Heaven in itswisdom may see that her death would instruct you far more than herlife. I have said, Be prepared for either,—wisdom throughjoy, or wisdom through grief. Enough that, looking only through themechanism by which this moral world is impelled and improved, youknow that cruelty is impossible to wisdom. Even a man, or man'slaw, is never wise but when merciful. But mercy has generalconditions; and that which is mercy to the myriads may seem hard tothe one, and that which seems hard to the one in the pang of amoment may be mercy when viewed by the eye that looks on througheternity."
And from all this discourse—of which I now, at calmdistance of time, recall every word—my human, loving heartbore away for the moment but this sentence, "Ye will need oneanother;" so that I cried out, "Life, life, life! Is there no hopefor her life? Have you no hope as physician? I am a physician, too;I will see her. I will judge. I will not be banished from mypost."
"Judge, then, as physician, and let the responsibility rest withyou. At this moment, all convulsion, all struggle, has ceased; theframe is at rest. Look on her, and perhaps only the physician's eyecould distinguish her state from death. It is not sleep, it is nottrance, it is not the dooming coma from which there is no awaking.Shall I call it by the name received in our schools? Is it thecatalepsy in which life is suspended, but consciousness acute? Sheis motionless, rigid; it is but with a strain of my own sense thatI know that the breath still breathes, and the heart still beats.But I am convinced that though she can neither speak, nor stir, norgive sign, she is fully, sensitively conscious of all that passesaround her. She is like those who have seen the very coffin carriedinto their chamber, and been unable to cry out, 'Do not bury mealive!' Judge then for yourself, with this intense consciousnessand this impotence to evince it, what might be the effect of yourpresence,—first an agony of despair, and then the completeextinction of life!"
"I have known but one such case,—a mother whose heart waswrapped up in a suffering infant. She had lain for two days and twonights, still, as if in her shroud. All save myself said, 'Life isgone.' I said, 'Life still is there.' They brought in the infant,to try what effect its presence would produce; then her lips moved,and the hands crossed upon her bosom trembled."
"And the result?" exclaimed Faber, eagerly. "If the result ofyour experience sanction your presence, come; the sight of the baberekindled life?"
"No; extinguished its last spark! I will not enter Lilian'sroom. I will go away,—away from the house itself. That acuteconsciousness! I know it well! She may even hear me move in theroom below, hear me speak at this moment. Go back to her, go back!But if hers be the state which I have known in another, which maybe yet more familiar to persons of far ampler experience than mine,there is no immediate danger of death. The state will last throughto-day, through to-night, perhaps for days to come. Is it so?"
"I believe that for at least twelve hours there will be nochange in her state. I believe also that if she recover from it,calm and refreshed, as from a sleep, the danger of death will havepassed away."
"And for twelve hours my presence would be hurtful?"
"Rather say fatal, if my diagnosis be right."
I wrung my friend's hand, and we parted.
Oh, to lose her now!—now that her love and her reason hadboth returned, each more vivid than before! Futile, indeed, mightbe Margrave's boasted secret; but at least in that secret was hope.In recognized science I saw only despair.
And at that thought all dread of this mysterious visitorvanished,—all anxiety to question more of his attributes orhis history. His life itself became to me dear and precious. Whatif it should fail me in the steps of the process, whatever thatwas, by which the life of my Lilian might be saved!
The shades of evening were now closing in. I remembered that Ihad left Margrave without even food for many hours. I stole roundto the back of the house, filled a basket with elements moregenerous than those of the former day; extracted fresh drugs frommy stores, and, thus laden, hurried back to the hut. I foundMargrave in the room below, seated on his mysterious coffer,leaning his face on his hand. When I entered, he looked up, andsaid,—
"You have neglected me. My strength is waning. Give me more ofthe cordial, for we have work before us to-night, and I needsupport."
He took for granted my assent to his wild experiment; and he wasright.
I administered the cordial. I placed food before him, and thistime he did not eat with repugnance. I poured out wine, and hedrank it sparingly, but with ready compliance, saying, "In perfecthealth, I looked upon wine as poison; now it is like a foretaste ofthe glorious elixir."
After he had thus recruited himself, he seemed to acquire anenergy that startlingly contrasted his languor the day before; theeffort of breathing was scarcely perceptible; the colour came backto his cheeks; his bended frame rose elastic and erect.
"If I understood you rightly," said I, "the experiment you askme to aid can be accomplished in a single night?"
"In a single night,—this night."
"Command me. Why not begin at once? What apparatus or chemicalagencies do you need?"
"Ah!" said Margrave, "formerly, how I was misled! Formerly, howmy conjectures blundered! I thought, when I asked you to give amonth to the experiment I wish to make, that I should need thesubtlest skill of the chemist. I then believed, with Van Helmont,that the principle of life is a gas, and that the secret was but inthe mode by which the gas might be rightly administered. But nowall that I need is contained in this coffer, save one very simplematerial,—fuel sufficient for a steady fire for six hours. Isee even that is at hand, piled up in your outhouse. And now forthe substance itself,—to that you must guide me."
"Explain."
"Near this very spot is there not gold—in mines yetundiscovered?—and gold of the purest metal?"
"There is. What then? Do you, with the alchemists, blend in onediscovery gold and life?"
"No. But it is only where the chemistry of earth or of manproduces gold, that the substance from which the great pabulum oflife is extracted by ferment can be found. Possibly, in theattempts at that transmutation of metals, which I think your owngreat chemist, Sir Humphry Davy, allowed might be possible, butheld not to be worth the cost of the process,—possibly, inthose attempts, some scanty grains of this substance were found bythe alchemists, in the crucible, with grains of the metal asniggardly yielded by pitiful mimicry of Nature's stupendouslaboratory; and from such grains enough of the essence might,perhaps, have been drawn forth, to add a few years of existence tosome feeble graybeard,—granting, what rests on no proofs,that some of the alchemists reached an age rarely given to man. Butit is not in the miserly crucible, it is in the matrix of Natureherself, that we must seek in prolific abundance Nature's grandprinciple,—life. As the loadstone is rife with the magneticvirtue, as amber contains the electric, so in this substance, towhich we yet want a name, is found the bright life-giving fluid. Inthe old goldmines of Asia and Europe the substance exists, but canrarely be met with. The soil for its nutriment may there bewell-nigh exhausted. It is here, where Nature herself is all vitalwith youth, that the nutriment of youth must be sought. Near thisspot is gold; guide me to it."
"You cannot come with me. The place which I know as auriferousis some miles distant, the way rugged. You can not walk to it. Itis true I have horses, but—"
"Do you think I have come this distance and not foreseen andforestalled all that I want for my object? Trouble your self notwith conjectures how I can arrive at the place. I have provided themeans to arrive at and leave it. My litter and its bearers are inreach of my call. Give me your arm to the rising ground, fiftyyards from your door."
I obeyed mechanically, stifling all surprise. I had made myresolve, and admitted no thought that could shake it. When wereached the summit of the grassy hillock, which sloped from theroad that led to the seaport, Margrave, after pausing to recoverbreath, lifted up his voice, in a key, not loud, but shrill andslow and prolonged, half cry and half chant, like the nighthawk's.Through the air—so limpid and still, bringing near farobjects, far sounds—the voice pierced its way, artfullypausing, till wave after wave of the atmosphere bore andtransmitted it on.
In a few minutes the call seemed re-echoed, so exactly, socheerily, that for the moment I thought that the note was themimicry of the shy mocking Lyre-Bird, which mimics so merrily allthat it hears in its coverts, from the whir of the locust to thehowl of the wild dog.
"What king," said the mystical charmer, and as he spoke hecarelessly rested his hand on my shoulder, so that I trembled tofeel that this dread son of Nature, Godless and soulless, who hadbeen—and, my heart whispered, who still could be—mybane and mind-darkener, leaned upon me for support, as the spoiltyounger-born on his brother,—"what king," said this cynicalmocker, with his beautiful boyish face,—"what king in yourcivilized Europe has the sway of a chief of the East? What link isso strong between mortal and mortal, as that between lord andslave? I transport yon poor fools from the land of their birth;they preserve here their old habits,—obedience and awe. Theywould wait till they starved in the solitude,—wait to hearkenand answer my call. And I, who thus rule them, or charmthem—I use and despise them. They know that, and yet serveme! Between you and me, my philosopher, there is but one thingworth living for,—life for oneself."
Is it age, is it youth, that thus shocks all my sense, in mysolemn completeness of man? Perhaps, in great capitals, young menof pleasure will answer, "It is youth; and we think what he says!"Young friends, I do not believe you.
Along the grass-track I saw now, under the moon, just risen, astrange procession, never seen before in Australian pastures. Itmoved on, noiselessly but quickly. We descended the hillock, andmet it on the way,—a sable litter, borne by four men, inunfamiliar Eastern garments; two other servitors, more bravelydressed, with yataghans and silver-hilted pistols in their belts,preceded this sombre equipage. Perhaps Margrave divined thedisdainful thought that passed through my mind, vaguely andhalf-unconsciously; for he said, with a hollow, bitter laugh thathad replaced the lively peal of his once melodiousmirth,—
"A little leisure and a little gold, and your raw colonist, too,will have the tastes of a pacha."
I made no answer. I had ceased to care who and what was mytempter. To me his whole being was resolved into one problem: Hadhe a secret by which death could be turned from Lilian?
But now, as the litter halted, from the long dark shadow whichit cast upon the turf the figure of a woman emerged and stoodbefore us. The outlines of her shape were lost in the loose foldsof a black mantle, and the features of her face were hidden by ablack veil, except only the dark, bright, solemn eyes. Her staturewas lofty, her bearing majestic, whether in movement or repose.
Margrave accosted her in some language unknown to me. Shereplied in what seemed to me the same tongue. The tones of hervoice were sweet, but inexpressibly mournful. The words that theyuttered appeared intended to warn, or deprecate, or dissuade; butthey called to Margrave's brow a lowering frown, and drew from hislips a burst of unmistakable anger. The woman rejoined, in the samemelancholy music of voice. And Margrave then, leaning his arm uponher shoulder, as he had leaned it on mine, drew her away from thegroup into a neighbouring copse of the floweringeucalypti,—mystic trees, never changing the hues of theirpale-green leaves, ever shifting the tints of their ash-gray,shedding bark. For some moments I gazed on the two human forms,dimly seen by the glinting moonlight through the gaps in thefoliage. Then turning away my eyes, I saw, standing close at myside, a man whom I had not noticed before. His footstep, as itstole to me, had fallen on the sward without sound. His dress,though Oriental, differed from that of his companions, both inshape and colour; fitting close to the breast, leaving the armsbare to the elbow, and of a uniform ghastly white, as are thecerements of the grave. His visage was even darker than those ofthe Syrians or Arabs behind him, and his features were those of abird of prey,—the beak of the eagle, but the eye of thevulture. His cheeks were hollow; the arms, crossed on his breast,were long and fleshless. Yet in that skeleton form there was asomething which conveyed the idea of a serpent's suppleness andstrength; and as the hungry, watchful eyes met my own startledgaze, I recoiled impulsively with that inward warning of dangerwhich is conveyed to man, as to inferior animals, in the veryaspect of the creatures that sting or devour. At my movement theman inclined his head in the submissive Eastern salutation, andspoke in his foreign tongue, softly, humbly, fawningly, to judge byhis tone and his gesture.
I moved yet farther away from him with loathing, and now thehuman thought flashed upon me: was I, in truth, exposed to nodanger in trusting myself to the mercy of the weird and remorselessmaster of those hirelings from the East,—seven men in number,two at least of them formidably armed, and docile as bloodhounds tothe hunter, who has only to show them their prey? But fear of manlike myself is not my weakness; where fear found its way to myheart, it was through the doubts or the fancies in which man likemyself disappeared in the attributes, dark and unknown, which wegive to a fiend or a spectre. And, perhaps, if I could have pausedto analyze my own sensations, the very presence of thisescort-creatures of flesh and blood-lessened the dread of myincomprehensible tempter. Rather, a hundred times, front and defythose seven Eastern slaves—I, haughty son of the Anglo-Saxonwho conquers all races because he fears no odds—than haveseen again on the walls of my threshold the luminous, bodilessShadow! Besides: Lilian! Lilian! for one chance of saving her life,however wild and chimerical that chance might be, I would haveshrunk not a foot from the march of an army.
Thus reassured and thus resolved, I advanced, with a smile ofdisdain, to meet Margrave and his veiled companion, as they nowcame from the moonlit copse.
"Well," I said to him, with an irony that unconsciously mimickedhis own, "have you taken advice with your nurse? I assume that thedark form by your side is that of Ayesha."
The woman looked at me from her sable veil, with her steadfastsolemn eyes, and said, in English, though with a foreign accent:"The nurse born in Asia is but wise through her love; the pale sonof Europe is wise through his art. The nurse says, 'Forbear!' Doyou say, 'Adventure'?"
"Peace!" exclaimed Margrave, stamping his foot on the ground. "Itake no counsel from either; it is for me to resolve, for you toobey, and for him to aid. Night is come, and we waste it; moveon."
The woman made no reply, nor did I. He took my arm and walkedback to the hut. The barbaric escort followed. When we reached thedoor of the building, Margrave said a few words to the woman and tothe litter-bearers. They entered the hut with us. Margrave pointedout to the woman his coffer, to the men the fuel stowed in theouthouse. Both were borne away and placed within the litter.Meanwhile, I took from the table, on which it was carelesslythrown, the light hatchet that I habitually carried with me in myrambles.
"Do you think that you need that idle weapon?" said Margrave."Do you fear the good faith of my swarthy attendants?"
"Nay, take the hatchet yourself; its use is to sever the goldfrom the quartz in which we may find it embedded, or to clear, asthis shovel, which will also be needed, from the slight soil aboveit, the ore that the mine in the mountain flings forth, as the seacasts its waifs on the sands."
"Give me your hand, fellow-labourer!" said Margrave, joyfully."Ah, there is no faltering terror in this pulse! I was not mistakenin the Man. What rests, but the Place and the Hour? I shall live! Ishall live!"
Margrave now entered the litter, and the Veiled Woman drew theblack curtains round him. I walked on, as the guide, some yards inadvance. The air was still, heavy, and parched with the breath ofthe Australasian sirocco.
We passed through the meadow-lands, studded with slumberingflocks; we followed the branch of the creek, which was linked toits source in the mountains by many a trickling waterfall; wethreaded the gloom of stunted, misshapen trees, gnarled with thestringy bark which makes one of the signs of the strata thatnourish gold; and at length the moon, now in all her pomp of light,mid-heaven amongst her subject stars, gleamed through the fissuresof the cave, on whose floor lay the relics of antediluvian races,and rested in one flood of silvery splendour upon the hollows ofthe extinct volcano, with tufts of dank herbage, and wide spaces ofpaler sward, covering the gold below,—Gold, the dumb symbolof organized Matter's great mystery, storing in itself, accordingas Mind, the informer of Matter, can distinguish its uses, evil andgood, bane and blessing.
Hitherto the Veiled Woman had remained in the rear, with thewhite-robed, skeleton-like image that had crept to my side unawareswith its noiseless step. Thus in each winding turn of the difficultpath at which the convoy following behind me came into sight, I hadseen, first, the two gayly-dressed, armed men, next the blackbier-like litter, and last the Black-veiled Woman and theWhite-robed Skeleton.
But now, as I halted on the tableland, backed by the mountainand fronting the valley, the woman left her companion, passed bythe litter and the armed men, and paused by my side, at the mouthof the moonlit cavern.
There for a moment she stood, silent, the procession belowmounting upward laboriously and slow; then she turned to me, andher veil was withdrawn.
The face on which I gazed was wondrously beautiful, and severelyawful. There was neither youth nor age, but beauty, mature andmajestic as that of a marble Demeter.
"Do you believe in that which you seek?" she asked, in herforeign, melodious, melancholy accents.
"I have no belief," was my answer. "True science has none. Truescience questions all things, takes nothing upon credit. It knowsbut three states of the mind,—Denial, Conviction, and thatvast interval between the two, which is not belief, but suspense ofjudgment."
The woman let fall her veil, moved from me, and seated herselfon a crag above that cleft between mountain and creek, to which,when I had first discovered the gold that the land nourished, therain from the clouds had given the rushing life of the cataract;but which now, in the drought and the hush of the skies, was but adead pile of stones.
The litter now ascended the height: its bearers halted; a leanhand tore the curtains aside, and Margrave descended, leaning, thistime, not on the Black-veiled Woman, but on the White-robedSkeleton.
There, as he stood, the moon shone full on his wasted form; onhis face, resolute, cheerful, and proud, despite its hollowedoutlines and sicklied hues. He raised his head, spoke in thelanguage unknown to me, and the armed men and the litter-bearersgrouped round him, bending low, their eyes fixed on the ground. TheVeiled Woman rose slowly and came to his side, motioning away, witha mute sign, the ghastly form on which he leaned, and passing roundhim silently, instead, her own sustaining arm. Margrave spoke againa few sentences, of which I could not even guess the meaning. Whenhe had concluded, the armed men and the litter-bearers came nearerto his feet, knelt down, and kissed his hand. They then rose, andtook from the bier-like vehicle the coffer and the fuel. This done,they lifted again the litter, and again, preceded by the armed men,the procession descended down the sloping hillside, down into thevalley below.
Margrave now whispered, for some moments, into the ear of thehideous creature who had made way for the Veiled Woman. The grimskeleton bowed his head submissively, and strode noiselessly awaythrough the long grasses,—the slender stems, trampled underhis stealthy feet, relifting themselves, as after a passing wind.And thus he, too, sank out of sight down into the valley below. Onthe tableland of the hill remained only we three,—Margrave,myself, and the Veiled Woman.
She had reseated herself apart, on the gray crag above the driedtorrent. He stood at the entrance of the cavern, round the sides ofwhich clustered parasital plants, with flowers of all colours, someamongst them opening their petals and exhaling their fragrance onlyin the hours of night; so that, as his form filled up the jaws ofthe dull arch, obscuring the moonbeam that strove to pierce theshadows that slept within, it stood now—wan andblighted—as I had seen it first, radiant and joyous,literally "framed in blooms."
"So," said Margrave, turning to me, "under the soil that spreadsaround us lies the gold which to you and to me is at this moment ofno value, except as a guide to its twin-born,—the regeneratorof life!"
"You have not yet described to me the nature of the substancewhich we are to explore, nor of the process by which the virtuesyou impute to it are to be extracted."
"Let us first find the gold, and instead of describing thelife-amber, so let me call it, I will point it out to your owneyes. As to the process, your share in it is so simple, that youwill ask me why I seek aid from a chemist. The life-amber, whenfound, has but to be subjected to heat and fermentation for sixhours; it will be placed, in a small caldron which that coffercontains, over the fire which that fuel will feed. To give effectto the process, certain alkalies and other ingredients arerequired; but these are prepared, and mine is the task to comminglethem. From your science as chemist I need and ask nought. In you Ihave sought only the aid of a man."
"If that be so, why, indeed, seek me at all? Why not confide inthose swarthy attendants, who doubtless are slaves to yourorders?"
"Confide in slaves! when the first task enjoined to them wouldbe to discover, and refrain from purloining gold! Seven suchunscrupulous knaves, or even one such, and I, thus defenceless andfeeble! Such is not the work that wise masters confide to fierceslaves. But that is the least of the reasons which exclude themfrom my choice, and fix my choice of assistant on you. Do youforget what I told you of the danger which the Dervish declared nobribe I could offer could tempt him a second time to brave?"
"I remember now; those words had passed away from my mind."
"And because they had passed away from your mind, I chose youfor my comrade. I need a man by whom danger is scorned."
"But in the process of which you tell me I see no possibledanger unless the ingredients you mix in your caldron havepoisonous fumes."
"It is not that. The ingredients I use are not poisons."
"What other danger, except you dread your own Eastern slaves?But, if so, why lead them to these solitudes; and, if so, why notbid me be armed?"
"The Eastern slaves, fulfilling my commands, wait for my summonswhere their eyes cannot see what we do. The danger is of a kind inwhich the boldest son of the East would be more craven, perhaps,than the daintiest Sybarite of Europe, who would shrink from apanther and laugh at a ghost. In the creed of the Dervish, and ofall who adventure into that realm of nature which is closed tophilosophy and open to magic, there are races in the magnitude ofspace unseen as animalcules in the world of a drop. For the tribesof the drop, science has its microscope. Of the host of yon azureInfinite magic gains sight, and through them gains command overfluid conductors that link all the parts of creation. Of theseraces, some are wholly indifferent to man, some benign to him, andsome dreadly hostile. In all the regular and prescribed conditionsof mortal being, this magic realm seems as blank and tenantless asyon vacant air. But when a seeker of powers beyond the rudefunctions by which man plies the clockwork that measures his hours,and stops when its chain reaches the end of its coil, strives topass over those boundaries at which philosophy says, 'Knowledgeends,'—then he is like all other travellers in regionsunknown; he must propitiate or brave the tribes that arehostile,—must depend for his life on the tribes that arefriendly. Though your science discredits the alchemist's dogmas,your learning informs you that all alchemists were not ignorantimpostors; yet those whose discoveries prove them to have been thenearest allies to your practical knowledge, ever hint in theirmystical works at the reality of that realm which is open tomagic,—ever hint that some means less familiar than furnaceand bellows are essential to him who explores the elixir of life.He who once quaffs that elixir, obtains in his very veins thebright fluid by which he transmits the force of his will toagencies dormant in nature, to giants unseen in the space. Andhere, as he passes the boundary which divides his allotted andnormal mortality from the regions and races that magic alone canexplore, so, here, he breaks down the safeguard between himself andthe tribes that are hostile. Is it not ever thus between man andman? Let a race the most gentle and timid and civilized dwell onone side a river or mountain, and another have home in the regionbeyond, each, if it pass not the intervening barrier, may with eachlive in peace. But if ambitious adventurers scale the mountain, orcross the river, with design to subdue and enslave the populationthey boldly invade, then all the invaded arise in wrath anddefiance,—the neighbours are changed into foes. And thereforethis process—by which a simple though rare material of natureis made to yield to a mortal the boon of a life which brings, withits glorious resistance to Time, desires and faculties to subjectto its service beings that dwell in the earth and the air and thedeep—has ever been one of the same peril which an invadermust brave when he crosses the bounds of his nation. By this keyalone you unlock all the cells of the alchemist's lore; by thisalone understand how a labour, which a chemist's crudest apprenticecould perform, has baffled the giant fathers of all your dwarfedchildren of science. Nature, that stores this priceless boon, seemsto shrink from conceding it to man; the invisible tribes that abhorhim, oppose themselves to the gain that might give them a master.The duller of those who were the life-seekers of old would havetold you how some chance, trivial, unlooked-for, foiled their grandhope at the very point of fruition,—some doltish mistake,some improvident oversight, a defect in the sulphur, a wildoverflow in the quicksilver, or a flaw in the bellows, or a pupilwho failed to replenish the fuel, by falling asleep by the furnace.The invisible foes seldom vouchsafe to make themselves visiblewhere they can frustrate the bungler, as they mock at his toilsfrom their ambush. But the mightier adventurers, equally foiled indespite of their patience and skill, would have said, 'Not with usrests the fault; we neglected no caution, we failed from nooversight. But out from the caldron dread faces arose, and thespectres or demons dismayed and baffled us.' Such, then, is thedanger which seems so appalling to a son of the East, as it seemedto a seer in the dark age of Europe. But we can deride all itsthreats, you and I. For myself, I own frankly I take all the safetythat the charms and resources of magic bestow. You, for yoursafety, have the cultured and disciplined reason which reduces allfantasies to nervous impressions; and I rely on the courage of onewho has questioned, unquailing, the Luminous Shadow, and wrestedfrom the hand of the magician himself the wand which concentred thewonders of will!"
To this strange and long discourse I listened withoutinterruption, and now quietly answered,—
"I do not merit the trust you affect in my courage; but I am nowon my guard against the cheats of the fancy, and the fumes of avapour can scarcely bewilder the brain in the open air of thismountain-land. I believe in no races like those which you tell melie viewless in space, as do gases. I believe not in magic; I asknot its aids, and I dread not its terrors. For the rest, I amconfident of one mournful courage,—the courage that comesfrom despair. I submit to your guidance, whatever it be, as asufferer whom colleges doom to the grave submits to the quack whosays, 'Take my specific and live!' My life is nought in itself; mylife lives in another. You and I are both brave from despair; youwould turn death from yourself, I would turn death from one I lovemore than myself. Both know how little aid we can win from thecolleges, and both, therefore, turn to the promises mostaudaciously cheering. Dervish or magician, alchemist or phantom,what care you and I? And if they fail us, what then? They cannotfail us more than the colleges do!"
The gold has been gained with an easy labour. I knew where toseek for it, whether under the turf or in the bed of the creek. ButMargrave's eyes, hungrily gazing round every spot from which theore was disburied, could not detect the substance of which he aloneknew the outward appearance. I had begun to believe that, even inthe description given to him of this material, he had beencredulously duped, and that no such material existed, when, comingback from the bed of the watercourse, I saw a faint yellow gleamamidst the roots of a giant parasite plant, the leaves and blossomsof which climbed up the sides of the cave with its antediluvianrelics. The gleam was the gleam of gold, and on removing the looseearth round the roots of the plant, we came on—No, I willnot, I dare not, describe it. The gold-digger would cast it aside,the naturalist would pause not to heed it; and did I describe it,and chemistry deign to subject it to analysis, could chemistryalone detach or discover its boasted virtues?
Its particles, indeed, are very minute, not seeming readily tocrystallize with each other; each in itself of uniform shape andsize, spherical as the egg which contains the germ of life, andsmall as the egg from which the life of an insect may quicken.
But Margrave's keen eye caught sight of the atoms upcast by thelight of the moon. He exclaimed to me, "Found! I shall live!" Andthen, as he gathered up the grains with tremulous hands, he calledout to the Veiled Woman, hitherto still seated motionless on thecrag. At his word she rose and went to the place hard by, where thefuel was piled, busying herself there. I had no leisure to heedher. I continued my search in the soft and yielding soil that timeand the decay of vegetable life had accumulated over thePre-Adamite strata on which the arch of the cave rested its mightykeystone.
When we had collected of these particles about thrice as much asa man might hold in his hand, we seemed to have exhausted theirbed. We continued still to find gold, but no more of the delicatesubstance, to which, in our sight, gold was as dross.
"Enough," then said Margrave, reluctantly desisting. "What wehave gained already will suffice for a life thrice as long aslegend attributes to Haroun. I shall live,—I shall livethrough the centuries."
"Forget not that I claim my share."
"Your share—yours! True—your half of my life! It istrue." He paused with a low, ironical, malignant laugh; and thenadded, as he rose and turned away, "But the work is yet to bedone."
While we had thus laboured and found, Ayesha had placed the fuelwhere the moonlight fell fullest on the sward of thetableland,—a part of it already piled as for a fire, the restof it heaped confusedly close at hand; and by the pile she hadplaced the coffer. And there she stood, her arms folded under hermantle, her dark image seeming darker still as the moonlightwhitened all the ground from which the image rose motionless.Margrave opened his coffer, the Veiled Woman did not aid him, and Iwatched in silence, while he as silently made his weird andwizard-like preparations.
On the ground a wide circle was traced by a small rod, tippedapparently with sponge saturated with some combustible naphtha-likefluid, so that a pale lambent flame followed the course of the rodas Margrave guided it, burning up the herbage over which it played,and leaving a distinct ring, like that which, in our lovely nativefable-talk, we call the "Fairy's Ring," but yet more visiblebecause marked in phosphorescent light. On the ring thus formedwere placed twelve small lamps, fed with the fluid from the samevessel, and lighted by the same rod. The light emitted by the lampswas more vivid and brilliant than that which circled round thering.
Within the circumference, and immediately round the woodpile,Margrave traced certain geometrical figures, in which—notwithout a shudder, that I overcame at once by a strong effort ofwill in murmuring to myself the name of "Lilian"—I recognizedthe interlaced triangles which my own hand, in the spell enforcedon a sleep-walker, had described on the floor of the wizard'spavilion. The figures were traced, like the circle, in flame, andat the point of each triangle (four in number) was placed a lamp,brilliant as those on the ring. This task performed, the caldron,based on an iron tripod, was placed on the wood-pile. And then thewoman, before inactive and unheeding, slowly advanced, knelt by thepile, and lighted it. The dry wood crackled and the flame burstforth, licking the rims of the caldron with tongues of fire.
Margrave flung into the caldron the particles we had collected,poured over them first a liquid, colourless as water, from thelargest of the vessels drawn from his coffer, and then, moresparingly, drops from small crystal phials, like the phials I hadseen in the hand of Philip Derval.
Having surmounted my first impulse of awe, I watched theseproceedings, curious yet disdainful, as one who watches themummeries of an enchanter on the stage.
"If," thought I, "these are but artful devices to inebriate andfool my own imagination, my imagination is on its guard, and reasonshall not, this time, sleep at her post!"
"And now," said Margrave, "I consign to you the easy task bywhich you are to merit your share of the elixir. It is my task tofeed and replenish the caldron; it is Ayesha's to heed the fire,which must not for a moment relax in its measured and steady heat.Your task is the lightest of all it is but to renew from thisvessel the fluid that burns in the lamps, and on the ring. Observe,the contents of the vessel must be thriftily husbanded; there isenough, but not more than enough, to sustain the light in thelamps, on the lines traced round the caldron, and on the fartherring, for six hours. The compounds dissolved in this fluid arescarce,—only obtainable in the East, and even in the Eastmonths might have passed before I could have increased mysupply.
"I had no months to waste. Replenish, then, the light only whenit begins to flicker or fade. Take heed, above all, that no part ofthe outer ring—no, not an inch—and no lamp of thetwelve, that are to its zodiac like stars, fade for one moment indarkness."
I took the crystal vessel from his hand.
"The vessel is small," said I, "and what is yet left of itscontents is but scanty; whether its drops suffice to replenish thelights I cannot guess,—I can but obey your instructions. But,more important by far than the light to the lamps and the circle,which in Asia or Africa might scare away the wild beasts unknown tothis land—more important than light to a lamp, is thestrength to your frame, weak magician! What will support youthrough six weary hours of night-watch?"
"Hope," answered Margrave, with a ray of his old dazzling style."Hope! I shall live,—I shall live through the centuries!"
One hour passed away; the fagots under the caldron burned clearin the sullen sultry air. The materials within began to seethe, andtheir colour, at first dull and turbid, changed into a pale-rosehue; from time to time the Veiled Woman replenished the fire, aftershe had done so reseating herself close by the pyre, with her headbowed over her knees, and her face hid under her veil.
The lights in the lamps and along the ring and the triangles nowbegan to pale. I resupplied their nutriment from the crystalvessel. As yet nothing strange startled my eye or my ear beyond therim of the circle,—nothing audible, save, at a distance, themusical wheel-like click of the locusts, and, farther still, in theforest, the howl of the wild dogs, that never bark; nothingvisible, but the trees and the mountain-range girding the plainssilvered by the moon, and the arch of the cavern, the flush of wildblooms on its sides, and the gleam of dry bones on its floor, wherethe moonlight shot into the gloom.
The second hour passed like the first. I had taken my stand bythe side of Margrave, watching with him the process at work in thecaldron, when I felt the ground slightly vibrate beneath my feet,and, looking up, it seemed as if all the plains beyond the circlewere heaving like the swell of the sea, and as if in the air itselfthere was a perceptible tremor.
I placed my hand on Margrave's shoulder and whispered, "To meearth and air seem to vibrate. Do they seem to vibrate to you?"
"I know not, I care not," he answered impetuously. "The essenceis bursting the shell that confined it. Here are my air and myearth! Trouble me not. Look to the circle! feed the lamps if theyfail."
I passed by the Veiled Woman as I walked towards a place in thering in which the flame was waning dim; and I whispered to her thesame question which I had whispered to Margrave. She looked slowlyaround, and answered, "So is it before the Invisible makethemselves visible! Did I not bid him forbear?" Her head againdrooped on her breast, and her watch was again fixed on thefire.
I advanced to the circle and stooped to replenish the lightwhere it waned. As I did so, on my arm, which stretched somewhatbeyond the line of the ring, I felt a shock like that ofelectricity. The arm fell to my side numbed and nerveless, and frommy hand dropped, but within the ring, the vessel that contained thefluid. Recovering my surprise or my stun, hastily with the otherhand I caught up the vessel, but some of the scanty liquid wasalready spilled on the sward; and I saw with a thrill of dismay,that contrasted indeed the tranquil indifference with which I hadfirst undertaken my charge, how small a supply was now left.
I went back to Margrave, and told him of the shock, and of itsconsequence in the waste of the liquid.
"Beware," said he, "that not a motion of the arm, not an inch ofthe foot, pass the verge of the ring; and if the fluid be thusunhappily stinted, reserve all that is left for the protectingcircle and the twelve outer lamps! See how the Grand Work advances!how the hues in the caldron are glowing blood-red through the filmon the surface!"
And now four hours of the six were gone; my arm had graduallyrecovered its strength. Neither the ring nor the lamps had againrequired replenishing; perhaps their light was exhausted lessquickly, as it was no longer to be exposed to the rays of theintense Australian moon. Clouds had gathered over the sky, andthough the moon gleamed at times in the gaps that they left in blueair, her beam was more hazy and dulled. The locusts no longer wereheard in the grass, nor the howl of the dogs in the forest. Out ofthe circle, the stillness was profound.
And about this time I saw distinctly in the distance a vast Eye!It drew nearer and nearer, seeming to move from the ground at theheight of some lofty giant. Its gaze riveted mine; my blood curdledin the blaze from its angry ball; and now as it advanced larger andlarger, other Eyes, as if of giants in its train, grew out from thespace in its rear; numbers on numbers, like the spearheads of someEastern army, seen afar by pale warders of battlements doomed tothe dust. My voice long refused an utterance to my awe; at lengthit burst forth shrill and loud,—
"Look! look! Those terrible Eyes! Legions on legions! And hark!that tramp of numberless feet; they are not seen, but the hollowsof earth echo the sound of their march!"
Margrave, more than ever intent on the caldron, in which, fromtime to time, he kept dropping powders or essences drawn forth fromhis coffer, looked up, defyingly, fiercely.
"Ye come," he said, in a low mutter, his once mighty voicesounding hollow and labouring, but fearless and firm,—"yecome,—not to conquer, vain rebels!—ye whose dark chiefI struck down at my feet in the tomb where my spell had raised upthe ghost of your first human master, the Chaldee! Earth and airhave their armies still faithful to me, and still I remember thewar-song that summons them up to confront you! Ayesha! Ayesha!recall the wild troth that we pledged amongst roses; recall thedread bond by which we united our sway over hosts that yet own theeas queen, though my sceptre is broken, my diadem reft from mybrows!"
The Veiled Woman rose at this adjuration. Her veil now waswithdrawn, and the blaze of the fire between Margrave and herselfflushed, as with the rosy bloom of youth, the grand beauty of hersoftened face. It was seen, detached as it were, from herdark-mantled form; seen through the mist of the vapours which rosefrom the caldron, framing it round like the clouds. that areyieldingly pierced by the light of the evening star.
Through the haze of the vapour came her voice, more musical,more plaintive than I had heard it before, but far softer, moretender; still in her foreign tongue; the words unknown to me, andyet their sense, perhaps, made intelligible by the love, which hasone common language and one common look to all who haveloved,—the love unmistakably heard in the loving tone,unmistakably seen in the loving face.
A moment or so more, and she had come round from the oppositeside of the fire-pile, and bending over Margrave's upturned brow,kissed it quietly, solemnly; and then her countenance grew fierce,her crest rose erect; it was the lioness protecting her young. Shestretched forth her arm from the black mantle, athwart the palefront that now again bent over the caldron,—stretched ittowards the haunted and hollow-sounding space beyond, in thegesture of one whose right hand has the sway of the sceptre. Andthen her voice stole on the air in the music of a chant, not loud,yet far-reaching; so thrilling, so sweet, and yet so solemn, that Icould at once comprehend how legend united of old the spell ofenchantment with the power of song. All that I recalled of theeffects which, in the former time, Margrave's strange chants hadproduced on the ear that they ravished and the thoughts theyconfused, was but as the wild bird's imitative carol, compared tothe depth and the art and the soul of the singer, whose voiceseemed endowed with a charm to enthrall all the tribes of creation,though the language it used for that charm might to them, as to me,be unknown. As the song ceased, I heard, from behind, sounds likethose I had heard in the spaces before me,—the tramp ofinvisible feet, the whir of invisible wings, as if armies weremarching to aid against armies in march to destroy.
"Look not in front nor around," said Ayesha. "Look, like him, onthe caldron below. The circle and the lamps are yet bright; I willtell you when the light again fails."
I dropped my eyes on the caldron.
"See," whispered Margrave, "the sparkles at last begin to arise,and the rose-hues to deepen,—signs that we near the lastprocess."
The fifth hour had passed away, when Ayesha said to me, "Lo! thecircle is fading; the lamps grow dim. Look now without fear on thespace beyond; the eyes that appalled thee are again lost in air, aslightnings that fleet back into cloud."
I looked up, and the spectres had vanished. The sky was tingedwith sulphurous hues, the red and the black intermixed. Ireplenished the lamps and the ring in front, thriftily, heedfully;but when I came to the sixth lamp, not a drop in the vessel thatfed them was left. In a vague dismay, I now looked round the halfof the wide circle in rear of the two bended figures intent on thecaldron. All along that disk the light was already broken, here andthere flickering up, here and there dying down; the six lamps inthat half of the circle still twinkled, but faintly, as starsshrinking fast from the dawn of day. But it was not the fadingshine in that half of the magical ring which daunted my eye andquickened with terror the pulse of my heart; the Bushland beyondwas on fire. From the background of the forest rose the flame andthe smoke,—the smoke, there, still half smothering the flame.But along the width of the grasses and herbage, between the vergeof the forest and the bed of the water-creek just below the raisedplatform from which I beheld the dread conflagration, the fire wasadvancing,—wave upon wave, clear and red against the columnsof rock behind,—as the rush of a flood through the mists ofsome Alp crowned with lightnings.
Roused from my stun at the first sight of a danger not foreseenby the mind I had steeled against far rarer portents of Nature, Icared no more for the lamps and the circle. Hurrying back toAyesha, I exclaimed: "The phantoms have gone from the spaces infront; but what incantation or spell can arrest the red march ofthe foe, speeding on in the rear! While we gazed on the caldron oflife, behind us, unheeded, behold the Destroyer!"
Ayesha looked, and made no reply; but, as by involuntaryinstinct, bowed her majestic head, then rearing it erect, placedherself yet more immediately before the wasted form of the youngmagician (he still bending over the caldron, and hearing me not inthe absorption and hope of his watch),—placed herself beforehim, as the bird whose first care is her fledgling.
As we two there stood, fronting the deluge of fire, we heardMargrave behind us, murmuring low, "See the bubbles of light, howthey sparkle and dance! I shall live, I shall live!" And his wordsscarcely died in our ears before, crash upon crash, came the fallof the age-long trees in the forest; and nearer, all near us,through the blazing grasses, the hiss of the serpents, the screamof the birds, and the bellow and tramp of the herds plunging wildthrough the billowy red of their pastures.
Ayesha now wound her arms around Margrave, and wrenched him,reluctant and struggling, from his watch over the seething caldron.In rebuke; of his angry exclamations, she pointed to the march ofthe fire, spoke in sorrowful tones a few words in her own language,and then, appealing to me in English, said,—
"I tell him that here the Spirits who oppose us have summoned afoe that is deaf to my voice, and—"
"And," exclaimed Margrave, no longer with gasp and effort, butwith the swell of a voice which drowned all the discords of terrorand of agony sent forth from the Phlegethon burningbelow,—"and this witch, whom I trusted, is a vile slave andimpostor, more desiring my death than my life. She thinks that inlife I should scorn and forsake her, that in death I should die inher arms! Sorceress, avaunt! Art thou useless and powerless nowwhen I need thee most? Go! Let the world be one funeral pyre! Whatto me is the world? My world is my life! Thou knowest that my lasthope is here,—that all the strength left me this night willdie down, like the lamps in the circle, unless the elixir restoreit. Bold friend, spurn that sorceress away. Hours yet ere thoseflames can assail us! A few minutes more, and life to your Lilianand me!"
Thus having said, Margrave turned from us, and cast into thecaldron the last essence yet left in his empty coffer. Ayeshasilently drew her black veil over her face; and turned, with thebeing she loved, from the terror he scorned, to share in the hopethat he cherished.
Thus left alone, with my reason disenthralled, disenchanted, Isurveyed more calmly the extent of the actual peril with which wewere threatened, and the peril seemed less, so surveyed.
It is true all the Bush-land behind, almost up to the bed of thecreek, was on fire; but the grasses, through which the flame spreadso rapidly, ceased at the opposite marge of the creek. Watery poolswere still, at intervals, left in the bed of the creek, shiningtremulous, like waves of fire, in the glare reflected from theburning land; and even where the water failed, the stony course ofthe exhausted rivulet was a barrier against the march of theconflagration. Thus, unless the wind, now still, should rise, andwaft some sparks to the parched combustible herbage immediatelyaround us, we were saved from the fire, and our work might yet beachieved.
I whispered to Ayesha the conclusion to which I came. "Thinkestthou," she answered, without raising her mournful head, "that theAgencies of Nature are the movements of chance? The Spirits Iinvoked to his aid are leagued with the hosts that assail. Amightier than I am has doomed him!"
Scarcely had she uttered these words before Margrave exclaimed,"Behold how the Rose of the alchemist's dream enlarges its bloomsfrom the folds of its petals! I shall live, I shall live!"
I looked, and the liquid which glowed in the caldron had nowtaken a splendour that mocked all comparisons borrowed from thelustre of gems. In its prevalent colour it had, indeed, the dazzleand flash of the ruby; but out from the mass of the molten red,broke coruscations of all prismal hues, shooting, shifting, in aplay that made the wavelets them selves seem living things,sensible of their joy. No longer was there scum or film upon thesurface; only ever and anon a light rosy vapour floating up, andquick lost in the haggard, heavy, sulphurous air, hot with theconflagration rushing towards us from behind. And thesecoruscations formed, on the surface of the molten ruby, literallythe shape of a Rose, its leaves made distinct in their outlines bysparks of emerald and diamond and sapphire.
Even while gazing on this animated liquid lustre, a buoyantdelight seemed infused into my senses; all terrors conceived beforewere annulled; the phantoms, whose armies had filled the widespaces in front, were forgotten; the crash of the forest behind wasunheard. In the reflection of that glory, Margrave's wan cheekseemed already restored to the radiance it wore when I saw it firstin the framework of blooms.
As I gazed, thus enchanted, a cold hand touched my own.
"Hush!" whispered Ayesha, from the black veil, against which therays of the caldron fell blunt, and absorbed into Dark. "Behind us,the light of the circle is extinct, but there we are guarded fromall save the brutal and soulless destroyers. But before!—butbefore!—see, two of the lamps have died out!—see theblank of the gap in the ring Guard that breach,—there thedemons will enter."
"Not a drop is there left in his vessel by which to replenishthe lamps on the ring."
"Advance, then; thou hast still the light of the soul, and thedemons may recoil before a soul that is dauntless and guiltless. Ifnot, Three are lost!—as it is, One is doomed."
Thus adjured, silently, involuntarily, I passed from the VeiledWoman's side, over the sere lines on the turf which had been tracedby the triangles of light long since extinguished, and towards theverge of the circle. As I advanced, overhead rushed a dark cloud ofwings,—birds dislodged from the forest on fire, andscreaming, in dissonant terror, as they flew towards thefarthermost mountains; close by my feet hissed and glided thesnakes, driven forth from their blazing coverts, and glancingthrough the ring, unscared by its waning lamps; all undulating byme, bright-eyed and hissing, all made innocuous by fear,—eventhe terrible Death-adder, which I trampled on as I halted at theverge of the circle, did not turn to bite, but crept harmless away.I halted at the gap between the two dead lamps, and bowed my headto look again into the crystal vessel. Were there, indeed, nolingering drops yet left, if but to recruit the lamps for somepriceless minutes more? As I thus stood, right into the gap betweenthe two dead lamps strode a gigantic Foot. All the rest of the formwas unseen; only, as volume after volume of smoke poured on fromthe burning land behind, it seemed as if one great column ofvapour, eddying round, settled itself aloft from the circle, andthat out from that column strode the giant Foot. And, as strode theFoot, so with it came, like the sound of its tread, a roll ofmuttered thunder.
I recoiled, with a cry that rang loud through the lurid air.
"Courage!" said the voice of Ayesha. "Trembling soul, yield notan inch to the demon!"
At the charm, the wonderful charm, in the tone of the VeiledWoman's voice, my will seemed to take a force more sublime than itsown. I folded my arms on my breast, and stood as if rooted to thespot, confronting the column of smoke and the stride of the giantFoot. And the Foot halted, mute.
Again, in the momentary hush of that suspense, I heard avoice,—it was Margrave's.
"The last hour expires, the work is accomplished! Come! come!Aid me to take the caldron from the fire; and quick!—or adrop may be wasted in vapour—the Elixir of Life from thecaldron!"
At that cry I receded, and the Foot advanced.
And at that moment, suddenly, unawares, from behind, I wasstricken down. Over me, as I lay, swept a whirlwind of tramplinghoofs and glancing horns. The herds, in their flight from theburning pastures, had rushed over the bed of the watercourse,scaled the slopes of the banks. Snorting and bellowing, theyplunged their blind way to the mountains. One cry alone, more wildthan their own savage blare, pierced the reek through which theBrute Hurricane swept. At that cry of wrath and despair I struggledto rise, again dashed to earth by the hoofs and the horns. But wasit the dream-like deceit of my reeling senses, or did I see thatgiant Foot stride past through the close-serried ranks of themaddening herds? Did I hear, distinct through all the huge uproarof animal terror, the roll of low thunder which followed the strideof that Foot?
When my sense had recovered its shock, and my eyes lookeddizzily round, the charge of the beasts had swept by; and of allthe wild tribes which had invaded the magical circle, the onlylingerer was the brown Death-adder, coiled close by the spot wheremy head had rested. Beside the extinguished lamps which the hoofshad confusedly scattered, the fire, arrested by the watercourse,had consumed the grasses that fed it, and there the plainsstretched, black and desert as the Phlegroean Field of the Poet'sHell. But the fire still raged in the forest beyond,—whiteflames, soaring up from the trunks of the tallest trees, andforming, through the sullen dark of the smoke-reek, innumerablepillars of fire, like the halls in the City of fiends.
Gathering myself up, I turned my eyes from the terrible pomp ofthe lurid forest, and looked fearfully down on the hoof-trampledsward for my two companions.
I saw the dark image of Ayesha still seated, still bending, as Ihad seen it last. I saw a pale hand feebly grasping the rim of themagical caldron, which lay, hurled down from its tripod by the rushof the beasts, yards away from the dim fading embers of thescattered wood-pyre. I saw the faint writhings of a frail wastedframe, over which the Veiled Woman was bending. I saw, as I movedwith bruised limbs to the place, close by the lips of the dyingmagician, the flash of the ruby-like essence spilled on the sward,and, meteor-like, sparkling up from the torn tufts of herbage.
I now reached Margrave's side. Bending over him as the VeiledWoman bent, and as I sought gently to raise him, he turned hisface, fiercely faltering out, "Touch me not, rob me not! You sharewith me! Never! never! These glorious drops are all mine! Die allelse! I will live! I will live!" Writhing himself from my pityingarms, he plunged his face amidst the beautiful, playful flame ofthe essence, as if to lap the elixir with lips scorched away fromits intolerable burning. Suddenly, with a low shriek, he fell back,his face upturned to mine, and on that face unmistakably reignedDeath!
Then Ayesha tenderly, silently, drew the young head to her lap,and it vanished from my sight behind her black veil.
I knelt beside her, murmuring some trite words of comfort; butshe heeded me not, rocking herself to and fro as the mother whocradles a child to sleep. Soon the fast-flickering sparkles of thelost elixir died out on the grass; and with their last sportivediamond-like tremble of light, up, in all the suddenness ofAustralian day, rose the sun, lifting himself royally above themountain-tops, and fronting the meaner blaze of the forest as ayoung king fronts his rebels. And as there, where the bush-fireshad ravaged, all was a desert, so there, where their fury had notspread, all was a garden. Afar, at the foot of the mountains, thefugitive herds were grazing; the cranes, flocking back to thepools, renewed the strange grace of their gambols; and the greatkingfisher, whose laugh, half in mirth, half in mockery, leads thechoir that welcome the morn,—which in Europe isnight,—alighted bold on the roof of the cavern, whose floorswere still white with the bones of races, extinct before—sohelpless through instincts, so royal through Soul—roseMan!
But there, on the ground where the dazzling elixir had wastedits virtues,—there the herbage already had a freshness ofverdure which, amid the duller sward round it, was like an oasis ofgreen in a desert. And there wild-flowers, whose chill hues the eyewould have scarcely distinguished the day before, now glitteredforth in blooms of unfamiliar beauty. Towards that spot wereattracted myriads of happy insects, whose hum of intense joy wasmusically loud. But the form of the life-seeking sorcerer lay rigidand stark; blind to the bloom of the wild-flowers, deaf to the gleeof the insects,—one hand still resting heavily on the rim ofthe emptied caldron, and the face still hid behind the Black Veil.What! the wondrous elixir, sought with such hope and well-nighachieved through such dread, fleeting back to the earth from whichits material was drawn, to give bloom, indeed,—but to herbs:joy indeed,—but to insects!
And now, in the flash of the sun, slowly wound up the slopesthat led to the circle the same barbaric procession which had sunkinto the valley under the ray of the moon. The armed men camefirst, stalwart and tall, their vests brave with crimson and goldenlace, their weapons gayly gleaming with holiday silver. After them,the Black Litter. As they came to the place, Ayesha, not raisingher head, spoke to them in her own Eastern tongue. A wail was heranswer. The armed men bounded forward, and the bearers left thelitter.
All gathered round the dead form with the face concealed underthe black veil; all knelt, and all wept. Far in the distance, atthe foot of the blue mountains, a crowd of the savage natives hadrisen up as if from the earth; they stood motionless, leaning ontheir clubs and spears, and looking towards the spot on which wewere,—strangely thus brought into the landscape, as if theytoo, the wild dwellers on the verge which Humanity guards from theBrute, were among the mourners for the mysterious Child ofmysterious Nature! And still, in the herbage, hummed the smallinsects, and still, from the cavern, laughed the great kingfisher.I said to Ayesha, "Farewell! your love mourns the dead, mine callsme to the living. You are now with your own people, they mayconsole you; say if I can assist."
"There is no consolation for me! What mourner can be consoled ifthe dead die forever? Nothing for him is left but a grave; thatgrave shall be in the land where the song of Ayesha first lulledhim to sleep. Thou assist Me,—thou, the wise man of Europe!From me ask assistance. What road wilt thou take to thy home?"
"There is but one road known to me through the maze of thesolitude,—that which we took to this upland."
"On that road Death lurks, and awaits thee! Blind dupe, couldstthou think that if the grand secret of life had been won, he whosehead rests on my lap would have yielded thee one petty drop of theessence which had filched from his store of life but a moment? Me,who so loved and so cherished him,—me he would have doomed tothe pitiless cord of my servant, the Strangler, if my death couldhave lengthened a hair-breadth the span of his being. But whatmatters to me his crime or his madness? I loved him! I lovedhim!"
She bowed her veiled head lower and lower; perhaps, under theveil, her lips kissed the lips of the dead. Then she saidwhisperingly,—
"Juma the Strangler, whose word never failed to his master,whose prey never slipped from his snare, waits thy step on the roadto thy home! But thy death cannot now profit the dead, the beloved.And thou hast had pity for him who took but thine aid to design thydestruction. His life is lost, thine is saved."
She spoke no more in the tongue that I could interpret. Shespoke, in the language unknown, a few murmured words to her swarthyattendants; then the armed men, still weeping, rose, and made adumb sign to me to go with them. I understood by the sign thatAyesha had told them to guard me on my way; but she gave no replyto my parting thanks.
I descended into the valley; the armed men followed. The path,on that side of the watercourse not reached by the flames, woundthrough meadows still green, or amidst groves still unscathed. As aturning in the way brought in front of my sight the place I hadleft behind, I beheld the black litter creeping down the descent,with its curtains closed, and the Veiled Woman walking by its side.But soon the funeral procession was lost to my eyes, and thethoughts that it roused were erased. The waves in man's brain arelike those of the sea, rushing on, rushing over the wrecks of thevessels that rode on their surface, to sink, after storm, in theirdeeps. One thought cast forth into the future now mastered all inthe past: "Was Lilian living still?" Absorbed in the gloom of thatthought, hurried on by the goad that my heart, in its torturedimpatience, gave to my footstep, I outstripped the slow stride ofthe armed men, and, midway between the place I had left and thehome which I sped to, came, far in advance of my guards, into thethicket in which the bushmen had started up in my path on the nightthat Lilian had watched for my coming. The earth at my feet wasrife with creeping plants and many-coloured flowers, the skyoverhead was half-hid by motionless pines. Suddenly, whethercrawling out from the herbage, or dropping down from the trees, bymy side stood the white-robed and skeleton form,—Ayesha'sattendant, the Strangler.
I sprang from him shuddering, then halted and faced him. Thehideous creature crept towards me, cringing and fawning, makingsigns of humble good-will and servile obeisance. Again Irecoiled,—wrathfully, loathingly; turned my face homeward,and fled on. I thought I had baffled his chase, when, just at themouth of the thicket, he dropped from a bough in my path closebehind me. Before I could turn, some dark muffling substance fellbetween my sight and the sun, and I felt a fierce strain at mythroat. But the words of Ayesha had warned me; with one rapid handI seized the noose before it could tighten too closely, with theother I tore the bandage away from my eyes, and, wheeling round onthe dastardly foe, struck him down with one spurn of my foot. Hishand, as he fell, relaxed its hold on the noose; I freed my throatfrom the knot, and sprang from the copse into the broad sunlitplain. I saw no more of the armed men or the Strangler. Panting andbreathless, I paused at last before the fence, fragrant withblossoms, that divided my home from the solitude.
The windows of Lilian's room were darkened; all within the houseseemed still.
Darkened and silenced Home! with the light and sounds of thejocund day all around it. Was there yet hope in the Universe forme? All to which I had trusted Hope had broken down! The anchors Ihad forged for her hold in the beds of the ocean, her stay from thedrifts of the storm, had snapped like the reeds which pierce theside that leans on the barb of their points, and confides in thestrength of their stems. No hope in the baffled resources ofrecognized knowledge! No hope in the daring adventures of Mind intoregions unknown; vain alike the calm lore of the practisedphysician, and the magical arts of the fated Enchanter! I had fledfrom the commonplace teachings of Nature, to explore in herShadow-land marvels at variance with reason. Made brave by thegrandeur of love, I had opposed without quailing the stride of theDemon, and by hope, when fruition seemed nearest, had been troddeninto dust by the hoofs of the beast! And yet, all the while, I hadscorned, as a dream more wild than the word of a sorcerer, the hopethat the old man and the child, the wise and the ignorant, tookfrom their souls as inborn. Man and fiend had alike failed a mind,not ignoble, not skilless, not abjectly craven; alike failed aheart not feeble and selfish, not dead to the hero's devotion,willing to shed every drop of its blood for a something more dearthan an animal's life for itself! What remained—what remainedfor man's hope?—man's mind and man's heart thus exhaustingtheir all with no other result but despair! What remained but themystery of mysteries, so clear to the sunrise of childhood, thesunset of age, only dimmed by the clouds which collect round thenoon of our manhood? Where yet was Hope found? In the soul; in itsevery-day impulse to supplicate comfort and light, from the Giverof soul, wherever the heart is afflicted, the mind is obscured.
Then the words of Ayesha rushed over me: "What mourner can beconsoled, if the Dead die forever?" Through every pulse of my framethrobbed that dread question. All Nature around seemed to murmurit. And suddenly, as by a flash from heaven, the grand truth inFaber's grand reasoning shone on me, and lighted up all, within andwithout. Man alone, of all earthly creatures, asks, "Can the Deaddie forever?" and the instinct that urges the question is God'sanswer to man! No instinct is given in vain.
And born with the instinct of soul is the instinct that leadsthe soul from the seen to the unseen, from time to eternity, fromthe torrent that foams towards the Ocean of Death, to the source ofits stream, far aloft from the Ocean.
"Know thyself," said the Pythian of old. "That precept descendedfrom Heaven." Know thyself! Is that maxim wise? If so, know thysoul. But never yet did man come to the thorough conviction of soulbut what he acknowledged the sovereign necessity of prayer. In myawe, in my rapture, all my thoughts seemed enlarged and illuminedand exalted. I prayed,—all my soul seemed one prayer. All mypast, with its pride and presumption and folly, grew distinct asthe form of a penitent, kneeling for pardon before setting forth onthe pilgrimage vowed to a shrine. And, sure now, in the deeps of asoul first revealed to myself, that the Dead do not die forever, myhuman love soared beyond its brief trial of terror and sorrow.Daring not to ask from Heaven's wisdom that Lilian, for my sake,might not yet pass away from the earth, I prayed that my soul mightbe fitted to bear with submission whatever my Maker might ordain.And if surviving her—without whom no beam from yon materialsun could ever warm into joy a morrow in human life—so toguide my steps that they might rejoin her at last, and, inrejoining, regain forever!
How trivial now became the weird riddle that, a little whilebefore, had been clothed in so solemn an awe! What mattered it tothe vast interests involved in the clear recognition of Soul andHereafter, whether or not my bodily sense, for a moment, obscuredthe face of the Nature I should one day behold as a spirit?Doubtless the sights and the sounds which had haunted the lastgloomy night, the calm reason of Faber would strip of their magicalseemings; the Eyes in the space and the Foot in the circle might bethose of no terrible Demons, but of the wild's savage children whomI had seen, halting, curious and mute, in the light of the morning.The tremor of the ground (if not, as heretofore, explicable by theillusory impression of my own treacherous senses) might be but thenatural effect of elements struggling yet under a soil unmistakablycharred by volcanoes. The luminous atoms dissolved in the caldronmight as little be fraught with a vital elixir as are thesplendours of naphtha or phosphor. As it was, the weird rite had nomagic result. The magician was not rent limb from limb by thefiends. By causes as natural as ever extinguished life's spark inthe frail lamp of clay, he had died out of sight—under theblack veil.
What mattered henceforth to Faith, in its far grander questionsand answers, whether Reason, in Faber, or Fancy, in me, suppliedthe more probable guess at a hieroglyph which, if construed aright,was but a word of small mark in the mystical language of Nature? Ifall the arts of enchantment recorded by Fable were attested byfacts which Sages were forced to acknowledge, Sages would sooner orlater find some cause for such portents—not supernatural. Butwhat Sage, without cause supernatural, both without and within him,can guess at the wonders he views in the growth of a blade ofgrass, or the tints on an insect's wing? Whatever art Man canachieve in his progress through time, Man's reason, in time, cansuffice to explain. But the wonders of God? These belong to theInfinite; and these, O Immortal! will but develop new wonder onwonder, though thy sight be a spirit's, and thy leisure to trackand to solve an eternity.
As I raised my face from my clasped hands, my eyes fell fullupon a form standing in the open doorway. There, where on the nightin which Lilian's long struggle for reason and life had begun, theLuminous Shadow had been beheld in the doubtful light of a dyingmoon and a yet hazy dawn; there, on the threshold, gathering roundher bright locks the aureole of the glorious sun, stood Amy, theblessed child! And as I gazed, drawing nearer and nearer to thesilenced house, and that Image of Peace on its threshold, I feltthat Hope met me at the door,—Hope in the child's steadfasteyes, Hope in the child's welcoming smile!
"I was at watch for you," whispered Amy. "All is well."
"She lives still—she lives! Thank God! thank God!"
"She lives,—she will recover!" said another voice, as myhead sunk on Faber's shoulder. "For some hours in the night hersleep was disturbed, convulsed. I feared, then, the worst.Suddenly, just before the dawn, she called out aloud, still insleep,—
"'The cold and dark shadow has passed away from me and fromAllen,—passed away from us both forever!'
"And from that moment the fever left her; the breathing becamesoft, the pulse steady, and the colour stole gradually back to hercheek. The crisis is past. Nature's benign Disposer has permittedNature to restore your life's gentle partner, heart to heart, mindto mind—"
"And soul to soul," I cried, in my solemn joy. "Above as below,soul to soul!" Then, at a sign from Faber, the child took me by thehand and led me up the stairs into Lilian's room.
Again those clear arms closed around me in wife-like and holylove, and those true lips kissed away my tears,—even as now,at the distance of years from that happy morn, while I write thelast words of this Strange Story, the same faithful arms closearound me, the same tender lips kiss away my tears.
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