"’We have but one Master; He who ruleth all things, and is Father of
all.’
"’And it is one of His beloved children,’ he said, ’from whom you turn
aside, and her weakness and your strength are of His ordering; and you
whom He has made on a different, though no higher plan, turn in pride
from your sister who has been placed in the path so that your strength
may support her weakness.’
"’Now,’ I replied, ’you speak blasphemy, for God is not the Father of
sin, and what is sinful is unpleasing in His sight.’
"Then my companion, looking fixedly at me, said--
"’There is no sin. Viewed from the eye of wisdom and holiness there is
one law--Love; one path--Order; and one state--Happiness. Man is
permitted to dream of freedom, which he calls life; is allowed to dip
into the darkness, and, for the moment, to imagine discord exists, that
when he shall awaken his joy may be exceeding joyful. It has been left
to man to give names to nothing and to fight the phantoms of negation;
when his sleep shall be broken the former things will have passed away.
Follow me.’
"So we returned together to the path, and as we stood before the woman I
said, ’If this is but a dream, wherefore should I care what happens
either to the woman or myself?’ Then it seemed that the man did not
answer, but I heard a voice singing. And the song was of love, and told
how the slumber of life could never be broken till the light of
unselfish love fell upon the sleeper.
"When the voice ceased, I turned and said to my companion--’What can I
do for the woman? Behold her, as she lies there. It seems impossible
for me to feel more than helpless compassion for such a one.’
"’Compassion and pity,’ he answered, ’are words coined by man, and are
associated at best but with a gleam of love, and more often with nothing
but a selfish desire to hide pain from sight because it reminds man of
that which is hateful. Love will ever find a way to helpfulness.’
"’But,’ I said to him, ’I cannot feel this love to one so degraded.’
"Then he bent over the woman, and touched her with his hand; and as I
looked down wondering, the degraded face seemed changed into the face of
the girl I loved. And in the horror of the revelation I awoke, thankful
to believe that it was but a dream! How many lessons, prophecies, and
warnings come to men, if they did but realize it, in certain forms
called dreams!
"When I got up on the following morning my mind was in that anxious and
restless condition in which it usually finds itself after being too
busily occupied during the hours of slumber. I felt depressed and
irritable, consequently my view of everything was one-sided. My
thoughts continually expressed themselves in doggerel verse instead of
moving along smoothly and quietly in prose. This, I have always
noticed, is a sign that my body requires some stimulating exercise.
Moreover, every picture that reached my mind had a dark and unpleasant
background. For instance, when my thoughts for relief turned to Vera’s
face, I had scarcely begun to dwell with pleasure on the beauty of some
remembered expression before I became conscious that the woman of my
dream was grinning at me over the girl’s shoulder.
"This way, I knew, led to madness; so conscious that the body, if
ill-used, becomes too often the master of the mind, I decided to give it
a day’s pleasure, tempting it back thereby into a condition of happy
servitude.
"The result was in every way satisfactory. After two hours’ walking
over the moors, I was able to laugh at my fears, and by lunch-time it
was even a trouble to recall them. At dinner nothing seemed more
important in life than perfect accuracy of aim, and my friends might
easily have mistaken me for a sportomaniac by my conversation. The only
thought I read that evening came, I believe, from my host, and took the
form of regret that he had not selected a better shot than myself for
the sake of the game returns which he intended to forward to _The
Field_, and considering the number of birds which my nerves had
succeeded in missing for me during the morning, I could not feel
surprised. My dreams during the night did not trouble me. I felt but a
momentary discomfiture even when the youth who was expected to fall in
love with Vera rose up with a whirr just under my feet, and in the
flurry of the moment I only succeeded in knocking a few feathers out of
his coat-tail.
"On the second day, therefore, after my proposal, I felt in a safe
mental condition to think rationally over the prospect before me, and as
I can always reason more quietly when walking and in the open air, I
went for a stroll by myself over the moors.
"The day was bright, and the wind blew softly from the south-west. I
felt that life was very good as I passed over the heather. Presently,
however, a wounded bird which was lying by the side of the footpath
upset my train of thought, and set me on a discussion of cruelty which I
began to argue out from both sides. The impression which I arrived at,
after wasting fully an hour, may be summed up as follows: that about an
equal amount can be urged for and against sport, and that there is
something wrong somewhere. Nearly every subject we approach seems beset
with like difficulty, owing to the fact that our life is not as yet
sufficiently under the rule of order to embrace, without causing
additional misery, the doctrine of perfection. For instance, war can
easily be shown to be unjustifiable, and socialism to be the only form
of perfect justice; but it is equally clear that the abolition of
armaments and the adoption of socialistic principles would lead to the
greatest misery that has ever been experienced on earth, if they should
be tried before men have learnt to control their evil passions without
the whip of legal and military chastisement. Birds of prey and moral
disease would quickly take the place of the fowling-pieces of modern
civilization, whilst the dream of Paradise would be found more to
resemble a nightmare, and the comparative peace of the past would be
transformed into a pandemonium of unbridled passions.
"At last, after a few more fruitless attempts, I managed to fix my mind
on the condition of my own prospects. Firstly, was I in love? And this
involved settling in my mind what love really meant. If not, what had
caused in me certain sensations never before experienced? Secondly, if
this love existed, was it returned? It is not necessary for you to
follow me through my subsequent confused circle of reasoning, as it led
to no satisfactory conclusion beyond a determination to watch for
further light, and in the meantime to follow the dictates of
inclination. It is always easy to do the latter, and unless a man’s
nature inclines strongly to selfishness, it is often the wisest course
to adopt. Progress is often hindered by self-repression, and even more
by self-analysis.
"At the moment, inclination led me towards a figure which I saw in the
distance. On drawing nearer I felt certain that the form in question
was a familiar one, and soon recognized one of my London acquaintances,
Lord Vancome. Now if there was one man whom I thoroughly disliked
without apparent reason, it was Vancome. I had at that time a peculiar
eccentricity; there were a few people who possessed the power of
unconsciously torturing me in a way that defies description. He was one
of these. If we met in a room I felt my whole flesh creep, and on
shaking hands with him an absolute chill of horror passed through my
body. It was with great difficulty that I refrained from showing to
such persons marked expressions of dislike. When, therefore, I met him
thus unexpectedly, it seemed as though a blight had suddenly swept over
the hills, blurring the sunshine: the glow of life had vanished; the
beauty of love was forgotten.
"’Why, Sydney!’ he called out, ’whoever expected to see you here?’
"I told him briefly how it came about, and that I was stopping with
Major Couson.
"’Oh!’ he said, ’that’s lucky! I am glad to find there is some sort of
society in the place. Mr. Soudin asked me down, and feeling a trifle
played out, I accepted; but I was already beginning to dread the idea of
being confined to the society of Heather Lodge for a fortnight. The
daughter’s not a bad sort of girl, and devilish pretty, too!--but one
wants even more than that combined with the shooting, which is not
first-rate, to avoid being bored to death during a period of two weeks.’
"’Why are you not shooting?’ I asked.
"’The old man’s got a touch of the gout, so I was taking a look round.’
(Then before I could think of anything further to say his thought
flashed through me.) ’_Damn the fellow! I wish he would go. The
girl’s bound to turn up soon, and I don’t want him fooling round._’
"’I must be going,’ I said, looking at my watch. ’No doubt we shall meet
again before long.’
"He seemed relieved, and saying that he should look me up, held out his
hand. I took it, thanking God I had not a gun, and being now certain
that I was in love, went hurriedly on my way.
"I had been walking for perhaps ten minutes, when I saw Vera Soudin
coming towards me. She had evidently been to the village. What was to
be done? I had promised not to see her for a week, but it would be
ridiculous to pass without speaking. Besides, ought she not to be put on
her guard against Lord Vancome? And yet what right had I to do this?
As far as I knew there was nothing against his character. It is true
that I felt a mortal antipathy to him, but such feelings are hardly
regarded as evidence. Then I remembered that women are credited with
possessing far more accurate discrimination of character than men. This
thought comforted me, and having decided to discover her feelings with
regard to Vancome I went on towards her.
"When we met I noticed that she also felt embarrassed, but for some
reason possessed better control over herself. When I made some remark
about being so pleased to see her again, she put her hand to her lips,
and then, taking out a pocket-book, scribbled these words down--
"’I promised not to speak to you for a week.’ ’But good gracious!’ she
cried out, ’I also said I would not write, and now I have done both.
Well, as it is done, it can’t be helped. But mind you don’t tell, or
father would be angry, and you know it was all your fault.’
"’I did not know, dear, that you had promised,’ I replied, ’and though I
also said I would not see you during the same time, it seemed absurd to
pass without speaking.’
"’Of course it’s absurd, and father’s no right to make us promise such
foolish things. But I don’t mind, for we need not say anything about
it. Besides, as we have broken our promises it does not now matter what
we do.’
"’But,’ I said, ’will it be right to go on breaking them further?’
"’Oh! what is done can’t be mended.’ And as she said this she looked
into my face with such a pathetic appeal that all ideas of right, wrong,
honour and dishonour got hopelessly mixed. ’You don’t really love me,’
she continued, ’or you would not talk like that. You don’t care how
wretched I feel!’
"What could I do? Tears were coming into her eyes. Not a mile away,
waiting in her path, stood one I hated. Could I let her go on
distrusting my love, to meet possible treachery?
"I gave up the contest without a struggle.
"We turned from the footpath, and crossing a strip of heather, descended
into a woody glen. Through this glen ran a merry bubbling stream, and
the soft moisture which it left along its edges had encouraged the
growth of deep soft moss to cover the otherwise barren stones. Choosing
a pleasant nook thus carpeted on which the sun shone brightly, we sat
and rested.
"A few birds were singing their farewell songs to Scotland before
retreating to a warmer country. My companion’s face was slightly
flushed by the wind, and the colour seemed to give an additional depth
to the blue eyes which looked shyly forth from between her dark lashes.
Her fair hair, which was unusually soft and fine, had been blown by the
wind into a waving network of shining confusion round her ears, and over
her forehead. As she sat just above me, and I looked into her face, it
seemed impossible for God to make, or man to picture, aught more fair or
pure in earthly texture. Yet, so does my nature act and react, ever
tumbling from the sublime to the ridiculous, that I had hardly realized
the perfect human beauty before me when my mind began to drop down into
one of its most annoying analytical moods, tearing, as it were, all soft
and delicate covering from the face, and pointing mockingly to the
hollow skull beneath, the framework alike of beauty and ugliness. Not
that there is really anything ridiculous, or for the matter of that,
frightful about a skull; the comic part of the situation lay in the fact
that it was impossible for me vividly to realize this framework of the
beauty I had a moment before worshipped, without a shudder. I refer to
it now, because such sensations throw a valuable sidelight on love
itself.
"It is to be presumed that when we love a person, we fancy that we love,
not the body, not in fact the clothing of the individual, but the
personality; that there is something therein which attracts and draws
forth these sensations wholly apart from anything to do with simply
animal passion. There are, of course, some who deny this, but to reason
with such is, as said before, absolutely useless: to the purely animal
nature all must necessarily appear animal. Such men and women are
exceptions, yet though many are conscious of the strength of higher
love, how few seem to try to solve the mystery surrounding it, or to
draw a line between true and false sensations.
"For instance, here was I sitting at the feet of one who, as far as it
was possible to judge, possessed nothing really attractive except most
unusual physical beauty; one I judged to be lacking in will-power, to be
untruthful and vain, to be possessed of little information and still
less discernment. Yet, knowing all this, I loved her. You may think
that I deceived myself, and that what I really experienced was simply
animal fascination; but before my story is finished you will see that
you have judged wrongly. The truth of the matter is this; pure love is
no more drawn out by nobleness of character than it is by beauty of
form, but by a far more subtle attraction for which as yet we have no
name, and which reaches us through the medium of our imperfectly
developed sixth sense. Whatever comes to us through the ordinary
channels is merely passion or comradeship, though owing to our complex
nature, the former usually accompanies true spiritual love and is
hopelessly confused with it. This confusion has led to much misery and
to many senseless social and so-called moral laws which are quite
unsuited to the present condition of man’s development, as they are
nearly all founded on the theory of animal instincts alone.
"I am sorry to be obliged so frequently to break the thread of my
narrative, but as I am about to deal with subjects which are outside the
range of ordinary experience, it is absolutely necessary that from the
commencement you should follow not only the course of events, but also
the working of my mind. If I simply confine myself to the story, it
might possibly interest you as the wild imagination of either a liar or
a madman; on the other hand, should you have patience to hear me to the
end, I hope to convince you that many things which seem incredible are
only so as long as we stand outside the door of discovery. There is
nothing more remarkable than the ease with which the public will swallow
yesterday’s miracle, if only scientists will give it a name.
"For instance, look at a recent case--the Telephone. What do the public
understand about it? The electricians themselves have only discovered a
method by which they can produce certain effects, and know nearly as
little as the public of the servants they employ. Yet this miraculous
transmission of sound, once baptized, is admitted forthwith without
further questioning, into the circle of commonplace.
"You must not suppose that, though I have thus wandered from my subject,
any of these ideas occurred to me after my encounter with the imaginary
skull, for at that moment one of my companion’s thoughts fortunately
deranged my own, and gave me fresh subject for reflection.
"’_I like him in some ways better, but he is certainly not nearly so
amusing._’
"’I am sorry you find me so dull,’ I said, ’but looking at you has made
me speechless through admiration. However, I want you to tell me what
your father said about our engagement.’
"’Oh! only that I was too young to know my own mind, and that he wanted
me to promise that I would not speak or write to you for a week. What
nonsense! Too young to know my own mind, and I shall be eighteen next
June!’
"After which remarks these thoughts followed; and as I was busy
listening to them I remained silent.
"’_I wonder why father wished me not to say anything. Can it be to do
with...? But I like Alan much better, and ... is not likely to make
love to me, and of course I should not let him if he tried. Yet perhaps
he may. I have a good mind to see if I can make him just for the fun of
it, and when he does of course I will tell him I am engaged. It’s
rather nice to have people make love to one. That’s the worst of being
married, you can’t have proposals afterwards, so it is only fair to get
as many as you can before. Besides, then I could say that I might have
been Lady ... if I had chosen._’
"Thought is quicker than speech, and probably the pause was hardly more
than thirty seconds before she continued aloud--
"’Why are you not shooting to-day?’
"’I wanted to think about you,’ I answered, ’and so went for a walk
instead, and was lucky. But I met some one else on the moor, an
acquaintance of mine, who, I find, is staying with you.’
"’Oh! Lord Vancome! So you know him. Where did you meet him?’ Then
silently, ’_I wonder if he came out so as to walk back with me?_’
"’I met him wandering about, taking a prospective view of your father’s
shooting,’ I answered vaguely. ’But tell me what you think of him?’
"’Oh! he seems very nice and interesting, but I feel somehow frightened
of him.’ Then, dropping her voice slightly--’Is he rather wicked?’
"’What makes you think so?’ I asked, relieved to find that her woman’s
instinct was not at fault.
"’I do not know; I suppose it’s the way he looks at one, or something.’
Then her thought continued--’_Men are so foolish; they seem to fancy
girls are perfect fools and don’t know anything!_’
"I felt it was not fair to follow these reflections further. One gets
hardened in time to seeing people’s minds, as it were, naked, but at
first some revelations tend to lower our views of human nature. It is
not until we realize that our own unclothed sentiments would have a
similar disenchanting effect upon others that we grow more charitable.
If you wish fully to understand my meaning, try next time you are in
mixed society to fancy that not only your words, but also your thoughts
are audible to those around, and see if under such circumstances you
would care to meet any of those people again.
"I, therefore, not wishing to be disenchanted, here disturbed her
reflections with a kiss, and this action of mine started the usual train
of sentimental talk which is about as varied and interesting as the
soft, gentle, and monotonous sounds which the wood-pigeons make in
spring-time. Happy birds, to whom comes no questioning voice to break
their peace; who are conscious of no notes of absurdity mingling with
their monotonous strains, and who wake from each short spring-time of
love without remorse or disenchantment! Surely some men and women seem
more naturally fitted for such brief experiences than for the prolonged
and deeper sentiments of life-long devotion.
"’Life is too short,’ cry such in the moment of awakened joy, for at
that moment eternity touches them. Yet how few natures have risen
sufficiently far above their transitory and animal instincts to remain
long in this spirit of self-negation. The first breath of egoism
disturbs it; passion degrades it; and before a year of the wished-for
eternity is expired, how many may be found secretly regarding the one
sane emotion of their lives as an experience of temporary, and yet
conventional madness.
"Yet we have no right to blame them so long as they live up to the best
instinct they possess, for growth is slow, and if we carry as yet more
beast in our body than angel in our spirit, the beast will have its way.
Growth or deterioration (for which alone we are responsible) depends
upon the rule we welcome, and to which side our will, consciously or
unconsciously, inclines us.
"During one of the pauses, as Vera and I sat together, I became
conscious of a new and remarkable clearness of mental vision such as I
had never before experienced (though I have spoken to a man temporarily
insane who graphically described similar sensations of increased mental
sight). It was as though from the normal condition of observing all
subjects through the medium of frosted glass, some power had for the
time removed the obstruction, enabling me to see every object in the
clear light of day. In this condition I fully realized the weakness of
Vera’s character, and the misery that must necessarily follow. I also
felt that whether we married or did not marry, I, having once loved,
could only break this bond by selfishness. Then came this question, Was
I prepared to suffer all things for her sake?--for if not, it was far
better to cut my bonds at once. I looked at her, and a feeling of
intense pity filled my heart.
"’Poor little child!’ I thought. ’God alone can see all the nightmare
of misery your nature must pass through before it comes forth in the
light of His pure love!’ Then a voice seemed to whisper in my ear,
’Think of your own life. If you take up this burden you will be dragged
into the darkness; your nature will be lowered, your power for good
destroyed.’ Then again I looked at the girl, and as I did so my spirit
cried and said, ’Even though I should be damned to walk for ever in
darkness, though God’s light be hidden from me, yet will I never cut
this bond till we stand together before the face of our Father.’ And it
seemed to me that there were many voices chanting softly, ’Amen.’
"Whilst listening to the sound an overpowering gloom settled upon me. I
remembered nothing more distinctly, though through the darkness many
indistinct pictures flashed before me and vanished ere they were printed
on my mind. At last I heard voices speaking, and opening my eyes, saw
Vera and Vancome bending over me. As far as I know, this was the first
time that I had fallen into a trance, or as doctors would call it, a
state of catalepsy.
"It appears that Vera, finding me insensible, had rushed out of the
glen, and seeing Vancome in the distance, had called to him for
assistance. They both appeared to think that I had fainted, and I did
not wish to undeceive them.
"But it is getting late, and as I have now reached the point in my story
which makes it necessary to explain an important discovery to which I
was led by this trance condition, it will be better to stop for this
evening."
"But," I interrupted, "before I go you will show me the other rooms you
spoke of."
"Not to-night," he replied, "for there are many things in them which
still require explanations for which at present you are hardly prepared.
But the next time we meet I hope to take you into one of them. When I
began this evening, I had no intention of going so fully into the
details of my story, but noticing that the method unconsciously adopted
did not weary you, it seemed better to give my experiences in the order
in which they occurred. This plan has led, and will probably still lead,
me to describe many so-called trivial reminiscences; but as a matter of
fact, nothing is trivial, and by striving to confine ourselves to more
important subjects, we often miss the tiny thread which might, if
followed, have led to some great discovery. When, however, I continue
my story, I hope to make it more interesting by illustrations."
As he said this he took both my hands. In a moment I was plunged in
darkness; the room, my companion, everything had vanished; but as I
still strained my eyes a faint revolving spark of light became visible.
This light increased until I found that I was in the presence of a young
girl, whom I had little difficulty in recognizing as the Vera of my
friend’s story. She was standing in a listening attitude, as though
some one had called her, and was evidently unconscious of my presence.
As I lay watching she turned her face toward me. I shall never forget
the revelation of beauty and weakness depicted there; but more quickly
than the vision came it vanished, and I heard my host say--
"Good-night. Come again at the same time as soon as ever you feel
inclined."
Then I heard the door close, and found myself standing in the cool
evening air outside Alan Sydney’s house.
When I got back to my room I was too excited to sleep. Was there, after
all, some incomprehensible meaning in life, a possibility of solving the
mystery of existence? I sat for some time thinking; then taking my pen,
began to write, and as I wrote it seemed that already my mind was under
the influence of a new power, for each sentence Sydney had used came
back to me without effort of memory, as if I were writing from some
inaudible dictation.
*CHAPTER III*
I felt annoyed the next morning to remember that I had accepted an
invitation to dine out that evening, and it would be therefore necessary
to postpone seeing Sydney until the following day. I was so interested
in what I had heard and seen that it hardly occurred to me to delay my
next visit longer than necessary, for he who evidently could read my
thoughts would not expect me to restrain my impatience with any feeling
of consideration for conventionalities.
My entertainment this evening was likely to be a stimulating contrast to
that of the previous night. Transon Hall, where I was to dine, may be
considered the centre of our circle of social exclusiveness. Into this
ring those who moved in inferior orbits at times penetrated, and at
times were excluded.
Sir James Folker, Baronet, M.P., J.P., M.F.H., etc., comes of one of the
oldest families in this semi-suburban part of Surrey; in fact, his
father lived here before him. Of course, in saying this I refer only to
the wealthy part of the community. We have plenty of small squires and
farmers whose ancestors have lived here for centuries, but as their
present representatives are nearly all too poor to entertain, such
impecunious hereditary grandeur is appreciated chiefly by their
respective families. Sir James is, however, a thoroughly good fellow,
well informed, of kindly disposition, and a true sportsman. If he is a
trifle overbearing, it is owing chiefly to education. His father was a
self-made man, and necessarily had a very exalted appreciation of the
dignity attaching to wealth and title. Even a snob, if snobbishness is
linked with every association of childhood, may be at heart a gentleman.
Life is not long enough to polish off the ugly advertisements which were
engraved upon him in youth.
I arrived at the house rather late, and you may fancy my surprise on
looking round the room to see Alan Sydney busily engaged in talking to
one of the guests.
"Well," I said, as soon as an opportunity occurred of speaking to him,
"suppose I had turned up at your house to-night?"
"If I had not known you were coming here," he replied, "I should have
warned you; but I quite expect to see you to-morrow. As you know, I am
not often away from home, but there is a reason for my being here
to-night."
At this moment we were disturbed by the general shuffle which takes
place at the announcement of dinner, and I found myself escorting a
stranger into the dining-room, who had just been introduced to me as
Miss Augusta Smith. My companion was neither young nor pretty, but I
noticed with relief that she had a bright and interesting face. We sat
exactly opposite Sydney, who had on his right Miss Folker, a
good-looking girl of about twenty-one, devoted to sport, and on his left
Lady Todman, a most energetic widow, whose object in life was to reform
the world by means of teetotalism.
Everything tended to my friend having a somewhat dull time of it, though
I noticed a look in his eyes which showed me he was in one of his more
lively moods. Lady Todman is not a woman of tact. If all around you
are drinking wine, it seems to me hardly good taste to begin a sermon on
the eleventh commandment, "Thou shalt not drink." But there are some
women whose consciences constrain them, and she was one of these.
"Don’t you think," she said in a rather loud, penetrating voice, turning
to Sydney, as the butler was pouring some sherry into his glass, "that
drinking is the cause of much evil?"
Her companion tasted the sherry thoughtfully before he answered.
"Certainly, if the wine is not good. But let me assure you this wine is
very dry; you need have no fear of any ill effects from drinking it."
"Oh! I don’t mean that," she replied; "I mean that nearly every crime
that is committed can be directly or indirectly traced to the use of
alcohol."
"You surprise me," he said. "Are you fond of travelling?"
"I don’t now travel," she answered, evidently offended at what seemed an
obvious attempt to turn the conversation. "I find sufficient work near
at hand which my conscience will not allow me to neglect, and therefore
leave these pleasures for others."
"Let me urge you to go to Constantinople," said Sydney; "it is the best
place in which thoroughly to study the temperance question. Degradation
and misery have there reached such a perfection without the aid of drink
that after a month of such experience I can almost fancy any one weeping
tears of joy at the sight of an honest drunkard."
Seeing Lady Todman turning away in evident disgust, and wishing to know
what my friend really thought on the matter, I asked whether the Turks
might not possibly be even worse if they added to their other sins the
vice of intemperance.
"Drink," he replied, "does not alter a man’s character; it simply
exposes it. That crime is generally associated with drunkenness is
true, but that it causes it is unusual, and it is frequently a
deterrent. The weakness in a man is sure to find vent through some
channel, and I would rather not picture some of the crimes that our
drunkards would probably have committed had not the absorption of this
attraction turned their thoughts in another direction. Among weak
natures and deformed characters we should expect to find both drunkards
and criminals of all kinds."
"I quite agree with you," said Miss Folker. "I don’t believe that it is
any use trying to make people sober; our best whips always drink, don’t
they, father? And nothing you could do would ever stop them."
Our host seemed to think this was an unfortunate remark, for I noticed
him glance at the butler as he replied, "If they do they soon have to
go, I know that."
"You misunderstand me," Sydney said, turning to Miss Folker. "I believe
there is great use in trying to make people sober, for weakness of any
kind encouraged leads to disease; but one does little service to the
cause of truth by telling lies."
"What would you do, then?" broke in Miss Smith, who had been listening
intently.
"With the habitual drunkard," replied Sydney, "there is only at present
one course open. He should be placed under restraint as a temporary
lunatic, which he is. But drunkenness is a mere stage in the growth of
mankind, and can only work itself out through the lessons of experience.
To try to prohibit drink is to hinder progress; to say that there is
more drunkenness now than formerly, is simply to say that the greater
part of our race is considered strong enough to face the temptation.
Give a savage as much spirit as he cares for, and he will kill himself
in a few months. Our forefathers, in much the same way, though with
more caution, used to lie nightly under the dinner-table; but now, among
those classes which can afford to drink as much as they like, only
persons with hereditary tendencies, or those who are unusually weak go
to this extreme either in private or public. They have partially
learned their lesson. Among the more ignorant there would be ten times
the drunkenness if their wages allowed it. If you consider a man,
though he starves his wife and children, cannot afford to get hopelessly
drunk more than about twice a week; and this is one of the reasons why
the poor have taken longer to learn by experience this lesson. But
they, too, are slowly improving under increased temptations."
"Well, Sydney," said our host, "you are the most extraordinary man. You
always seem to take a view of things from a reversed position."
"It is an excellent plan," Sydney replied, laughing, "now and then to
stand on your head; in that position you see the world from quite a new
aspect, for instead of your eyes being turned naturally to the earth
with only an occasional glimpse of the heavens above, your view for the
time is altered. It does not, however, do to keep in that attitude too
long, or the blood will flow to your brain."
"But," asked Miss Smith, "do you not think that such doctrines might be
very dangerous?"
"All truth is dangerous to those who wish for an excuse for weakness,"
he replied. "But there are many at the present time who want a little
light thrown on the subject; for the man who does any action, however
right in itself, feeling that thereby he may be throwing his influence
on the side of selfishness, must therein be damned. Alcohol is probably
one of our greatest gifts if rightly used, and being so, must of
necessity be a frightful curse if abused."
"Gift indeed!" sniffed Lady Todman, "when every doctor will tell you it
has no feeding property."
"That is quite true," Sydney continued. "It is not a food, and therein
lies its great charm for an age when people eat far too much for the
sedentary lives they live; but it prevents the waste of tissue, and
enables man to keep in health without half his time and two-thirds of
his energy being exhausted in the process of digestion. It is, however,
a so-called poison, and must be treated as such; but the poisons of
to-day will probably become the nutriment of the future. On the other
hand, sugar, a splendid food for savages and labourers, is little better
than a slow poison to those who neglect exercise. Some day we shall
have a new commandment--’Thou shalt not take sweet things.’ Considering
the misery brought about in families through dyspepsia, I have a good
mind to try and start a new order of lemontotallers at once.
"If, however, you want a temperance sermon, you must go to the drunkard,
and as an antidote to what I have said, if you care to hear it, I will
tell you a story of a friend of mine who is now dead. He was a young
man of great ability, who had passed through the University, carrying
off some of its most coveted prizes. For some years having heard
nothing of him, I decided to look him up. I knew that he had been
ordained, and, retaining his fellowship, had accepted a quiet living in
the country, intending to spend his spare time in literary work. It had
surprised me that since then I had heard nothing from him, nor had any
book of his been published. I found him a hopeless wreck, and this, in
a few words, is what he told me.
"He had come down to the country for the purpose of having leisure to
study and write. For some time all went well. He had been brought up
not to take wine, and was one of the few teetotallers of his College.
His father had died from drink when Hamlin was a boy, and his mother had
done all in her power to keep her child from following in the same
course. ’I never,’ he said, ’touched drink till I was ordained. My
curacy was in the West End of London, and as the time drew near for me
to preach my first sermon, I became hopelessly nervous, feeling that I
should break down, or losing all self-control, behave like a lunatic.
The thought horrified me. As I went over my sermon in private, my hand
shook so that I could not read the words. In despair I tried a remedy
many University men resort to when they have to read the lessons in
chapel. I took a small dose of brandy and tried the effect. It was
only about a tablespoonful, yet the result was miraculous. In a few
minutes I felt capable of preaching in St. Paul’s. On the following
Sunday, having provided myself with a flask, I took a double dose in the
vestry before the sermon, and the result was equally successful. From
that day to this I have never preached without the aid of a stimulant.’
"For some time he confined his abuse of alcohol to this purpose, but
before he came into the country the habit had grown, and he took spirits
every evening, though not in large quantities. On being appointed
rector to a small parish, the loneliness of his life added to his
temptation.
"’I knew I was damned,’ he said, ’but was helpless. Week by week, as I
got less effect from the usual amount, I increased it. At last I began
to feel the result. My interest in my work died down; the services in
the church became a hollow and hateful mockery. I felt languid, and
disinclined to take exercise, whilst my thoughts now always ran in one
direction, to the moment when again I could drink--drink and be
happy--feel the blood course freely through my veins, and my brain wake
from its now normal condition of torpor; for you must understand that I
never drank to what is called excess, that is to say, was never
obviously the worse for drink. One night, after having been sleeping
soundly for some hours, I woke oppressed with a feeling of nameless
horror. The perspiration poured down me, and yet I shivered; then it
seemed as if the very fiends of hell were tearing at my soul, mocking
me, shouting my ordination vows into my ears, bidding me look at the
damned souls in torture whom I had promised to watch over here, and had
neglected. Thus I lay for an hour in anguish unspeakable, and at last
got up, dressed, and went out into the cool night air. As I began to
feel better I vowed to God never again to touch a drop of alcohol.
"’On the following morning it seemed that, after all, the whole state of
my mind had been exaggerated, and was only probably due to indigestion.
I, however, kept my vow for a few days and became a wreck. Sunday was
drawing near. What should I do? I began my sermon after taking an
unusually large dose, and preached contentedly from a passage chosen to
strengthen my resolution during the night of misery--"Thy vows, O God,
are upon me." Only once since,’ he concluded in a whisper, ’have I made
a vow, and that was after the first week spent with the real visible
fiends in hell, when the doctor came and found that the minister whom
all respected was suffering from _delirium tremens_!’"
There was a pause, and Lady Todman, who had been listening intently to
the story, which she evidently intended to retail with a little extra
colour at her next temperance meeting, asked what was the poor fellow’s
end.
"I am glad to say," Sydney replied, "that the day after I left he
gathered up what little power was left him, and seeing that his life was
hopeless, faced death bravely."
"I hope he was truly penitent before the end," said Lady Todman.
"I think he showed that conclusively," replied Sydney, "when he shot
himself."
There was a moment’s silence; and then, before anyone could continue the
subject, which had become depressing, he turned the drift of talk quite
naturally into a new channel, and was very soon keeping most of the
party laughing over some comical experiences in the hunting-field.
Though he made himself the hero for his own satire, we all knew him well
enough to be sure that he was speaking from observation, and not
personal experience.
"Well," I said, when the ladies had left us, and I had taken the
opportunity to move over next to him, "was it the temperance question
which brought you here to-night?"
"No," he replied, "it was not that; but a little private matter, which I
hope to be able to accomplish later on."
The conversation then became general, as is usually the case under the
friendly influence of tobacco.
We found only two ladies waiting for our arrival in the larger
drawing-room, the others had gone into a dimly-lighted and smaller
apartment adjoining. Lady Todman informed us, with a look of disgust,
that the others were tempting the devil to rap on a circular table, from
which we gathered that our hostess was indulging in her favourite
occupation of playing at spiritualism.
"You don’t seem to approve of spiritualism, Lady Todman," I remarked,
rather hoping to draw Sydney into discussion with her on the subject.
"I certainly don’t," she replied. "I consider it not only a great waste
of time, but also wicked."
"I am glad to find," said Sydney, "that in this case we can agree if I
may use the word dangerous instead of wicked, which is much the same
thing."
"But why dangerous?" asked Miss Smith, who was the other lady present.
"It is nothing but rubbish, and I don’t see that people can do much harm
by unconsciously pushing a table about, and we cannot fancy that any one
would rap on purpose."
"Have you ever been present at one of these gatherings?" he replied.
And being answered in the negative, continued, "Is it wise to judge
without experience? There may be more than you fancy even in so
apparently childish a performance as table-turning."
Whilst he spoke we were roused by low, yet excited voices in the next
room, and he went toward the drawn curtains and quietly passed through,
followed by Miss Smith and myself.
The light was dim, and at first I had some difficulty in seeing
anything; but as my eyes became more accustomed to the gloom, I noticed
six ladies sitting round a table with their hands joined. One of these,
a girl of about twenty, was lying back in her chair apparently
unconscious, although her eyes were open. The others were watching her
with expressions either of alarm or interest.
"What shall we do?" said Lady Folker in a whisper; "she has gone off,
and I know that in my book it says if any one goes into a trance one
ought to be most careful unless an experienced spiritualist is with
you."
"If," said Sydney, "you would care to follow my instructions, we might
see something interesting without doing the young lady any further harm.
I once had a good deal of experience in these matters."
"Oh! how delightful!" said Miss Folker. "Tell us what we ought to do,
and let us see a real live ghost; that would be lovely!"
The instructions were quickly carried out; the insensible girl being
laid on a couch. All the rest were asked to go into the drawing-room,
and the curtains were then again drawn between the two rooms. After
some protest from the remainder of our party, including Lady Todman and
the men who had so far taken no part in the performance, the lights were
put out, and Alan Sydney brought a small shaded pink lamp from the inner
room, where the girl still lay unconscious, and placed it in our midst.
Hardly had he done this before the curtains were drawn quickly apart by
some invisible means, and we could see into the inner room.
Miss Halcome still lay on the couch, apparently sleeping, but with her
face turned from us. A soft light was falling upon her from above; as
we watched, the light appeared to take, as it were, form, till we
recognized that a woman clothed in white stood leaning over the girl.
Then the woman, taking one of the girl’s white hands, raised her up and
led her into the centre of the inner room.
Miss Halcome moved at first as though walking in her sleep, with eyes
open, yet apparently unseeing. When they thus reached the centre, the
figure of the woman again began to fade till the girl stood alone before
us, still with that strange light falling upon her. She made a
beautiful picture, being one of those who possess a physical and purely
sensuous loveliness, which appeals especially to men of lower type. Her
hair and eyes were brown; her complexion clear, though rather dark; her
lips were full, prettily shaped, and of deep colour; as a rule her
cheeks carried, for my liking, too deep a rose tint, but they were now more pale than usual. |
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