CHAPTER XXIV
DREAMS AND THE SLEEP
The Christmas Day which followed this strange night proved the happiestthat Morris could ever remember to have spent since his childhood. Inhis worldly circumstances of course he was oppressed by none of theeveryday worries which at this season are the lot of most--no duns cameto trouble him, nor through lack of means was he forced to turn anybeggar from his door. Also the baby was much better, and Mary's spiritswere consequently radiant. Never, indeed, had she been more lovely andcharming than when that morning she presented him with a splendid goldchronometer to take the place of the old silver watch which was hismother's as a girl, and that he had worn all his life. Secretly hesorrowed over parting with that familiar companion in favour of itsnew eighty-guinea rival, although it was true that it always lost tenminutes a day, and sometimes stopped altogether. But there was no helpfor it; so he kissed Mary and was grateful.
Moreover, the day was beautiful. In the morning they walked to churchthrough the Abbey plantations, which run for nearly half a mile alongthe edge of the cliff. The rime lay thick upon the pines and firs--everylittle needle had its separate coat of white whereon the sun's raysglistened. The quiet sea, too, shone like some gigantic emerald, and inthe sweet stillness the song of a robin perched upon the bending boughof a young poplar sounded pure and clear.
Yet it was not this calm and plenty, this glittering ocean flecked withwhite sails, and barred by delicate lines of smoke, this blue andhappy sky, nor all the other good things that were given to him in suchabundance, which steeped his heart in Sabbath rest. Although he soughtno inspiration from such drugs, and, indeed, was a stranger to them,rather was his joy the joy of the opium-eater while the poison works;the joy of him who after suffering long nights of pain has found theirantidote, and perhaps for the first time appreciates the worth of peace,however empty. His troubled heart had ceased its striving, his wreckednerves were still, his questionings had been answered, his ends wereattained; he had drunk of the divine cup which he desired, and its wineflowed through him. The dead had visited him, and he had tasted of thedelight which lies hid in death. On that day he felt as though nothingcould hurt him any more, nothing could even move him. The angry voices,the wars, the struggles, the questionings--all the things which tormentmankind; what did they matter? He had forced the lock and broken thebar; if only for a little while, the door had opened, and he had seenthat which he desired to see and sought with all his soul, and with thewondrous harvest of this pure, inhuman passion, that owes nothing tosex, or time, or earth, he was satisfied at last.
"Why did you look so strange in church?" asked Mary as they walked home,and her voice echoed in the spaces of his void mind as words echo in anempty hall.
His thoughts were wandering far, and with difficulty he drew them back,as birds tied by the foot are drawn back and, still fluttering to befree, brought home to the familiar cage.
"Strange, dear?" he answered; "did I look strange?"
"Yes; like a man in a dream or the face of a saint being comfortablymartyred in a picture. Morris, I believe that you are not well. I willspeak to the doctor. He must give you a tonic, or something for yourliver. Really, to see you and that old mummy Mr. Fregelius staring ateach other while he murmured away about the delights of the world tocome, and how happy we ought to be at the thought of getting there, mademe quite uncomfortable."
"Why? Why, dear?" asked Morris, vacantly.
"Why? Because the old man with his pale face and big eyes looked morelike an astral body than a healthy human being; if I met him in hissurplice at night, I should think he was a ghost, and upon my word,you are catching the same expression. That comes of your being so muchtogether. Do be a little more human and healthy. Lose your temper; swearat the cook like your father; admire Jane Rose's pretty bonnet, or herpretty face; take to horse-racing, do anything that is natural, even ifit is wicked. Anything that doesn't make one think of graves, and stars,and infinities, and souls who died last night; of all of which no doubtwe shall have plenty in due season."
"All right, dear," answered Morris, with a fine access of forcedcheerfulness, "we will have some champagne for dinner and play picquetafter it."
"Champagne! What's the use of champagne when you only pretend to drinkit and fill up the glass with soda-water? Picquet! You hate it, and sodo I; and it is silly losing large sums of money to each other which wenever mean to pay. That isn't the real thing, there's no life inthat. Oh, Morris, if you love me, do cultivate some human error. It isterrible to have a husband in whom there is nothing to reform."
"I will try, love," said Morris, earnestly.
"Yes," she replied, with a gloomy shake of the head, "but you won'tsucceed. When Mrs. Roberts told me the other day that she was afraid herhusband was taking to drink because he went out walking too often withthat pretty widow from North Cove--the one with the black and goldbonnet whom they say things about--I answered that I quite envied her,and she didn't in the least understand what I meant. But I understand,although I can't express myself."
"I give up the drink," said Morris; "it disagrees; but perhaps you mightintroduce me to the widow. She seems rather attractive."
"I will," answered Mary, stamping her foot. "She's a horrid, vulgarlittle thing; but I'll ask her to tea, or to stay, and anything, if shecan only make you look rather less disembodied."
That night the champagne appeared, and, feeling his wife's eyes uponhim, Morris swallowed two whole glasses, and in consequence was quitecheerful, for he had eaten little--circumstances under which champagneexhilarates--for a little while. Then they went into the drawing-roomand talked themselves into silence about nothing in particular,after which Morris began to wander round the room and contemplate thefurniture as though he had never seen it before.
"What are you fidgeting about?" asked Mary. "Morris, you remind me ofsomebody who wants to slip away to an assignation, which in your case isabsurd. I wish your father were back, I really do; I should be glad tolisten to his worst and longest story. It isn't often that I sit withyou, so it would be kinder if you didn't look so bored. I'm cross; I'mgoing to bed. I hope you will spend a pleasant night in the chapel withyour thoughts and your instruments and the ghosts of the old Abbots. Butplease come into my room quietly; I don't like being woke up after threein the morning, as I was yesterday." And she went, slamming the doorbehind her.
Morris went also with hanging head and guilty step to his accustomedhaunt in the old chapel. He knew that he was doing wrong; he couldsympathise with Mary's indignation. Yet he was unable to resist, he mustsee again, must drink once more of that heavenly cup.
And he failed. Was it the champagne? Was it Mary's sharp words which hadruffled him? Was it that he had not allowed enough time for the energywhich came from him enabling her to appear before his mortal eyes, togather afresh in the life-springs of his own nature? Or was she alsoangry with him?
At least he failed. The waves came indeed, and the cold wind blew, butthere was no sound of music, and no vision. Again and again he stroveto call it up--to fancy that he saw. It was useless, and at last, weary,broken, but filled with a mad irritation such as might be felt by ahungry man who sees food which he cannot touch, or by a jealous loverwho beholds her that should have been his bride take another husbandbefore his eyes, he crept away to such rest as he could win.
He awoke, ill, wretched, and unsatisfied, but wisdom had come to himwith sleep. He must not fail again, it was too wearing; he must preparehimself according to the rules which he had laid down. Also he mustconciliate his wife, so that she did not speak angrily to him, and thusdisturb his calm of mind. Broken waters mirror nothing; if his soul wasto be the glass in which that beloved spirit might appear, it must bestill and undisturbed. If? Then was she built up in his imagination, ordid he really see her with his eyes? He could not tell, and after all itmattered little so long as he did see her.
He grew cunning--in such circumstances a common symptom--affecting a"bonhomie," a joviality of demeanou
r, indeed, which was rather overdone.He suggested that Mary should ask some people to tea, and twice hewent out shooting, a sport which he had almost abandoned. Only whenshe wanted to invite certain guests to stay, he demurred a little, onaccount of the baby, but so cleverly that she never suspected him ofbeing insincere. In short, as he could attain his unholy end in no otherway, Morris entered on a career of mild deception, designed to preventhis wife from suspecting him of she knew not what. His conduct was thatof a man engaged in an intrigue. In his case, however, the possible endof his ill-doing was not the divorce-court, but an asylum, or so someobservers would have anticipated. Yet did man ever adore a mistress sofatal and destroying as this poor shadow of the dead which he desired?
It was not until New Year's Eve that Stella came again. Once moreenervated and exhausted by the waves, Morris sank into a doze whence, asbefore, he was awakened by the sound of heavenly music to which, onthis night, was added the scent of perfume. Then he opened his eyes--tobehold Stella. As she had been at first, so she was now, only morelovely--a hundred times lovelier than the imagination can paint, or thepen can tell. Here was nothing pale or deathlike, no sheeted, melancholyspectre, but a radiant being whose garment was the light, and whose eyesglowed like the heart of some deep jewel. About her rolled a vision ofmany colours, such hues as the rainbow has fell upon her face and abouther hair. And yet it was the same Stella that he had known made perfectand spiritual and, beyond all imagining, divine.
Once more he addressed--implored her, and once more no answer came; nordid her face change, or that wondrous smile pass from her lips into thegravity of her eyes. This, at least, was sure; either that she no longerhad any understanding knowledge of his earthly tongue, or that itsdemonstration was to her a thing forbidden. What was she then? Thatdouble of the body which the Egyptians called the _Ka_, or the soulitself, the {preuma}, no eidolon, but the immortal _ego_, clothed inhuman semblance made divine?
Why was there no answer? Because his speech was too gross for her tohearken to? Why did she not speak? Because his ears were deaf? Was thisan illusion? No! a thousand times. When he approached she vanished, butwhat of it? He was mortal, she a spirit; they might not mix.
Yet in her own method she did speak, spoke to his soul, bidding thescales fall from its eyes so that it might see. And it saw what humanimagination could not fashion. Behold those gardens, those groves thathang upon the measureless mountain face, and the white flowers whichdroop in tresses from the dark bough of yonder towering poplar tree, andthe jewelled serpent nestling at its root.
Oh! they are gone, and when the flame-eyed Figure smote, the vast,barring, precipices fall apart and the road is smooth and open.
How far? A million miles? No, twenty thousand millions. Look, yondershines the destined Star; now come! So, it is reached. Nay, do not stopto stare. Look again! out through utter space to where the low lightglows. So, come once more. The suns float past like windblown goldendust--like the countless lamps of boats upon the bosom of a summer sea.There, beneath, lies the very home of Power. Those springing sparks oflight? They are the ineffable Decrees passing outward through infinity.That sound? It is the voice of worlds which worship.
Look now! Out yonder see the flaming gases gather and cohere. They burnout and the great globe blackens. Cool mists wrap it, rains fall,seas collect, continents arise. There is life, behold it, various andinfinite. And hearken to the whisper of this great universe, one tinynote in that song of praise you heard but now. Yes, the life dies, theball grows black again; it is the carcase of a world. How long haveyou watched it? For an hour, a breath; but, as you judge time, someten thousand million years. Sleep now, you are weary; later you shallunderstand.
Thus the wraith of Stella spoke to his soul in visions. Presently,with drumming ears and eyes before which strange lights seemed to play,Morris staggered from the place, so weak, indeed, that he could scarcelythrust one foot before the other. Yet his heart was filled with a madjoy, and his brain was drunken with the deep cup of a delight and aknowledge that have seldom been given to man.
On other nights the visions were different. Thus he saw the spirits ofmen going out and returning, and among them his own slumbering spiritthat a vast and shadowy Stella bore in her arms as a mother bears ababe.
He saw also the Vision of Numbers. All the infinite inhabitants of allthe infinite worlds passed before him, marching through the ages tosome end unknown. Once, too, his mind was opened, and he understoodthe explanation of Evil and the Reason of Things. He shouted at theirglorious simplicity--shouted for joy; but lo! before he rose from hischair they were forgotten.
Other visions there were without count. Also they would mix and fallinto new patterns, like the bits of glass in a kaleidoscope. There wasno end to them, and each was lovelier, or grander, or fraught with amore sweet entrancement, than the last. And still she who brought them,she who opened his eyes, who caused his ears to hear and his soul tosee; she whom he worshipped; his heart's twin, she who had swornherself to him on earth, and was there waiting to fulfil the oath to alleternity; the woman who had become a spirit, that spirit that had takenthe shape of a woman--there she stood and smiled and changed, and yetwas changeless. And oh! what did it matter if his life was draining fromhim, and oh! to die at those glittering feet, with that perfumed breathstirring in his hair! What did he seek more when Death would be thegreat immortal waking, when from twilight he passed out to light? Whatmore when in that dawn, awful yet smiling, she should be his and hehers, and they twain would be one, with thought that answered thought,since it was the same thought?
Stella Fregelius: A Tale of Three Destinies Page 39