by J. H. Pearce
But Sir Edward, lolling by the fire this evening, experienced littlesatisfaction in his luxurious surroundings: the eroding tooth of thoughtthey could no way quiet; and it was the irritation of this that he mostdesired to have allayed.
He lighted a cigar, and began to smoke vigorously, leaning back thewhile and contemplating the smoke-clouds that drifted round in swirlingfolds and spirals, an occasional ring mounting airily over all.
Smoking away steadily, cigar after cigar--for he was an insatiablesmoker as he was insatiable in everything--Sir Edward seemed presentlyto be almost hidden among the smoke-wreaths, which had now thickened inthe room with unexampled rapidity.
At first he felt inclined to ring for a servant and have the windowsopened to let in a breath of air, but there was a certain amount ofinterest in watching the floating veils of smoke; and, besides, in themere act of idly watching these he could let certain vivid tableaux,with which Memory was amusing him, drift beyond the range of hisattention, he hoped. So he lay back, letting the smoke thicken in theatmosphere, while he followed the fantastic wreaths lazily with hiseyes.
It was almost as if he were dozing as he lay there; for he could havesworn that in the chair on the opposite side of the fireplace heperceived a grey old fogey reclining among the cushions, yet withdeep-sunken eyes fixed watchfully on his face.
It was really absurd to have an utter stranger intrude his company onhim in this unceremonious manner, and Sir Edward felt inclined toquestion him sharply, and, if need be, have him turned out neck andcrop.
But instead of taking up the intended _role_ of inquisitor, he foundhimself reduced ignominiously to the _role_ of the questioned one.
"Where were you thinking of going to-night?" asked the Visitor. "To thetheatre, or the opera, or to that 'private club' we know of?" And theVisitor looked at him with a glance of quiet intelligence which SirEdward somehow felt powerless to resent.
"I was thinking. . . ."
"Of going with me? Quite right!" replied the Visitor. "With me youshall go: unless we can come to terms together. In which case,possibly, I may leave you behind _for a time_."
Sir Edward ceased to smoke: and his hands trembled on his knees.
But he made no movement, and uttered no protest. Before the glance ofhis visitor he quailed and was dumb.
"Ruth Medwin, I presume, must bear her disgrace as best she can? Youwill neither recognize her, nor make her an allowance, I understand."
"I think I have changed my mind. . . ."
"Too late," said the Visitor. "After having seen _me_ you can changeyour mind no more."
Sir Edward lay motionless among the cushions of his chair.
"I should like . . . if you will allow me . . ." he began feebly.
"I can allow you only one choice: and that a peremptory one. Will you gowith me instantly--I think you know me--or shall I call for you again_on any terms I care to fix_?"
"Will your terms be as pitiless. . . ."
"You shall hear them, if you please."
Sir Edward sank deeper among the soft cushions: his whole lifeconcentrated in the watchful stare with which he fixed his eyes on hisvisitor's face.
"Shall I take you with me now to undergo your punishment--and, I needscarcely tell you, it will not be a light one--or would you prefer adelay before you accompany me: a period of expiation, in some form I maydecide on, with a hope of a reduction in your punishment at the end?"
"A delay--a period of expiation, for God's sake!"
"You are certain you prefer it?"
"I implore it! I entreat it! For God's sake, grant me a respite!"
"Be it so."
II.
The soul that had been Sir Edward's sickened with disgust.
It was located in the body of a miserable cab-horse; one of the sorriesthacks in the East End of London, and practically fit only for theknacker, one would have said.
It was a life the human soul found inexpressibly hateful. If this wereexpiation, it was in a purgatory indeed. But in a purgatory of filth andof disgusting sensations, instead of in a torturing purgatory of fire.
To be lashed with the whip, and galled excruciatingly with the harness;to have the bit between the teeth, or tugging at the jaws unmercifully;and to have the blinkers ever blotting out the vision of the world: tostrain every sinew, and have the service accepted thanklessly; to betortured with discomfort, and to work absolutely without reward--it wasa life devoid of even the meanest compensations: loathsome, and in everyway abhorrent to thought.
The horses, and other animals he met in the streets, he might havecommunicated with in some way or other, but his driver--a drunken,quarrelsome fellow--was always tugging at the bit or brandishing thewhip; and if the poor animal even tried to turn his head, he wasbelaboured as brutally as if he had swerved or fallen asleep.
There was no chance even of rubbing noses at the drinking-troughs, or oflaying his head on the neck of a companion at the stand. And whatevermight be taking place in the streets through which he was passing, hewas debarred from bestowing on it even the most casual attention.
His mental activity was ignored, or trampled on, with an indifferencethat was never once relaxed or relieved.
His life was a horror unexampled in its profundity. The cruel debasementand defilement of it penetrated so deeply that he repented bitterly ofthe choice into which he had been betrayed. He would infinitely havepreferred suffering among his equals in hell.
A year of this life was as much as he could endure. One day he stumbledacross a tram-line, and, falling, broke his leg--hopelessly snappingthe tendon, and otherwise injuring himself--and he was carted off to theknackers to receive his _coup de grace_.
A moment or two before he was killed, the eyes of the animal lighted upwith a strangely human expression--which was succeeded by a look of themost unappeasable despair.
Evidently he had again seen the grey old man.
But the Visitor's communication to him remained unrevealed, and it wasprobably torturing him still when he . . . died?
THE FIELDS OF AMARANTH.
"I SHALL seek the fields of amaranth," said the young man defiantly."And I shall find them," added he, turning tenderly to his mother. "Andwhen I have found them I will comeback for _you_, dear mother, and Iwill take you with me that we may dwell there in peace."
"What do you know of peace, and why should you desire it?" asked thefather, with a certain cold contempt in his tone. "You have not yetlived; and you have certainly not laboured. Rest is for those who havelaboured and grown weary. In that rest that you desire you would havean empty mind for showman, and of its meagre entertainment you wouldtire as speedily as a child. Live first, and watch the puppets of memoryplay afterwards. The fields of amaranth will wait for you however longyou live."
But the young man insisted: "I want to find them _now_. And when I havefound them I will come for _you_, mother, dear; and we will return tothem together and be happy and at peace."
But the mother's eyes were troubled with an inexplicable expression. "Itwere better that you should wait till I come to _you_," she answeredgently. "As come to you I surely shall--one day. But come not to fetchme . . . if once you find the fields."
"I surely _shall_ come for you," cried the youth.
"No, no!" implored the mother.
But he smiled on her, and was gone.
It was a long journey, and a toilsome one, and the end of it the youthcould neither learn of nor anticipate.
The fields of amaranth? Yes: all had heard of them. But no one knew anyone who had ever found them. And, for themselves, they were content toknow these waited for them somewhere. They had ties--they hadbusinesses--they were content to live and wait.
"When I return from them, shall I give you tidings of them?" asked theyoung man, earnestly.
"No, no!" They were vehement in their dissuasions that he should not:finally even fleeing from him in terror at the thought.
And the young man mused perplexedly as he walked on. "Are there_
really_ fields of amaranth for those who can find them?" he asked of awrinkled, white-haired wayfarer. "Or is it merely a bait, a delusion,and a lie?"
"Yes, surely, my son, these fields await us all: else life, at best,were a sorry game for most of us. It is there we shall rest and reap ourreward."
"But no one seems eager to set out for them and discover them."
"No one?" quoth the old man, looking at him strangely: "there are manyways of getting there: you have chosen only one. There are other roads,and crowded ones: though you know nothing of them yet."
The young man brushed past him hot with disdain. He was merely an olddotard: empty-minded like the rest.
The lures of the highway were many and formidable; but the young manturned aside from them impatiently. "I am bound for the fields ofamaranth," cried he haughtily: "when I return I will taste these goodthings you offer."
"Will he ever return?" whispered a girl to her mother.
She had looked with eyes of love on the daring young wayfarer; and avague regret shivered through her as he passed on.
"God only knows. But I doubt it," said the mother.
The girl hid her face in her apron and wept.
But the young man had not overheard the whisper, and with head held highhe pushed on along the road.
And here were the fields of amaranth at last! He could see them smilingfaintly on the other side of the valley. But they had a strangely vagueand unsubstantial look. One might almost have fancied he were looking ata mirage.
And between the young wayfarer and the fields of amaranth the ruggedhillside sloped abruptly: its foot being shrouded in a dense white mist.He could hear a river murmuring sullenly somewhere in the depths, butthe mist hid the waters and he could only hear their moan.
How far he had left the busy highway behind him! He would like to takejust one farewell glance at it. The fields beyond him seemed to waverdeceptively in his eyes. One glance at the highway, with its booths andits faces, and his vigour, strangely waning, would surely be renewed.
But as he turned and saw the dear familiar highway, along which he hadtrudged so many weary miles, his heart went out in a yearning towardsit, and he stretched out his arms to it, hungering for its life.
So mighty was the fascination it now exercised over him, that he beganto rush headlong down the hill towards it, eager to be once moremingling in its throng, and to once more feel its hum in his ears.
At the foot of the hill he met the fair young girl whose eyes haderstwhile followed him so wistfully, and he flung himself into her armssobbing violently.
"The life here--you--I cannot part with them!" he cried passionately.And he shuddered: "If the wish had come too late!"
THE COMEDY OF A SOUL.
"YOU are quite sure you will never change? will never desert me, or beuntrue to me?"
"I am absolutely sure of it, my darling!" he answered resolutely. "Anypledge my sweet one desires I will give her freely," added he, as heagain kissed her passionately on the mouth.
"Would you leave me your soul in pawn?" asked the maiden, smiling at himbewitchingly with her deliciously red lips; her cheeks dimpling and herbrown eyes sparkling, and her heaving breasts but thinly hidden from hisgaze.
"Willingly! And be glad to leave it in my darling's custody!" And hislips hovered caressingly around her just-disclosed shoulder.
"Very well, I will accept the pledge," said she.
He was beginning again to kiss her fondlingly.
"You are a man of honour, are you not?" asked she; showing her evenwhite teeth, and dimpling her rose-leaf cheeks temptingly.
"Certainly. I hope so."
"Then let me have your soul."
"But that would mean death for me! Do you desire me to die, my love?"And a look of questioning wonder crept into his eyes.
"By no means! I have not been reared by a philosopher for nothing. Thiscrystal ball"--and she held out to him a tiny globe of crystal--"putyour lips to it and pawn your soul to its keeping. I will warrant you,it will hold it as safely as I could."
He glanced at the tiny globe distrustfully.
"Are you afraid? Do you wish to withdraw from your word?"
"By no means."
"Then breathe against it, my love." And she held the crystal balltemptingly towards him. "You can imagine it is my lips you aretouching," added she, with a light, coquettish laugh, leaningprovocatively close to him.
He took the crystal reluctantly, and breathed against it as she wished.
"Oh!" cried he suddenly, drawing back his lips.
She took the crystal globe from him and peered into it anxiously. Thencried, in a tone of triumph, "Look! there it is."
He was aware of something cloudy--vague and light as smoke--floating, asit were, in the core of the crystal. And suddenly he felt a sense ofwant within himself.
She put the crystal in her bosom, and let it lie between her breasts.
"It is warm and pleasant there: you will never let it grow cold, willyou?"
"Never!" And she laughed; dimpling rosily in her mirth. "Now you can setoff on your journey," said the maiden.
"I have no wish now to leave your side," he whispered meekly.
"This rose, that I have been wearing, you were wishing for just now.See! I toss it yonder! Fetch and keep it!" cried the maiden.
He ran after it; groping for it where it had fallen in the grass.
"Cuckoo! cuckoo!" sounded all around him. It was as if the wood hadsuddenly grown vocal with cuckoos.
He turned his head quickly. The maiden had disappeared.
"Why did I trust my soul to her keeping?" he wailed drearily. "If sheshould lose it; or mislay it; or should even let it grow cold! My love!my love! my love!" he began calling.
"Cuckoo! cuckoo!" kept sounding across the grass.
He ran hither and hither: he followed the woodland paths feverishly.
At times he fancied he caught a glimpse of her vanishing garments; ofthe sunlight glinting on her long gold tresses. Now he imagined he couldhear her laughter echoing among the tree-trunks: and anon he evenfancied he could hear her singing. But he pursued her down the longgreen vistas in vain.
He sat down beneath a tree and clasped his hands drearily. "What a foolI was to trust my soul to her!" he wailed.
And at that moment he was aware of a ragged pedlar coming along theforest glades, and whistling as he came.
"Ho! young man! you look melancholy," quoth the pedlar. "What d'ye lack?A philtre to make your sweetheart love you? Ribbons for a lady? A collarfor your hound?"
"I want a soul," said the young man, glancing at him hungrily.
"A common want!" quoth the pedlar, grinning broadly. "But here in mypack I have souls in plenty. Dip in your hand and take one boldly!"
"I should like to choose. . . ."
"It is take it, or leave it. I allow no choice. I am offering you agift."
The pedlar laid his half-open pack on the grass.
"Dip in your hand and take one, if you will."
The young man dipped in his hand at a venture, and drew out one--thesoul of an ape.
"Not that! I will not have that!" cried he.
"Then you will have none," said the pedlar, dropping the soul in hispack again. "If the great Soul Maker, who manufactures them by themillion, allows neither picking nor choosing, beyond the casual dip ofchance, do you think that a mere pedlar in souls, like myself, can dobusiness on a basis which _he_ has found unprofitable? Pooh, man, getback your soul _if you can_, or else you may do without one, as far as Iam concerned." And off strolled the pedlar, whistling as he went.
The young man leaned his head dejectedly on his hand.
"How can I get back my soul?" he moaned.
"Why not live without one?" croaked a voice above his shoulder.
He looked up, and saw a sooty old raven peering down at him.
"Live without a soul! You'll never miss it," croaked the raven.
"Can I?" cried the young man: amazed, yet hopeful.
"Then I will!" exclaimed the young man, starting to his feet.
"That's right," croaked the raven. "You're the right sort--_you_ are!"
"A capital idea that!" quoth the young man, cheerfully.
He looked up, but the raven had hopped away among the branches.
"Well, at any rate, his hint was well meant, and I'll follow it!" quoththe young man, striding out boldly towards the houses which he couldjust see glimmering beyond the edge of the wood.
* * * * *
"Ugh! How ugly and dirty it has become!" quoth the maiden, gazing in thecrystal at the soul which she had coveted and stolen. "I will throw itaway, it no longer amuses me!"
And she threw it from her into the mire of the city: and the wheels andthe feet rapidly buried it in the mud.
* * * * *
The grey-haired Bishop looked "so beautiful" in his coffin, that thedeaconesses and the dear good sisters longed to kiss him.
"None of 'em ever found out that you wanted a soul," croaked the raven,who sat perched on the window-sill, blinking in the sunshine.
But there was no response to this: for how can a dead man talk?
THE END.
_Henderson & Spalding, Ltd., Marylebone Lane, London, W._