"Shall I call my father?" she asked in alarm.
"No, no; do not speak, do not move; call no one; I shall be well in a moment. I was trying my strength."
"It was wrong of you," she said, in a tone of sweetest chiding. "Strength! You have none. Why,Icould vanquish you!"
"You have done so, Lauretta."
She gazed at me in innocent surprise, and I equivocated by asking,
"You are not angry at my calling you Lauretta?"
"No, indeed," she replied; "I should feel strange if you called me by any other name. Lean on me, and I will guide you to your chair. You will not hurt me; I am stronger than you think."
Her touch, her voice with its note of exquisite sympathy, made me faint with happiness, I sank into the chair, and still retained her hand, which she did not withdraw from me.
"Do you feel better?"
"Much better, Lauretta, thanks to your sweet help. Remain with me a little while."
"Yes, I will. It was fortunate my father sent me to you, or you might have fallen to the ground with your rash experiment."
"Your father sent you to me, Lauretta?"
"Yes."
This proof of confidence, after what had passed between us, did wonders for me. A weight was lifted from my heart, a cloud from my eyes. I would prove myself worthy of his confidence.
"The colour has come back to your face," said Lauretta. "You are better."
"I am almost quite well, Lauretta. I have been so great a burden to you and your good parents that I thought it was time to give up my idle ways and show I was capable of waiting upon myself."
"It was very, very wrong of you," she repeated. "And as wrong to say you are a burden to us. It is almost as if you believed we thought you were. I must tell my dear mother to scold you."
"No, do not tell her, Lauretta; it might pain her. I did not mean what I said. Let it be a secret between us."
"A secret!" she exclaimed, raising her eyes to my face. "I never had one; but there is no harm in this."
"You have no secrets, Lauretta?"
"Not one," she replied, with guileless frankness; "and I will promise that my mother shall not chide you if you will promise not to try to force yourself into strength. The wisest and cleverest man cannot do that. But perhaps you are weary of us, and wish to run away?"
"I should be content to remain here for ever, Lauretta."
"Well, then," she said gaily, "be patient for a few days, and, as my dear father would say, do not be inconsistent." She uttered the last four words in playful imitation of her father's voice, and I was enchanted with this revealment of innocent lightness in her nature. "But I am losing sight of his admonition."
"He bade you do something?"
"Yes; he said you might like me to read or play for you. Which shall I do?"
"Neither, Lauretta."
"Can I do nothing?"
"Yes; talk to me, Lauretta."
I was never tired of uttering her name. It was the sweetest word in all the languages.
"Well, then," she said, clasping her hands in her lap, she had gently withdrawn the hand I held, "what shall I talk about?"
"About your friends. When I am strong, I shall want to know them. Introduce me to them beforehand."
"I introduce you, then," she said with tender gravity, without losing touch of her lighter mood, "to everybody."
"Is everybody your friend, Lauretta?"
"Yes, everybody--truly! and it makes me very glad to know it."
"But there are special ones, Lauretta."
"Of course there are special ones. First, my dearest."
"Your parents?"
"Yes, they are the first, the best, the dearest. It is well known; my mother is an angel."
"I honour them, Lauretta."
"All do. That is why people like me; because I belong to them, and they to me."
"You are loved for yourself, Lauretta."
"No," she said, with pretty wilfulness, "because of them. Then there is Father Daniel, a saint, my mother says; then Eric and Emilius--and that is all, I think, who can be called special."
"Eric and Emilius?" I said, in the form of a question.
"Yes, they are brothers, handsome, brave, and strong. You will like them, I am sure you will."
Handsome, brave, and strong! I gave Lauretta a searching look, and she returned it smilingly. There was no blush, no self-consciousness. Why, then, should I feel disturbed? Why should Eric and Emilius become established in my mind as barriers to the happiness for which I yearned. I did not dare to trust myself to ask for information of these friends of Lauretta, so handsome, brave, and strong--I was fearful that my voice might betray me; and as I could converse on no other topic with ease, I remained silent while Lauretta chatted on sweetly and artlessly.
I was quite well; the fever had entirely departed, and my ankle was as strong and sound as ever. I moved about freely, with a keen enjoyment of life, an enjoyment intensified by the happiness which I believed to be in store for me. Four weeks had passed since Lauretta had uttered the names of Eric and Emilius, and I had seen nothing of them. Not only had they not visited the house, but I was convinced they were not in the village. My jealous fears were dead. The hopes in which I indulged were strengthened by Doctor Louis's behavior towards me. There had been a short conversation between us on the subject of what had passed while he was endeavouring to mesmerise me on the first day of my convalescence. It was I who, to his manifest relief, broached the subject.
"I remember everything perfectly," I said, "every phase of my sensations, every word that was spoken, every thought that occurred to me. Although my eyes were sealed, I saw you plainly, and it seemed to me that I couldseewhat was passing through your mind."
"It is frank of you," said Doctor Louis, "to say so much. Was I in error in supposing that you were resisting me?"
"Not entirely in error," I replied. "I was aware of your design, and I strove to exercise over you, to some extent, a power similar to that you were exercising over me. If I did nothing else, I gave you pause."
"Yes," he said, "you compelled me to wait your pleasure, and now and then, instead of being dictated to, dictated. That, to me, was a new condition of a psychic force at present in its infancy, but which, at some not too distant time, will be the means of producing marvellous revealments."
"What brought us into harmony," I observed, "was the fact that the subject was one which commanded our entire and undivided sympathies."
"My daughter."
"Yes, your daughter Lauretta."
"You obtained a promise from me which was to be confirmed I infer in such a conversation as we are holding now. I confirm it. And you, on your part, will abide by the engagement into which you entered with me respecting Lauretta."
"Assuredly."
We clasped hands, and directed our conversation into another channel. The agreement we had made necessitated certain action with respect to my residence in Nerac during the period of probation. I felt that it would be scarcely right for me to continue to live in the doctor's house; even were a closer tie not in contemplation, it would have been indelicate on my part to encroach upon the hospitality of these generous friends. It was for me to make the first move in the matter, and I did so when we were sitting together after the evening meal.
"I have had it for some time in my mind," I said, "to endeavour to express my heartfelt thanks for all the kindness you have shown me; but although I am not usually at a loss for words, I am at a loss to carry out my wish in a fitting manner."
"It is enough," said Lauretta's mother, with a gentle inclination of her head. "Having said so much, there is no need for anything more. Do not distress yourself. What has been done has been cheerfully and willingly done, and your restoration to health is the best return you could make for the slight service we have been able to render you."
"There was a time," I remarked, "when I myself might have regarded the saving of my life a slight service; that was when I deemed life of little value, when I thought there was little in the world worth caring for. But it is different now; my life is precious to me, and the world is very beautiful."
"It is," said Doctor Louis, "all a question of the liver. The world is bright or dark according to the state of our digestions."
He often interjected these pleasant discordances, upon which we placed their proper value, knowing that they were introduced chiefly for the purpose of giving a healthy turn to the conversation. This did not, however, detract from the wisdom of his utterances, which were nuts with sound kernels within.
"Therefore," I continued, smiling at the doctor, and becoming grave immediately afterwards, "what you have done for me is of inestimable value, and cannot be priced. There is only one way of showing my gratitude, and that way lies in the future, not in the present. It shall be my endeavour to prove to you that your precious kindness has not been wasted."
Lauretta's mother nodded and looked kindly at me, and then turned her eyes of full love upon her daughter, who was sitting by her side. Between me and Lauretta's mother no words had been exchanged with reference to the dear wish of my heart, but without being told I knew that Doctor Louis had imparted to his wife all the particulars of what had passed between us, and that she was aware that I stood in the position of one who desired to win their Home Rose for my wife. There was a new tenderness and solicitude in the mother's looks which deeply moved me.
"Then there is another matter," I said, "upon which I hope we shall be in accord. I am mustering up courage to leave you."
"I feared, mother," said Lauretta, and it delighted me to note that her voice was tremulous, "that he was growing weary of us. I told him so a little while since, I think."
"And my reply was," I said, "that I should be content to remain here for ever; but that can scarcely be. I have no intention of leaving Nerac, however."
"Of course not, of course not," said Doctor Louis; "the air here is so fine, so much finer than it is anywhere else--"
"Very much finer," I said.
"And the fruit is so delicious, so much more delicious than it is anywhere else--"
"Much more delicious," I said.
"And the skies are so bright, so much brighter than they are anywhere else--"
"Much brighter."
"And the flowers are so much lovelier, and the stars are so much more brilliant--"
"The doctor and I," I said, entering into his mood, and addressing his wife and daughter, "so perfectly agree."
They smiled, but in Lauretta's smile there was a tender wistfulness.
"Then the people," continued Doctor Louis; "they are so much superior, so much more refined, so much higher--"
"Indeed," I said, with a touch of earnestness, "that has been truly proved to me."
"No, no," said Doctor Louis, "I am not to be turned from the track by sentiment. It has been left to our young friend to discover--all honour to him--that, taking us altogether, we in the little village of Nerac here are a very exceptional lot. Now, I have only to make this public to bring us an inch nearer to the sun. The least we can do for him is to present him with a testimonial."
"Which he is ready to accept," I said gaily; "but, doctor, you omitted to mention one important thing."
"What is it?"
"My health; it will take a considerable time to establish it, and it cannot be established elsewhere."
"A poor compliment to my skill," observed Doctor Louis, quizzically. "Ah, I always thought I was a pretender, but until this moment no one has had the courage to tell me so to my face."
"Be serious, Louis," said his wife.
"I am dumb," he rejoined, with a comical look.
I then unfolded my plan. It was my desire to take a house in Nerac, not at too great a distance from the house of Doctor Louis, in which I could reside, with two or three servants to attend to it and me. I had seen such a house on the borders of a forest about a mile and a half away, which appeared to me to have been long uninhabited. The grounds in which it was built and the gardens by which it was surrounded had been neglected by man, but there was much wild beauty in them, and a little care and attention would soon bring them into order. The place had attracted me, and I had spent an hour in wandering through the grounds, and had attempted, also, to enter the house to examine it, but the doors were locked. Attached to the house was a cottage, which I supposed had been the gardener's cottage. This little dwelling was literally imbedded in climbing wild roses, which had grown in wonderful luxuriance upon all its walls. There were stables also, which I judged would afford accommodation for half a dozen horses.
In some respects the estate reminded me of Rosemullion, which, considering the kind of life I had passed therein, might not have been considered an attraction; nevertheless, I found myself insensibly drawn towards it. Its points of resemblance were that the house stood alone, and could not be overlooked; that it was at some distance from other habitations; and that it was on the borders of a wood. In one respect it was pleasantly dissimilar. No stone walls surrounded it; there was not even a fence; the fine trees around it had been so arranged by man or nature as to form an intelligible barrier, which, however, any person was at liberty to pass. The gloom of Rosemullion did not, therefore, pervade it, and, living there, I should not feel as if I were cut off from communion with my fellows.
I had visited it on a bright day; the sun was shining, the birds were singing in the trees; and when I visited it, and as I wandered through the grounds, I was thinking of Lauretta. But when, indeed, was I not thinking of her? She was my sun, my light, my life. All aspects of nature were rendered beautiful by thought of her; she was to me the essence of joy; through her, and through her only, my heart was a garden. Through her I discovered beauties even in nature's sad moods; her spiritual presence was never absent from me. She moved by my side when I strolled unaccompanied through the quaint little thoroughfares of the village and the sweet and solemn woods in the valleys of which it lay; alone in my chamber she was ever with me; she was not only life of my life, she was my religion--I who had had no religion, and to whom the sacred peace of church or chapel had never come. My father had never taken me by the hand and led me to a place of worship; I had read the Bible, not as a religious study, but for the most part as a collection of amusing, improbable romances. There was certainly one character in it which had deeply impressed me--the character of Isaiah, for whose wild prophetic life I entertained a profound admiration. Otherwise, the book simply entertained me. It was different now. Not that I read the Bible in a newer light, or indeed that I read it at all, but that, through Lauretta, I became amenable to certain influences of a religious nature. I sat with her in the pretty chapel of the village in which Father Daniel officiated, and the hushed air within the building, and the voices of the choir of children, and the tender, sacred music, had upon me a purifying influence. The music was Lauretta's; the angel voices were Lauretta's; the tender peace was Lauretta's; the priest's consoling, compassionate admonitions were Lauretta's. What mystic thoughts of a higher future state these matters brought dimly to my mind were inspired by Lauretta. It was she for whose sweet sake I gave Father Daniel money for his poor. Through her I saw "good in everything;" through her I inhaled it.
The money I gave to Father Daniel was given privately, but I did not think of laying an injunction of secrecy upon him, and it became known. I was guiltless of any wish to earn praise for my actions in that or in any other respect, but a reward most disproportionate, but most sweet, was bestowed upon me by words and looks from Lauretta and her mother.
"It is good of you," said Lauretta's mother.
"You almost make me ashamed," I said.
"Why?" asked Lauretta's mother. "It gladdens us. I am learning not only to know you but to love you."
Precious were those words from her lips; but afterwards, when I offered my contributions to Father Daniel I asked him not to speak of them. I think he respected my wish, but nevertheless I gained a reputation for charity in Nerac which did me no harm.
To return to the conversation respecting the house I desired to take.
It was well known to Doctor Louis and his family, and of course to all in the village, and one reason why it had remained for so long a time uninhabited was that it was a gentleman's house, and no person rich enough had desired to become its tenant.
"It is filled with old furniture," said Doctor Louis, "and a man with a large family could be tolerably comfortable there, no doubt. There were gay doings in it once upon a time. A nobleman inhabited it for many years, and entertained shoals of visitors. He was not a favourite in Nerac, and took no pains to make himself one, looking down upon us as somewhat too common for intimate association; and as we have a pride of our own, we returned his scornful opinion of us in kind. He died there, and his affairs were found to be hopelessly involved. Since then the house has been empty. The agents, a firm of lawyers, live a hundred miles away, but there will be no difficulty in communicating with them if you are really serious in wishing to occupy it."
"I am quite serious," I said.
"You will be lonely there," said Lauretta's mother.
"You must remember," I said, "that until I came here I have lived a life of solitude."
"Have we not cured you of that?" she asked.
"Of the desire for a life of solitude? Yes. It is only that I am accustomed to it, and that it is not so irksome to me as it would be to others. But why talk of my being lonely unless you have decided to banish me from your society?"
"We shall be happy to have you here as often as you care to come," said Lauretta's mother. "Meanwhile you will remain with us, and we can be of assistance to you in settling yourself. Left to your own devices in arranging matters, you would make, I am afraid, a sad bungle of them."
It was settled so, and in a few days the keys of the house arrived, and we all set out together to inspect it. We found it charming, but very musty. Some of the rooms were spacious, some small and cosy. Of bedrooms there were at least a dozen, all amply furnished; but Lauretta's mother shook her head when she examined the linen, and declared that it would occupy some time and much labour to put it in order. I asked her to take direction of the affair, and she consented to do so. We decided which rooms were to be locked up and which used, and in which way the furniture was to be disposed of. The agents, in reply to my letter, had sent an inventory, which I would have taken for granted, but Lauretta's mother would not have it so, and chided me for my easiness.
"What would you have?" said Doctor Louis. "It was his misfortune to be born a man, and what does he knows of sheets and curtains and footstools?"
"He will not want footstools," said Lauretta's mother.
"Indeed I shall," I declared, "and everything feminine. Am I to be shut up here alone, without ever a visit from my friends?"
"Oh," said Lauretta's mother, "we will come and see you if you invite us."
"Therefore, footstools," said I gravely.
There was, indeed, a great deal to be done, and it did not surprise me to discover that Lauretta's mother was thoroughly practical in all household matters. Lauretta herself gave her opinion and advice, timidly and shyly, and not a word she said was lost upon me. Subsequently, when the work was done and I was duly installed in my new residence, she was delighted to see that every hint she had given had been acted upon.
"The first necessary thing," said Lauretta's mother, "is to hire some one to take care of the place and look after it while the workmen are employed. It should be a gardener, who could usefully employ his time, and who, perhaps, might afterwards be permanently engaged, if he gives satisfaction."
"I know the very man," said Doctor Louis. "Martin Hartog, who is seeking employment. A faithful fellow, and capable."
"He has a daughter, too," said Lauretta's mother, "who could look after--"
"The footstools," said Doctor Louis.
"His character is excellent," said Lauretta's mother; "it is a pity he is so eccentric."
"His eccentricity," said Doctor Louis to me, "consists in his having opinions. For instance, he does not believe in kings and queens; he believes in the universal equality of man. For another instance, he is supposed to be a materialist; yet I never heard of his doing wrong to a fellowman, and I am sure he would scorn to rob even the rich. For my part, I have a respect for Martin Hartog, and so has my wife, whose only sorrow with respect to him is that she cannot convert him."
"He is a conscientious man," said Lauretta's mother, "and will faithfully perform any duty he undertakes."
"As good an epitaph," said Doctor Louts, "as could be graven upon any tombstone."
The next day Martin Hartog was engaged, but when I spoke to him about his daughter he declined to allow her to enter service. He had always maintained her, and he hoped to be always able to do so. She could live with him in the gardener's cottage attached to the house, and he promised that I should never find her in my way. If I objected to her living with him in the cottage he would remain where he was, and come to his work every morning, and if that would not do, why, he could not accept the employment I offered him. What particularly struck me in him was the tender tones in which he spoke of his daughter; she was evidently the treasure of his life. In the course of a day or two, when I saw her--for Martin was engaged upon his own conditions, which were quite suitable to me--I was not surprised at this, for she was a maiden of singular beauty.
I pass over all further details with respect to the house of which I became the tenant. It will be sufficient to say that the work proceeded satisfactorily, though its complete execution occupied a longer time than I expected. I spared no money, and insisted upon the appointments, within and without, being of such an order as to be worthy of the dear friends whom I hoped to receive often as my guests. The association between me and the members of Doctor Louis's family grew closer and more binding in its intimate relationship; perfect confidence was established between us, and it made me glad to think that they regarded me almost as one of themselves. I faithfully observed the contract into which I had entered with Doctor Louis; nearly three months of the twelve belonged to the past, and nothing had occurred to disturb my tranquillity.
Before the end of the week I expected to remove from Doctor Louis's house. He and I were frequently together when he went to visit those of his patients who lived at a distance, and on one occasion at this period we had arranged to ride in company to a village situated sixteen miles from Nerac, and on our return to dine at an inn, and visit some caves which had just been discovered, and which were said to contain, among other relics of the past, bones and skeletons of animals now strange to the district.
On our way out of Nerac we met the village postman, who gave Doctor Louis a letter. He glanced at it, and saying "Ah, a letter from Emilius," opened and read it as we ambled along the soft forest track.
A letter from Emilius! The words seemed to burn themselves on my brain. The tone in which they were uttered denoted satisfaction. It was unreasonable, I knew, to torture myself about such a trifle, but my love for Lauretta was so absorbing that the least thing was sufficient to prick it into misery. I felt that I might as well be jealous of the air that kissed her cheek as of a man whom I had never seen, and who had given me absolutely no cause for jealousy. I do not attempt to justify myself; I simply record the fact.
After reading the letter Doctor Louis put it in his pocket, and to my great comfort presently spoke upon the subject that occupied my mind. Had he not done so I should myself have managed to approach it, and in so doing might have betrayed myself, as I feared would be the case when Lauretta had mentioned the names of Eric and Emilius. The doctor commenced by asking whether in any of our conversations he had ever referred to two young friends of his, Eric and Emilius, from one of whom he had just received a letter. I answered No, but that once Lauretta had spoken of them in a tone which made me curious about them.
"They are brothers, I believe," I observed.
"Yes," said Doctor Louis, "twin brothers, who commenced life with a strange history--which," he added, "somewhat reverses the order of things."
"Are they young?" I asked.
"Within a year or two of your own age. In all likelihood you and they will meet. If I thought the story would interest you I would relate it."
"It would be certain to interest me," I said, with a successful attempt at calmness, "if only for the reason that Lauretta first spoke to me of the brothers. She said they were handsome, brave, and strong, and that she was sure I should like them."
"Did she say so much?" said Doctor Louis. "But, after all, that is not strange, for they and she were playmates together when they were quite young children. It is, however, a long time since they met. Eric and Emilius left Nerac three years ago, for the purpose of travelling and seeing something of the world."
"Lauretta spoke of them as special friends."
"Yes, yes; women of her and her mother's stamp are very constant in their friendships and affections. The esteem of such is worth the winning; and you, Gabriel, have won it.
"It has rejoiced me to believe so; it rejoices me still more to hear you confirm my belief."
"Let what I tell you of these young men be in confidence between us."
"It shall be, sir."
"My wife is familiar with the story, but I doubt whether Lauretta has ever heard it. There is, in truth, a mystery in it."
"Which will make it all the more interesting."
"Perhaps, perhaps. There is in the human mind a strange leaning towards the weird and fantastic."
Before we returned to Nerac on the evening of this day Doctor Louis fulfilled his promise, and told me the story of these brothers, which, however, so far as they were concerned, proved to be but an epilogue to the play.
"It will serve our purpose," commenced Doctor Louis, "and will tend to brevity and simplicity, if in what I am about to narrate I use only Christian names. Silvain was the father of Eric and Emilius; and strangely enough, these young fellows being twins, their father was twin brother to Kristel. With Silvain I was well acquainted, and what I learned and knew of him was admirable. Kristel I knew less intimately, having fewer opportunities. My first meeting with Silvain took place in England, long before I met my wife. On the continent it is the practice of many fathers to send their sons to foreign countries for a few years, to see something of other customs than their own before they settle down to the serious business of life. My father did so by me, and I travelled through most of Europe, and profited I hope. However that may be, when I was two and twenty years of age I found myself in England, and in that wonderland, London. I do not know whether I should have liked to become a resident in that turbulent city; we grow accustomed to things, and I have grown accustomed to the quiet peaceful life I am living and have lived for many happy years in our lovely village. It presents itself to me in the form in which I feel it, as a phase of human happiness which is not to be excelled. Doubtless it would not do for all to think as I do; but each man for himself, so long as he is living a life that, to a fair extent, is useful to others.
"Well do I remember the evening on which I first met Silvain. He was standing at the money office of an opera house; between him and the money-taker some difficulty had arisen with respect to the payment, and Silvain, being but imperfectly acquainted with the language, had a difficulty in understanding and in making himself understood. I put the matter straight for them, and Silvain and I entered the opera house together, and sat next to each other during the performance. Being foreigners we naturally conversed, and the foundation of a friendship was laid which was as sincere on his side as it was on mine. We made an appointment to meet on the following day, and thereafter for a long while travelled in company, and were seldom apart. Confidences, of course, were exchanged, and we became familiar with each other's personal history. Mine was simple, and was soon told; his had an element of strange mystery in it. In the relation of his story I noted what was to me very touching and pathetic, and what to him had been the cause of a great sorrow. He had, as I have informed you, a twin brother, Kristel, from whom, until he set out for his travels, he had never been separated. But their father, for some reason which I failed to discover, and which also was not understood by Silvain, had resolved that his sons should not travel in company, and had mapped out their separate routes in so cunning a manner that, without violating his instructions, they could not meet. This was a heavy grief to them. Born within a few minutes of each other, they had lived, as it were, wedded lives; side by side and hand in hand they had grown from boyhood to manhood, shared troubles and pleasures, and were in rare and perfect harmony. When one rejoiced the other rejoiced, when one was sad the other was sad. The severance of two such natures was therefore no common severance, and the scene of their last meeting and parting, as described to me by Silvain, must have been heartrending.
"'I felt,' said Silvain, 'as if I had lost the better part of myself--nay, as if I had lost my very self. But that I was conscious, and amenable to ordinary human sensations, I should have doubted that I lived. It is impossible for me to describe my despair; and my brother suffered as I suffered. I gathered this from his letters, as he must have gathered the knowledge of my sufferings from mine. Happily we were not debarred from the consolation of corresponding with each other. Not only routes but dates had been carefully prepared by our father, and I knew from day to day where Kristel was, and where he would be to-morrow. One night--I was in Spain at the time--I had a vivid dream, in which Kristel played the principal part. It was, as most dreams are, panoramic, phantasmagoric. There was a lake; upon it a pleasure boat; in the boat six persons, two boatmen, two ladies, and two gentlemen. One of the gentlemen was Kristel; the faces of the others were strange to me. They were laughing and singing and conversing gaily. The sails were set, and the boat was ploughing its way swiftly onwards. Suddenly the clouds which had been fair, became overcast; the boatmen were busy with the sails. A lurch, and one of the ladies was in the water, struggling for life. Her white arms were upraised, her face was blanched with terror; in a moment she sank. Then my brother stood upright in the boat, and plunged into the lake. All was confusion. A whirl of clouds, of human faces, of troubled waters, upon the surface of which Kristel appeared, supporting the insensible form of the lady. They were pulled into the boat, and my dream ended. I awoke, much agitated, and when the violent beating of my heart abated, I wrote an account of my dream, omitting no detail. In my next letter to Kristel, I said nothing of my dream, but on the fifth day I received one from him In which he gave me an account of the perilous adventure, his description tallying exactly with all the particulars of my dream. In this way I discovered that there was between me and Kristel a strange, mysterious link of sympathy, through which each was made acquainted with any danger or peril which threatened the other.'"
"Silvain's revelations," continued Doctor Louis, "aroused within me the keenest interest. The mysterious influences to which certain natures are susceptible, and which in these twin brothers found practical development, had always strongly attracted me, and it was at this period of my life that I commenced the serious study of those hidden forces which, now only dimly understood, will in the near future become a recognised science. In this statement of my belief I do not lose sight of the impostors who, trading upon credulity, creep into the battle raging between those who have religious faith and those who are groping in dark labyrinths. Their presence does not lessen the importance of the subject; there always have been and there always will be such.
"I endeavoured to draw Silvain into discussion, but he declined to argue. He was content to accept without question the existence of the mysterious chain of sympathy by which he and Kristel were bound, and his theory was that unless such sympathies were born in men all endeavours to acquire them must be futile.
"'You do not dispute,' I said, 'that there are secrets in nature which, revealed, would throw a new light upon existence?'
"'No,' said Silvain, 'I do not dispute it.'
"'Nor that,' I continued, 'by study and research, the discovery of these secrets is open to mankind.'
"'Undoubtedly,' he said, 'you may gain some knowledge of them; as you may gain knowledge concerning the growth of flowers. But however profound your application and however assiduous your pursuit, you can never acquire a power which is intuitive in those who are born with it. At the present time, for instance, you are attracted to the study of animal magnetism, and you may become a master in its tricks. You will reach no higher point. The true spiritual gift is bestowed by nature only.'
"I need not say that my opinions were not in harmony with his, and had there not been an entire absence of arrogance in his utterances, I might have been nettled by the idea that he was asserting a superiority over me. Although he declined to seriously discuss the subject he was too amiable to refuse to converse upon it, and I extracted from him a promise that, if it were in his power, he would afford me the opportunity of testing and verifying any incident of which he might become forewarned through his sympathy with Kristel. He faithfully kept this promise, which, as you will presently learn, was the forerunner of strange results.
"Meanwhile Silvain and I continued to travel together. I pursued my studies assiduously, and did not allow myself to be discouraged by the instances of charlatanism which met me at every turn. Silvain was in the habit of relating his dreams to me, so far as he was able to recall them, and during the first three months of our intimacy nothing occurred to disturb him with respect to Kristel, whose letters he always handed to me for perusal. These letters were most affectionately written, but I gathered from them an impression that Silvain's love was the more profound of the two. It was at the expiration of three months that Silvain said, 'Louis, I am beginning to dream about you.'
"'That is because we are constantly together,' I said.
"'I am dreaming also of another whom I have never seen,' said Silvain.
"'Man or woman?'I asked.
"'Woman,' he replied.
"'Young or old?'
"'Young.'
"I smiled and said, 'You also are young, Silvain.'
"'Well?' was his inquiry.
"'Love comes to the young,' I said, with the kind wisdom which youth is fond of parading. 'It may come one day to me.'
"'Doyoudream,' said Silvain, 'of a young woman whom you have never beheld?'
"'I dream of many such, no doubt,' I said, still preserving my light tone.
"'Ah, yes, of many such--but of one who constantly appears, and whom you can in certain particulars vividly describe? Is this among your experiences?'
"'No,' I said, 'it certainly is not.'
"'Then,' continued Silvain, 'she seldom appears alone. My brother Kristel is there; occasionally, also, you.'
"His earnest voice made me serious.
"'Describe this woman, Silvain, as she appears to you in your dreams.'
"'I cannot,' he said, after a momentary pause, 'describe her face except that I know it is beautiful, nor her form except that I know it is graceful. She has black hair, which tumbles in thick luxuriance over her shoulders below her waist, and upon her head is a scarlet covering, loosely tied, which flutters in the wind which is sweeping around her. Her figure is nearly always in this position, standing upright, with her left hand raised to her forehead, and her eyes looking eagerly forward.'
"'As though searching for some one, Silvain?'
"'Yes, as though searching for some one. For whom? For me? It is a question I seem to have asked of myself, I know not why. Her lips are parted, and I see her white teeth gleaming. The wild waves are dashing up to her feet, and surging all around her while the wind whistles and shrieks.'
"'A storm is raging,' I suggested.
"'An invisible storm, of which she appears utterly regardless.'
"'And I am there?'
"'And you are there,' said Silvain, 'and Kristel, and myself and this young girl, whose face I have never seen, but whose beauty spiritually impresses me, is always looking forward in the position I have described.'
"'Towards us?' I asked.
"'I cannot say,' he replied, 'but we seem to be moving in her direction.'
"'Moving!' I exclaimed. 'How? By what means? Walking, riding, or flying?'
"'We are on the water, it seems,' he said; 'but truly there is nothing clear except the figure of the young girl standing in the midst of the storm.'
"'You dream this constantly?'
"'Constantly.'
"'Has Kristel ever spoken to you of such a girl?'
"'Never.'
"'It is possible,' I suggested, 'that since you and he parted he has met with her.'
"'Ah,' cried Silvain, with animation, 'you have hit the mark. It is through Kristel that she comes to me in my dreams.'
"My suggestion had been lightly made, and the readiness with which he accepted it astonished me. Thinking over it afterwards in cool blood it appeared to me incredible that, in his dreams, Silvain should thus become acquainted with a being whom he had never seen, and of whose existence he had never heard. But Silvain entertained no doubt on the matter.
"'Shall I ever see her in my waking life?' he asked, in a musing tone.
"'You believe she lives?'
"'As surely as I live. If I knew where she is to be found I would go and seek her.'
"In other men's judgment the calm manner in which he spoke of this mystic episode would have been accounted a species of madness; but I knew that he was perfectly sane, and that his brain was as clear and well balanced as my own.
"'For what reason would you seek her?' I asked.
"'I do not know,' he replied, and added, with a grave smile, 'perhaps because she is beautiful.'
"'You have fallen in love with a shadow, Silvain.'
"'It may be,' he said; 'I cannot say how it is--only that I think of her by day and dream of her by night. I wonder whether we shall ever meet!'
"'Cannot you tell?'
"'No, I cannot see into the future. All that comes to me in my dreams of and through Kristel belongs to the past and the present. There is no foreshadowing of what is to be. The picture I have seen of this beautiful girl is a reflex of what Kristel has seen in actual embodiment.'
"It would have been both unkind and ungenerous to throw ridicule upon these statements. To no man would Silvain have spoken as he spoke to me; he had, as it were, opened his soul to my gaze, and I should have been unworthy of friendship had I not received his confidences with respect. Nevertheless I could not bring myself to believe as he believed. I was soon to become a convert.
"About a month after this conversation I was aroused from sleep early in the morning by Silvain. The sun had scarcely risen, and he was fully dressed. I observed signs of agitation in his face.
"'Kristel is in danger,' he said.
"These simple words acted upon me as a charm. I divined instantly that Silvain had dreamt of his brother being in peril. Here, then, to my hand, was a means of verifying a mystery which might assist me in my studies. I questioned Silvain, and he answered me frankly. Yes, he had dreamt of Kristel, and it was his dream which had driven him from his bed. I determined to be precise, and, for my own satisfaction, to extract from Silvain all the details at his command.
"'Kristel,' he said, 'was one of a company of tourists who had set out to traverse a difficult pass, from the summit of which a view of cloud and water, and distant lowlands of great beauty, was to be obtained.'
"'How do you know this?' I asked.
"'Kristel reached the summit,' replied Silvain, 'shortly before sunset, and stood enjoying the prospect.'
"'You saw him there?'
"'I saw him there, with his friends. Near the spot upon which they were gathered was a hut, which in all likelihood was built to accommodate large parties of tourists, such as that of which Kristel formed one. It was spacious, with many bedrooms in it, and one large apartment in which meals were taken. Kristel and his companions retired to this hut after sunset. Then night set in, and my dream ended.'
"'There is nothing very alarming in that,' I observed.
"'I do not think I awoke,' continued Silvain, 'and I cannot say whether the interval between this dream and the dream that followed was one of hours or minutes. Kristel and a companion are exploring a cavern, the opening into which is on the summit of the mountain. They bear torches. The walls and roof of the cavern are of glittering spar and crystal, and the light from the torches is a thousand-fold reflected. They emerge from the cavern through a fissure in the rocks some hundreds of feet below the summit. There is an overhanging ledge of stone, by springing upon which readier access to the hut is gained. Kristel's companion makes the spring, and reaches the ledge in safety. Kristel follows, fails in the attempt, and falls back, bleeding. His companion, standing far above him, cannot reach him by bending over, and, being without ropes, is powerless to assist Kristel, who lies there, badly hurt.'
"'Nothing further, Silvain?'
"'Nothing further.'
"'Do you know from evidence in your dream where this occurred?"
"'No; but Kristel is in Bavaria. I know that by his letters, and by the scheme of travel mapped out by my father.'
"'What do you intend to do?'
"'To go to Kristel. To go to Bavaria.'
"'But by the time you arrive there, he may be gone.'
"'You forget that I told you he is badly hurt. It will be some days, perhaps some weeks, before he is able to resume his travels. I shall arrive in time.'
"'Is it your intention to start to-day?'
"'Yes, I shall start immediately. I must not lose an hour. I am sorry to part from you, Louis, but you see it cannot be helped. I shall miss you sadly.'
"'And I you, Silvain. But, after all, why should we part? My time is my own; I have no arbitrary plan of travel mapped out. I will accompany you to Bavaria, and gain another friend in Kristel.'
"Silvain was delighted at the proposal, and eagerly accepted it. For my own part, although I did not confess it to Silvain, I was not entirely ingenuous in my offer. It was not prompted solely by friendship; an insatiable curiosity possessed me to ascertain the real facts of the case, and, as I have already said, to verify them in detail.
"'Kristel lives?' I said to Silvain.
"'As nearly,' he replied, 'as a man can be convinced of anything, the knowledge of which is acquired by spiritual means, so am I convinced that Kristel lives.'
"'And will recover?'
"'That is beyond me,' said Silvain gravely. 'I hope so--I pray so. You inspire strange thoughts, Louis. Though parted from Kristel by great distances, I hold communion with him while he lives. Were he to die, should I still hold communion with him?'
"The question startled me, holding out, but it did, an illimitable prospect of mysterious knowledge stretching as far as the portals of immortality."
Here Dr. Louis broke off in his narrative, and said, addressing himself immediately to me,
"In recalling these incidents of my youthful days, and of my connection with Silvain and Kristel, I am drawn insensibly into a fairly faithful depiction of the visionary ideas and speculations which sprang within me from time to time, and which afforded me food for thought. During a brief space I foolishly believed that the very question and truth of the immortality of the soul were involved in my studies of animal magnetism. Had I accepted this, had I allowed it to root itself firmly in my mind, I should have been profoundly unhappy. I can imagine no such grounds for misery to the intellectual man as lack of faith in a future state. I care not what shape or form it takes, so long as it is there. And this faith must of necessity be a blind faith. I have already expressed to you my conviction that a recognised science will arise out of the better knowledge which will be gained by certain hidden forces, but there are immortal secrets which will never be revealed to mankind. It appears to me to be necessary to make this clear to you, in order that you may not suppose that I am still wedded to the wild chimeras of youth."
I knew why Doctor Louis made this statement to me. The reminiscences he was recalling had rendered him for a little while oblivious of the present. His youth rose before him, in which his daughter Lauretta had no share. Suddenly he had remembered that I loved Lauretta, and the Father's heart spoke to the man whose most earnest desire it was to wed the cherished child.
"I understand you, sir," I said, humbly; the confidences which he was imparting to me, had drawn us closer together, and this fact seemed to be an assurance of my happiness. In the light of this prospect my spirit was humbly grateful. "I understand you," I repeated. "Perhaps also to me will come the wisdom in which the most perfect human and divine comfort is to be found."
He pressed my hand, and regarded me with glistening eyes.
"It is a wisdom," he said, "which not only comforts, but purifies."
Then he resumed his story.
"I must not forget one question I asked Silvain.
"'In the company of tourists who traversed the pass with Kristel, was the young girl present, of whom you have so frequently dreamt?'
"'No. There seemed to me to be no females among them.'
"On the morning of that day we started for Bavaria, Silvain having first despatched a letter to his father, informing him that he was about to join his brother, and explaining the reason. It would prolong my story to an undue length were I to dwell upon the record of travel and experience, which does not bear directly upon the history of Silvain and Kristel. Suffice it, therefore, to say that we arrived in Bavaria, and, after necessary inquiry, proceeded straight to the mountain pass on which Silvain believed his brother to have met with the accident. Some time afterwards I reflected with interest upon the singular contrast in our demeanour while we were pursuing our search. I, who should have been calm, inasmuch as no being dear to me was in danger, was restless and excited. Silvain, who should have been anxious and disturbed, was composed. He believed in the truth of his vision; I doubted it. But no room was left for doubt when we came to the end of our journey. It terminated at the mountain hut, where Kristel was lying slowly recovering from the injuries he had received in his fall. Everything was as Silvain had described it. The hut with its many small bedrooms, and the larger apartment in which the meals were taken; the mount with its cavern of glittering spar and crystal, with its entrance from the summit of the pass, and its mode of egress at the side lower down; the overhanging ledge of rock which could only be reached by a daring leap. I recognised, with feelings of amazement, the faithfulness of the detail. The mystery of this spiritual sympathy which found practical expression in a form so strange, was beyond my comprehension, and I accepted it, as Silvain accepted it, but the wonder never left me.
"Kristel was affectionately and unfeignedly glad to see his brother.
"'Did you expect me?' asked Silvain.
"'No,' replied Kristel, 'but I hoped you would come.'
"He listened attentively while Silvain related his dream. Although he had received no forewarning that Silvain was coming to him, he expressed no surprise; he regarded it, also, as perfectly natural.
"Before I saw Kristel I had pictured him in my mind as resembling his twin-brother--dark, like Silvain, with black hair, and brown, melancholy eyes. I had said to myself, 'I shall know Kristel, if I meet him for the first time when his brother is not present.' Another surprise awaited me. There was no resemblance between Silvain and Kristel; there was scarcely a brotherly likeness. Kristel was fair, his hair was light, his eyes were blue, and his frame was larger and more powerful.
"They had much to relate to each other of their travels and adventures, and I frequently left them alone, in order that they might indulge freely in brotherly communion. I heard, however, from Kristel's lips the particulars of his accident, which tallied exactly with the account I had received from Silvain.
"'You must have dreamt of it,' he said to Silvain, 'at the precise moment of its occurrence.'
"Silvain nodded and smiled. He was happy because he was with Kristel, and because Kristel was recovering strength, slowly it was true, but surely.
"'Has Kristel,' I said to Silvain, 'ever spoken to you of the beautiful girl who presented herself to you in your dreams?'
"'No,' replied Silvain, 'he has not mentioned her.'
"'Is that not strange?' I asked.
"Silvain did not reply, and, gazing at him, I saw that he was lost in reverie. I had recalled the image of the girl, and he was musing upon it.
"At another time I asked Silvain whether he himself had referred to her in his conversations with his brother. He confessed that he had not. There was, then, a secret which these brothers held close in their hearts. I was not wise enough to fix instantly upon the correct solution of this secret which each was keeping from the other. It required, in a third party, a riper experience than was at my command, to read the riddle aright.
"Two months passed by, and Kristel hoped in a few days to be able to move out of the hut in which he had been so long confined, Silvain was in the habit of going to the post-office in the village, which lay at the foot of the mountain. He went one morning as usual for letters, and I was left with Kristel. We conversed freely, and Kristel asked me to bring his desk, which was on a table at a little distance from the couch upon which he was lying. I brought the desk, and he opened it. He took letters from it which he did not read, and then some drawings in water-colours, an art in which he was proficient. He glanced at them, and laid them singly aside, retaining one, upon which he gazed long and earnestly.
"'You are an artist,' I said, for, seeing that I had moved my chair from the bed, so that I should not intrude upon his private matters, he had called me closer, and invited me by a gesture to examine the sketches.
"'But a poor one,' he said, still gazing at the drawing in his hand. 'Still, this is not bad, I think.' And he held it out to me.
"He did not notice the start I gave when my eyes fell upon the sketch. It was that of a young girl, with most wonderful black hair which hung loosely down. She was standing on the upper gallery of a lighthouse, and the silver spray of wild waves was dashing upon the stone edifice. Her left hand was arched above her brows, and a scarlet kerchief was wound gracefully round her lovely head.
"I examined it in silence. The likeness to the description given by Silvain was unmistakable, and it was only by an effort of self-restraint that I prevented myself from disclosing that the figure was familiar to me. The right was not mine; the secret was not mine. A confidence had been reposed in me by Silvain, and, if he and Kristel had not spoken to each other of the girl, it was not for me to betray my knowledge of her.
"'A fancy sketch?' I asked.
"'No,' replied Kristel, 'from the life. Is she not beautiful?'
"'Very beautiful,' I said, with a sinking heart.
"I have spoken of the physical dissimilarity of Kristel and Silvain; but although, from the evidence of sight, a stranger would not have taken them for brothers, he could not have doubted of the close kinship, had he depended for his judgment upon his sense of hearing. Their voices were as one voice, In tone and inflection, so that, closing one's eyes, one could not with absolute certainty decide whether Kristel or Silvain were speaking. It was this that caused my heart to sink when Kristel asked me if the girl was not beautiful. In exactly the same tone had Silvain spoken of her, with fervid warmth and enthusiasm. My vague fears--which at that moment I should have felt a difficulty in explaining--were not dispelled by the action of Kristel, immediately following my reply. Silvain's footsteps were heard without, and Kristel, swiftly and hurriedly, took the sketch from my hand, and placed it in his desk, which he closed and locked.
"Silvain brought grave news to the hut. His head drooped, his features were suffused with sadness.
"'Kristel,' he said, in a tone of melancholy significance.
"'Silvain,' said Kristel, in a tone of indifference. The sorrowful note in his brother's voice had not reached his heart. He was thinking of the beautiful girl, with the wild waves dashing up to her feet.
"'Our father'--faltered Silvain, and stopped, unable to proceed.
"Even this did not arouse Kristel. He was lying now with his head on the pillow, and his hands, the fingers of which were interlaced, clasped behind it. Silvain came close to his brother's side, gently disengaged the clasped hands, and held one within his own. Kristel was awakened to reality by this action; and I, who had guessed the truth, stole softly from the room.
"When they called me in I found them both with tears in their eyes. The letters which Silvain had received at the post-office made them acquainted with the death of their father. Their grief was genuine, and they mourned with sincerity. Kristel was the first to recover his natural tone, and he drew Silvain to speak of the future. Silvain's desire was to return home immediately Kristel was strong enough to travel, but Kristel would not have it so.
"'No duty of instantly returning,' he said, 'devolves upon us, and by our remaining abroad a while, it will not be thought that we are wanting in affection. Our letters inform us that the last sad offices have been performed over the grave of our father; our affairs are in good hands, and no mother or sister awaits us to relieve her sorrow. We are alone, you and I, Silvain, with no ties beyond us to weaken or strengthen the affection which unites us and makes our hearts as one.'
"Silvain looked up with a loving light in his eyes; his nature was ever responsive to the call of affection.
"'Yes, Kristel,' he said, 'nothing can weaken the ties which unite us. They are perfect, complete. Our hearts truly are one.'
"'Then you will be guided by me, Silvain?'
"'Yes.'
"'Good! We will continue our travels, and nothing shall ever part us.'
"'Nothingcanever part us, Kristel,' said Silvain.
"Alas! If, upon the enthusiasm of the present, when men are indulging in dreams, the presentiment of what was to happen in the future were to intrude, how quickly the glowing embers would grow white and cold! When I heard the brothers exchange these professions of love, even I, who had some reasons for uneasiness respecting them, saw not the dread shadows which attended them and beckoned them onwards to their fate.
"The days passed slowly now until Kristel was sufficiently recovered to travel. He would have started long before he was fit, but Silvain would not allow him; and Kristel must have had some doubts of his strength, or he would not have allowed himself to be prevailed upon, so great was his impatience to start. At length the day was fixed, and we left the mountain and the village. I had solicited to be permitted to accompany them and they had readily consented. Their society was agreeable to me, and I loved Silvain. I looked upon Kristel, also, with affection, but my feelings towards him were weaker than those I entertained for his brother. Silvain appealed more closely to me; we had been longer in association, and our natures, in impulsive warmth and unreserve, were in unison. Kristel was colder, and sometimes suddenly checked himself when about to open his heart. I do not say that this should tell against a man, and I have no doubt that, in the telling of my story, I am influenced in my remarks by the strange events of which you will presently hear.
"At this point I am again silently reminded to be thoroughly sincere. Not alone because I was happy in the society of the brothers and loved Silvain was I desirous to accompany them. I had thought long and seriously over the beautiful girl by the sea whose picture Kristel kept concealed in his desk, and who held a place in the hearts of the brothers, and I was haunted by a foreboding that she was destined to play a part in their lives. By remaining with them I should perhaps make her acquaintance, and might help, for good, either one or the other. Of course, all this was but vaguely in my mind, and probably the most truthful explanation would be that I was prompted by curiosity pure and simple.
"Kristel had extracted a promise from Silvain, to the effect that Kristel was to assume the position of director of the route we were to take. I, also, was bound. We were to ask no questions, to offer no advice, but to go blindly wherever Kristel willed and wished.
"'It suits my humour exactly," said Silvain, merrily, 'and relieves us of responsibility. Eh, Louis?'
"'Yes,' I said, 'I am entirely agreeable.' But I wondered why Kristel had insisted upon this stipulation. That he had a distinct motive I was convinced. But what motive--and whither was he about to lead us?
"'Oh, I will take the responsibility,' said Kristel, 'and you shall find me the best of guides and couriers.'
"So we started gaily, and in a few days left Bavaria far behind us.
"In pursuance of the necessary scheme of brevity I had laid down for myself, I shall not pause in my story to give you an account of the places we visited under Kristel's guidance and direction. I will but say that I subsequently held the opinion--and I have no doubt it was correct--that, although Kristel had one distinct goal in view from the moment we started from the mountain-hut, It was a preconceived part of his plan that we should arrive at it by a devious route, and should, to a certain extent, be supposed to come to it by accident. Therefore we lingered here and there, and shared in the ordinary pleasures of a tour in the holiday of life. Between us existed a most agreeable amity and complaisance, and I inwardly confessed it to be a wise proceeding that one, whose word was law, should be elected captain of our wanderings. By land, and lake, and sea, over valley and mountain, we made pleasant progress, picking intellectual flowers by the waysides, until at length Kristel's design was unfolded to my view.
"We arrived at a village on the southwest coast of France, and there remained for several days. It was a village inhabited by fishermen, and on one pretext and another, Kristel kept us there. In pursuance of our promise of obedience we did not demur; and indeed there was much to interest us in the life of simplicity led by the good-hearted inhabitants. Their ancestors, for innumerable generations, had lived there before them, and the quaint and sweet crust of primitiveness lay upon the natures of the simple people, and invested them with a peculiar charm. They received us hospitably, and gave us of their best, freely and willingly. The weather was tempestuous and stormy when we arrived, and for a week there was no change in it. Fierce winds swept across the stormy sea, and roared and shrieked along the coast. This prevented the fishermen from following their usual avocation, but they were by no means idle. Sails were mended, boats were caulked and pitched and made sound; then there were the curing and smoking of fish, the repairing of huts, and all the industry of a busy leisure. To such as they inaction was worse than death; work, cheerfully performed, formed the greater part of the pleasure of life. Often and often have I thought of the sweetness of existence as it presented itself to me in that ancient village by the sea.
"A dangerous coast it was; and in the distance a lighthouse. Beyond the lighthouse treacherous silver sands, in which lurked sudden death when Nature was convulsed with passionate throes; at other times fairly safe, bathed in peace and beauty. Within the radius of a few miles many ships had been wrecked, and many a crew engulfed.
"We were young, strong, and in good health, and could afford to laugh at wind and rain. Wrapped in oilskins lent to us by the fishermen, we scaled high rocks, round the base of which the waves dashed furiously, and watched the wondrous effects of the raging tempest. At such times a man's soul is lifted up as it were. The littleness of the human life we live assumes its proper and just proportion, and we become sensible of the divine grandeur of Nature.
"At the end of a week the storm abated, and the sea became calm. When we arose in the morning the sun was shining upon a scene of loveliness and peace.
"'We are going to visit the lighthouse,' said Kristel.
"There was a glad and eager light in his eyes, and he was full of excitement.
"He had made arrangements with a party of boatmen, and after breakfast we went down to the shore, and took our seats in the boat. It was a long pull--six miles the boatmen said. From the village this watch-dog of the sea was only partially visible, the reason being that it stood on the other side of a promontory, which we now skirted. A gray, stately mass of stone, it reared beneficently to the clouds, an angel of warning to the toilers of the sea. Calm as was the day, the waves, broken up and lashed into anger by hidden rocks, were wild and turbulent around the edifice. Nearer and nearer we approached, and saw, but imperfectly as yet, the figure of a woman watching us from the topmost gallery.
"'Avicia,' said one of the rowers to his comrades.
"They nodded, and looked in her direction, and said, 'Yes, Avicia.'
"Avicia! A sufficiently attractive and unusual name. But it was not the name which compelled my breathless attention and observation; it was a simple bit of colour on her head, worn as a covering.
"What colour? Scarlet.
"I closed my eyes and became lost in reflection.
"First, of the description given to me by Silvain of a beautiful girl with raven hair, with parted lips and white teeth gleaming, and with a scarlet covering upon her head, looking out towards us, who were moving towards her upon the water.
"Next, of a coloured sketch of this beautiful girl, upon which Kristel was gazing, as he and I sat together in the mountain hut, with love in his eyes and in his heart. 'Is she not beautiful?' Kristel had asked; and when he heard the footsteps of his brother without, he had hurriedly and jealously hidden the sketch, so that Silvain should not see it. And Silvain had never set eyes upon it, neither at that nor at any other time. Of this I was convinced, although I had no positive knowledge of the fact.
"'Shall I ever see her in my waking life?' were Silvain's words. And when I asked him if he believed she lived, he answered, 'As surely as I live. If I knew where she is to be found I would go and seek her.' Well, without seeking her he was moving towards her; and Kristel and I were with him; and Avicia was watching and waiting for us.
"I opened my eyes and looked forward, in dumb amazement and apprehension. She had not moved from her point of observation. I turned towards Silvain and Kristel. They were both gazing at her like men entranced. For a moment I felt as if an enchantment had fallen upon us.
"'What name did you say?' I asked of the boatmen.
"A foolish and unnecessary question, for I had heard it distinctly, and it was already deeply rooted in my mind.
"'Avicia,' they replied.
"Silvain drew a long breath.
"'Kristel,' he said to his brother.
"'Yes,' said Kristel, in a dreamy tone.
"'She is no shadow.'
"'No, she lives.'
"'I have dreamt of her exactly as she is, exactly as she stands at the present moment.'
"'You have dreamt of her, Silvain!' exclaimed Kristel, in the same soft dreamy tone. 'Impossible.'
"'It is true. I described her to Louis.'
"'Yes,' I said, 'it is true.'
"Presently, after a pause, Silvain said, 'You knew she was here, Kristel?'
"'Yes,' replied Kristel, 'I knew she was here.'
"No further words were spoken till we reached the lighthouse, entrance to which was obtained by means of stone steps, on each side of which hung ropes and chains to guide and steady us. In a few moments we stood in the presence of Avicia.
"'I told you I would come, Avicia,' said Kristel. 'This is my brother Silvain.'"