THE SPIDER AND THE FLY
Alice returned to her home with the feeling that she was entering a hostile city. The atmosphere of the house was inimical, charged with disintegrating forces, which strove to break up and scatter her protective power. That the power came from Dr. Eberstein she was now perfectly certain in her own mind, as she had experienced his help so plainly when she arrived. Before her visit to London, Enistor had so dominated her with his cold cynicism and cruel insistence that he had almost entirely conquered her will. She had been like a bird in the coils of a serpent, and only absence had enabled her to regain her freedom. In surroundings less charged with deadly evil, the girl had recovered the youthful spirits which were her rightful heritage, and the unifying influence of Montrose's love had strengthened her considerably. Therefore, when fear again threatened to control her, she had been able to assert herself, but, on reflection, she felt positive that the attempt would have been vain had she not mentally appealed to Eberstein.
Why she had thus called upon him for help she scarcely knew, as she was ignorant of matters connected with the occult. All she did know was that the doctor had always soothed her with his serene strength when she was in his presence, and half unconsciously she had wished for him to bebeside her when the insidious evil which overshadowed Tremore had surged round her to paralyse and control. Eberstein had not come himself, but his power had, and like an impassable wall it had fenced her in from danger. The hint that such help was obtainable in such a manner was enough for the girl. She persistently and particularly dwelt upon Eberstein's powerful personality, and whenever uncomfortable feelings assailed her, she swiftly imagined that he was close at hand to defend her. Also she constantly visualised the image of her lover, knowing that he was willing to lay down his life for her safety, and this in a lesser degree filled her with life and strength. If Enistor on his daughter's return doubted that the visit to London had done her good, he had no reason to doubt afterwards. Alice recovered, as by magic, the brightness of her eyes and the roses of her cheeks. She went about the dark house gaily and hopefully busy with domestic affairs, always cheerful and merry even to the extent of singing while at work. It might be thought that Enistor was glad to see how the girl had recovered her spirits and had benefited by the change. But in place of showing satisfaction, he gloomed and glowered in high displeasure.
"There is less chance than ever of our gaining authority over her," he complained to Narvaez, when on a visit to the magician's cottage. "We nearly controlled her before she left for London, but now her resisting strength has increased tremendously."
"It is not her own strength that defends her," replied Don Pablo quietly.
"Then it is the strength of love awakened byMontrose. You might have known, Master—you who have such means of obtaining knowledge—that there was that risk when I let her go to Mrs. Barrast's."
"I am not omnipotent and omniscient," answered the old man dryly. "Great as is my power, there are still many things beyond my control. I implied as much when I told you that the present situation is the outcome of the past. You know the Law of Karma—the Law of Cause and Effect—the Law of 'As ye sow so shall ye reap,' which governs the evolution of the present creation, and knowing so much, you should not be surprised that we are mastered by it as are all beings. Sooner or later Alice was bound to come into contact with our enemies."
"Who are they?"
"Dr. Eberstein and Douglas Montrose!"
"Alice told me how she had met Eberstein and how much she liked him. But she gave me no hint that he was an enemy."
"How could she, seeing she does not know," retorted Narvaez sharply. "Eberstein is the White Magician, against whom I warned you weeks ago. He is coming down here soon, as I prophesied he would. And Montrose also comes. We were all together in Chaldea five thousand years ago, and there engendered causes which have to be worked out in the flesh to-day. Why do you blame me for Alice going to London?"
"She has gained strength by going there and meeting these men. You should have warned me."
"I warned you as much as I could," snapped Narvaez, acridly sharp, "but I could not prevent theinevitable. Alice had to meet them, and the loss of that money under the will which left it to Montrose was the means used to bring them together. All I could do, being impotent under the Karmic Law, was to so arrange matters that Montrose might be brought down here along with Dr. Eberstein. That I have managed and now comes the tug of war. You are by no means a satisfactory pupil, Enistor, as I have again and again to explain matters which you already know."
"Then I take it that Eberstein has already declared war by bringing Montrose and Alice together?"
"The Great Law did that. Eberstein's declaration of war is the help that he is giving Alice to withstand the influence we strive to bring to bear upon her. For the moment, as you saw, she nearly relapsed into her former condition when she returned from her visit. But her intuition told her to call upon her guardian Eberstein and the help came. Her innocence protected her before: now she has the more powerful protection of love, both from Montrose in a personal sense, and in an impersonal way from Eberstein."
"Is he very powerful?"
"Yes," grinned Narvaez with a look of hate in his cold blue eyes. "He follows the Right-hand Path of Love, and has the universal power behind him. You and I on the Left-hand Path of Hate possess only a portion of that power."
"In that case it seems impossible to conquer," said Enistor irresolutely.
The Satanic pride of Don Pablo rose in armsagainst this insinuation. "Eberstein will find me no mean adversary," he snarled. "I shall fight and fight to the last. Already the fly in the person of Montrose has walked into my parlour."
"Oh! So you are the spider?"
"Yes! And I shall devour Montrose if I can. Already I have made my plans and started my work by paying attentions to that silly Rose Penwin, thus arousing the jealousy of Trevel."
"But I don't see——"
"Never mind what you see," interrupted Narvaez impatiently. "Leave me to do what I intend to do, and then Eberstein will not find it easy to save Montrose, in spite of his power."
"But if he has more power than you——?"
"Can't you understand?" cried Don Pablo, exasperated. "Montrose and Alice both have free-will. Eberstein can guide and coax; he cannot command. If the two yield to Self, then we triumph."
"And if they renounce Self?"
"Then we fail. But be of good cheer. Neither is yet so strong as to have entirely conquered the animal self, and that will fight in each for its existence. What you have to do is to play the courteous host, to permit the engagement of Alice and Montrose: then leave the rest to me."
This was only one of many conversations which Enistor had with his Master, while awaiting the arrival of his guest. He could not quite understand the situation, and Narvaez declined to explain further than was in his opinion necessary. All Enistor knew was that Montrose was to be trappedin some way, and that Don Pablo's courting of Rose Penwin with gifts had to do with the trapping. Contented with this knowledge, the man was markedly amiable to his daughter, and Alice felt nervously surprised by the unusual attention which her ordinarily indifferent father paid her. Formerly she had, with some reason, dreaded the sinister influence emanating from him, but now seeing in his demonstrations of affection a sign that he truly loved her, she regretted her possible misjudgment. In many ways she attempted to show her appreciation of the miraculous change from blame to praise, and on the whole found domestic life at Tremore unexpectedly pleasant. Nevertheless the natures of father and daughter clashed at odd moments, and it was only by constantly acting parts they did not truly feel that they could keep things smooth. More than ever did Alice long for the arrival of Montrose, so that she could display her true nature and exercise her true love.
Enistor's unnatural complaisance extended to Hardwick, as, now that he was aware of the artist's rejection, he did not forbid his visits. Julian guessed that the Squire merely tolerated him, and simply came to Tremore on all and every occasion to aid Alice, since he knew that she was something of an alien in her home. His host was always pointedly agreeable, and so—strange to say—was Don Pablo. The dark dour old man, for some hidden reason, appeared to take a great interest in the artist. As he had formerly neglected him in every way, Julian was puzzled to know why he should be thus honoured. Not liking Narvaez, he did not reciprocate this belatedamiability, and always escaped with Alice on to the moors when it was possible. He trained her to observe the beauties of Nature, and opened her eyes to a more glorious world of form and colour. Alice accepted such behaviour with sisterly thankfulness, and looked upon him as a large comfortable Newfoundland dog, able to protect and please her. Therefore the young people found life very pleasant, and all was sunshine for the moment, as Eberstein had predicted. That more glorious sunshine would come with her lover's arrival Alice knew very well, but she never forgot that clouds would sooner or later overshadow the summer sky, although she could not see in which quarter they would arise. A vague feeling, however, intimated that disaster would come with Montrose, and that her belief in his love would be severely tested. Nevertheless, she looked forward to his arrival, knowing that Eberstein would follow him shortly. And in the doctor she had the most implicit confidence, assured that whatever sorrow descended upon her or her lover, Eberstein would guard them and help them in every way. Also there was Julian upon whom she could rely in the hour of her need. The suspense indeed was unpleasant, but Alice fought it with prayer and high thinking, girding herself as it were with armour of light against the time when the Dark Powers would assault the citadel of her being. But in her innocence she was ignorant, save from the hints of Eberstein, that an assault was intended.
At length came the golden day when Douglas was to arrive, and Alice rejoiced to receive a letter stating that the young man would leave London by the early morning train at five o'clock. At half-past three hewould be at Perchton, and there Julian was to meet him in his friend's motor-car which he had again procured, so that Montrose might be with Alice as speedily as was possible. Enistor, indeed, mindful of Don Pablo's injunction to be courteous, had offered to send the carriage, but Alice, anxious that some swifter method should be found to bring her lover to her longing arms, had accepted the offer of Julian. She did not go to the Perchton station herself, but waited a mile beyond Polwellin village in a green nook beside the high road for the happy moment. Hardwick had purposely arranged to bring the lover to Tremore, as he was anxious for the sake of the girl's happiness to see what was the nature of the man she had chosen to be her husband, and deemed that he could discover the same more easily when Alice was not present. Apparently his reading of Montrose's character was satisfactory, for when the car came swirling round the corner, Alice saw that the two young men were chatting together as if they had known one another for years. Of course when Alice was espied waving her hand on the green hill above the nook, the car was stopped on the dusty white road, and equally of course Montrose jumped down to run like a deer up the ascent. In another moment she was in his fond arms, and heart was beating against heart. Neither could speak, so full of joyful emotion was the moment, and guessing this, Julian told the chauffeur to drive on. With some astonishment the couple saw the motor slipping round the bend of the road, through the village, and up towards Tremore, bearing the portmanteau of Montrose. They were alone in the purple worldamongst the gorgeous coloured bracken, which was vivid with autumnal tints. The sun was just sinking and the glory of its rainbow hues bathed them in opal lights.
"That is one of the nicest fellows I ever met," said Montrose, when the first surprise at Julian's prompt action was over. "And he is so sensible. He knew I wanted to be alone with you at the first opportunity."
"Julian is always considerate," said Alice gaily.
"You call him Julian—Mrs. Barrast's brother?" said Montrose jealously.
"Dear," she took him by the lapels of his coat and looked into his dark eyes. "Of course I call him by his Christian name. I told you about Julian in London. How he proposed to me: how I refused him, and how we are now like brother and sister. There is no need to be——"
Montrose stopped her mouth with a kiss. "Don't say the word. I am a fool," he said penitently. "I remember what you said in Town. And Hardwick is a brick; a really true, honest-hearted fellow. I like him immensely. And—and—oh, we have so much to talk about, Alice, that we need not waste the time in discussing Hardwick, even though he is so decent."
Alice quite agreed with this sentiment, so the two started to climb the hills on their way to Tremore, and talked all the way of near and dear matters so necessary and interesting to lovers, and so dull when a third person overhears. They went over their meeting in Hans Crescent, recalled what he had said and what she had replied; explained how each had been hungry for this precious moment of meetingand punctuated the enthralling conversation with frequent kisses. And as the magical light died out of the western sky, they conversed on graver subjects which had to do with some vague thought of evil coming to them both. Montrose explained how he had seen Eberstein shortly before leaving London.
"He sent for me yesterday," said the young man, fumbling at his breast, "and gave me this, which he said was necessary for my protection."
"Your protection," echoed Alice with a sudden qualm, and she stared at the small golden heart swung on a thin golden chain, which Montrose had produced unexpectedly. "Why should you want protection, Douglas?"
"Ah, that I cannot truly say. But I am so accustomed to obey the doctor implicitly that I did as he asked me and wear this amulet round my neck. He has always a reason for what he does, Alice. Remember, dear, he said plainly that our sunshine would not last for ever," ended Montrose gravely.
"There is to be a period of sorrow, I know," murmured Alice, nestling close to her lover's side. "But with Dr. Eberstein's help we shall come out of the darkness into the light once more. I don't know what he means," she added after a pause. "Why should sorrow come?"
"I have an idea that it has something to do with our meeting in former lives, Alice, and that we have enemies to encounter and conquer."
"Don Pablo very likely."
"I think so, although I am not sure." Montrose spoke dreamily, remembering his wonderful vision and the warning of Eberstein. "We must watch andpray, dear, for, more or less, we are moving in the darkness. This will aid us," and he held up the talisman, which glittered in the sunset rays.
"But how can that golden heart help?" asked Alice disbelievingly.
"You only see the exterior, dear. It holds," Montrose made the sign of the cross on his breast, "a portion of the Host, as Dr. Eberstein told me, and is therefore powerful against evil. I called it an amulet: rightly, I should have said a reliquary. Look, dearest!"
Then a most wonderful thing happened. The two had reached the shade of the wood surrounding Tremore, and had halted on its verge in a spot where the sunlight could not penetrate. But as Alice stared at the golden heart it blazed as a star with a far more brilliant light than any she had ever seen before. In a flash of thought she knew that her interior senses had been opened by the mightiest influence on earth. She was looking through the sheath of metal at the very Host itself in its supernal aspect, radiant, glorious, wonderful, holy. "Oh!" she breathed in a hushed voice and bowed her head reverently.
"What is it?" asked her lover in surprise, for her expression was angelic.
"Do you not see the light that is brighter than the sun?"
"No," he whispered nervously, and seized her hand, like a child seeking for the comfort of a mother's touch. "Where is the light?"
"It is gone now." Alice passed her disengaged hand across her brow. "It disappeared when youtouched me. When you held up that heart it shone like a marvellous star of splendour."
Then Montrose understood. "You have seen the Power itself," he murmured, and with trembling hands restored the reliquary to his breast. For the moment what Alice had seen shook him to the core of his being. "How glorious to be able to see through the veil even for a single moment. But why should you not when it is said, 'Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God'?"
Like children they clung to one another on the borders of that dark wood, and it was some time before they could proceed. The sacred light they felt was yet around them, and would act as a shield against all evil. That it did so far as Alice was concerned was certain, for while walking under the yews amidst the heavy darkness, her sense of protection was unusually strong. Not so Montrose, for even though he carried the reliquary, he was less sensitive to its helpful influence than the girl who was more attuned to spirituality. It might be that with him the preponderance of earthly desires placed him more in touch with the lower planes than with the higher, but undoubtedly he felt strongly the tremendous pressure of the evil around him. And when the two halted on the verge of the beaten ground, barren of herb and flower, the house of hate bulked largely, silent, black, brooding and menacing.
"Alice, how can you live here?" demanded Montrose, grasping her hand tightly.
"You feel it also?" she whispered, "that sense of doom and dread?"
"I feel the power that rends and tears and partsasunder: the disintegrating force of Chaos, which is necessary for creation before Cosmos—the Cosmos of Love can be formed!" and unconsciously he gripped her hand with crushing force, so great was the emotion which stirred him.
"Douglas, you hurt me," cried the girl, writhing.
"Oh, forgive me," he descended to the commonplace and tenderly kissed the pained finger. "But the feeling of dread was so strong that I forgot what I was doing. There," he kissed her hand twice, "is it better, darling?"
Alice laughed. "You are a child," she said, advancing towards the house.
Her lover sighed. "We are all children, I think. Afraid of the dark."
"There is no darkness where God is, dear. Think of God and the light comes."
"You are nearer to the Great Spirit of Love than I am," said Douglas, peering nervously into the gloom. Then he made an effort to throw off the still persistent influence of evil. "Let us get into the lamplight."
"Come then," said Alice, and stepping into the porch, she laid her hand on the handle of the door. Immediately, as by magic, it retreated from her fingers, and the portal swung wide to reveal Enistor on the threshold, dimly seen in what light still radiated from the fading sunset over the heavy tree-tops.
"I heard your voices," he explained genially, "and knew that our guest had arrived. Welcome to Tremore, Mr. Montrose."
"Thank you, sir, oh, thank you," replied the youngman, reassured by this reception and warmly clasping the hand extended to him.
As he did so a strong feeling of repulsion possessed his mind with overwhelming force, and it was all he could do to prevent himself from wrenching his hand away. Not that there was any need for the action on his part, for Enistor actually translated the thought into swift doing, and loosened his grip, to stand back with a startled look. Without doubt the same repugnance at the same instant of time obsessed the older man, but, less self-controlled, he had been unable to prevent the unfriendly action. In the twilight each man strove to see the face of the other, but it was impossible to distinguish clearly. In shadows they met as shadows.
It was Alice who broke the spell of confused hatred, as, in spite of her clairvoyant faculty, she was apparently ignorant of the thunder in the air.
"I am sure you will be glad to have tea, Douglas. Is it in the library, father?"
"Yes!" muttered Enistor, regaining his self-control by a powerful effort, and with that one word he led the way into the lamplight. Douglas followed arm in arm with the girl, feeling that but for her and all she meant to him he would have escaped immediately from the grim house and its unseen owner.
In the mellow radiance which flooded the library Enistor beheld a slim and delicate man with the dreamy face of a poet. Scorning himself that such a stripling should cause him even momentary dread, and despising him as one of the enemies indicated by Narvaez, the Squire became good-naturedly tolerant. During tea-time he behaved courteously, and provedhimself to be a genial and hospitable host. But Montrose was markedly silent, as his repulsion increased immediately he caught sight of that dark and powerful countenance. Also in his heart there lurked an uncomfortable fear that Enistor was in a position to injure him in some inexplicable way. It was not physical fear, for Montrose was a brave man, but a hateful influence which seemed in some way to paralyse him. Why this should be so he was naturally unable to guess, but the desire to fly the neighbourhood of an implacable foe was so strong that it took him all his strength to resist the desire for an ignominious retreat. But for Alice's sake he did so resist, as her gracious presence enabled him to bear the strain with some equanimity. Therefore, as he had been trained by Eberstein to control his feelings, he drank and ate in quite a conventional manner. Alice, still ignorant of the hatred with which her father and her lover regarded one another, presided over what was outwardly a merry little meal, chatting and laughing in a smiling and whole-hearted way, as though she had not a care in the world. As indeed she had not for the moment.
"I fear you will feel dull here, Mr. Montrose," said Enistor, formal and cold.
"Oh, father, what a compliment to me!"
"My dear, we are quiet folk at Tremore, you must admit."
"I like quietness," said Montrose, smiling, "and would much rather be here than in London. And of course with Alice——"
"It is paradise," ended Enistor cynically. "You have the usual stock-in-trade of pretty phraseswhich lovers delight in. Well, we must see what we can do to amuse you. I am usually busy myself, but Alice can be your guide to the few sights of the neighbourhood. You can ride a horse, or a bicycle, and drive in the carriage or dog-cart. There is a tennis-lawn at the back of the house and golf-links in Perchton. Then you can go sketching on the moors with Mr. Hardwick and Alice; or Job Trevel will take you out fishing. Mr. Sparrow, the vicar of Polwellin, will show you the church and cromlechs and rocking-stones and other such things, as he is something of an archæologist. We can have music and bridge and conversation in the evenings, and——"
"Stop! Stop!" interrupted Montrose, now more at his ease, as he saw that the Squire was endeavouring to make himself agreeable. "It would require six months to do all these things. I shall enjoy myself immensely, especially if you will introduce me to Señor Narvaez."
"What do you know about him?" asked Enistor sharply, and frowning.
"All that Alice and Hardwick could tell me. He seems to be a very interesting man, and an unusual character."
"He is original," assented Enistor quickly, "so much so that he does not choose to know every one. However, as he is my very good friend I daresay I shall be able to induce him to meet you here. You will find him very interesting indeed," ended the Squire significantly, and he stared hard at Montrose, wondering if he guessed how the Spaniard regarded him.
But the young man, having nothing to conceal, andquite innocent of Don Pablo's enmity towards him, met the Squire's gaze with a forced friendly smile. "I like interesting people," he said amiably. "And I hope you do also, Mr. Enistor, as my friend Dr. Eberstein is coming to Perchton shortly."
"I shall be pleased to welcome any friend of yours," replied the elder man in a formal way, and then rose to leave the room. He felt that he had done enough as host for the time being and wished to be alone, so that he might send mental messages to Narvaez about the new arrival. "You will excuse me until dinner-time, Mr. Montrose. Alice will entertain you."
When the Squire departed Alice did her best in the way of entertainment, but found it difficult to banish the thoughtful look from her lover's face. Pleading fatigue, the young man soon sought the room assigned to him, and pondered over the odd distaste which the sight of Enistor induced. He could not account for it, and wished that Eberstein would appear to elucidate the problem. Across his mind flashed insistently the question of Ahab, "Hast thou found me, O mine enemy?" and the deadly answer of Elijah the seer, "Ihavefound thee!" Much as he loved Alice, he felt that the situation was uncomfortable and perplexing and quite beyond human explanation.
SMALL BEER CHRONICLES
"The emphasis of the soul is always right!" says Emerson, meaning thereby that the immediate feeling which individuals have for one another at first sight is a hint from the divine within them as to whether they should be friends or foes. This subtle impulse is never felt again, as self-interest and custom gradually blunt the spiritual perceptions, and those who cross each other's path behave as worldly circumstances bid them. And naturally so, for whenever the desires of the animal-self come into operation, the more latent powers of the Higher-Self are obscured. Therefore, he is the wise man who accepts the emphasis of the soul as guidance in the choice of friends and in the doing of deeds. Because men, influenced by selfishness, do not follow such a lead, their path in life becomes much more complicated than it need be. They hear the blatant trumpeting of desire: not the still small voice of conscience.
Not being particularly metaphysical, Montrose was ignorant of this safeguard, and did not heed the warning of danger given at his first meeting with Enistor. That schemer, better informed, accepted the knowledge that here was a foe to be wary of. It would have been surprising had he not done so, as apart from the hatred which sprang into lively being at the first touch of hands, Narvaez had spokenplainly, and moreover Montrose was the detestable person who had secured Lady Staunton's fortune. To regain it and allow the Spaniard to execute his dark designs, Enistor masked his hatred under a fine show of courtesy, behaving with such apparent sincerity that Douglas was entirely deceived. As the days slipped by and there was no change in the gracious attitude of his host, he grew to like him, to admire him and to enjoy his companionship. This was little to be wondered at, as Enistor, being well-read and well-bred, could make himself extremely agreeable when he chose to do so. For obvious reasons he did so choose, and so did away with the mysterious repulsion of the first meeting that it became only a dim memory to Montrose. At the end of seven days the visitor persuaded himself without any great difficulty that Enistor was a most excellent man, an agreeable friend, and one likely to prove an ideal father-in-law. Alice was relieved to see that the two men got on so well together, and more than ever decided that she had deceived herself with regard to her father's true character.
"You have, I think, bridged the gulf between us," she explained one Sunday morning, when with Montrose she was descending the hill to Polwellin church. "Father and I never got on well until you came."
"Dearest, your father's character takes time to realise," was the prompt reply. "He looks stern and is of a reserved nature. But when one comes to know him he has a sweet kernel for all his rugged rind. At first I did not think we should get on well together, but that was a mistake. He's a ripping fine chap, and as good as they make 'em."
"Do you like my father for his own sake or for mine?" asked Alice doubtfully.
"For both sakes," rejoined the young man positively. "And seeing that I am here to rob him of his dearest treasure, I think he is behaving wonderfully."
"H'm!" murmured Alice, not wholly agreeing with this valuation. "Are you so sure? Father looks at me in a different way from what you do."
"Naturally. It is a different kind of love. From what you said, I quite expected to find your father a bear and a tyrant. Instead of being either he is delightful in every way. I don't think you are quite fair to him."
"Perhaps," the girl was still undecided. "He has altered much since you came, Douglas. You have brought the best out of him. He is more human. All the same——" she stopped abruptly.
"Well then—all the same?"
"Nothing," said Alice abruptly, and passed swiftly into the church, where further speaking was out of the question, much to her relief.
What she had meant to say and did not say was concerned with an uncomfortable under-current of thought regarding her father's surprising attitude. Owing to the relationship between them it was difficult to judge him impartially; yet Alice wished to do so, if only to satisfy her own conscience. Remembering the man's lifelong indifference and coldness and utter want of consideration, the girl left that this aggressive amiability was assumed for some purpose. What that purpose might be she could not conjecture, unless it had to do with the recoveryof the fortune which she now knew he had not lost with equanimity. But even if the marriage with Douglas took place, it was hard to see how her father hoped to benefit, and she knew from experience that he did not hold with altruism. Filial sentiment made her strive to please him on the forced assumption that in spite of appearance he really did love her. But somehow she could not convince herself that such was the case. He was acting the affectionate father as she was acting the affectionate daughter, yet she did not think that he believed in her any more than she believed in him. It was all very difficult and very disagreeable.
It was useless to discuss the matter with Montrose, and for this reason she had ended their conversation by entering the church. The young man and her father had become excellent friends, and he would never believe that Enistor was anything but what he presented himself to be. In fact, Douglas had told her very plainly that she had misjudged her father, and her own surface-thoughts implying that such was the case inflicted a pang. But intuition scouted the idea of misjudgment. As one human being adjusting herself to another human being she knew how to act, but as a child striving to understand her parent she was quite bewildered. Finally, she decided that the only thing to be done was to accept the situation as her father wished it to be accepted, if only for the sake of peace and quietness. The Squire was willing to permit the marriage, and was doing his best to be agreeable to his future son-in-law. Nothing else mattered for the moment. Having arrived at this sensible conclusion, Alice compelled herself to attend to the service.
It was by no means an interesting one, as there was a want of warmth and colour about it which reduced the whole to a monotonous repetition of fine phrases. The vicar was a thoroughly good man, earnest and self-sacrificing, but with so moral a temperament that he entirely failed to understand sinners. And not understanding them he was unable to give them that sympathetic help which a practical experience of temptation teaches. He would scold a wrong-doer with great anger—box his ears so to speak—not because he was a bad-tempered man, but for the simple reason that he could not see the sin from the wrong-doer's point of view. As Mr. Sparrow said again and again, he did not want to run away with his neighbour's wife; he did not desire to drink too much, or to cheat, or to swear, so why—he asked plaintively—should his parishioners desire to do such uninviting things? By this inborn obtuseness he missed his aim, as he invariably attempted to bully ignorant wrong into becoming enlightened right without necessary explanations. Naturally those he genuinely tried to help resented a process which robbed them of their self-respect, and which gave them no logical reason for doing other than their crude desires bade them. Therefore while some remained members of the church, and accepted ecclesiastical scoldings stolidly as part of the burdens of life which they were called upon to bear because they could not help the bearing, others took refuge in the beer-shops and rejected all authority. Also, there were a few who joined Nonconformist sects of the democratic type, where the congregation controlled the preacher, and turned him out if his viewswere unsatisfactory to their narrow understandings. The result of these things was chaos, and Mr. Sparrow lamented that he had to deal with such stiff-necked people. Yet had he been able to explain reasonably what he taught, and had he possessed the tact to coax instead of bullying, he would soon have reduced the whole parish to order.
As a matter of fact in one way the vicar was better than his religion: not that his religion was not true and helpful, but because he knew it only externally, and taught by the letter rather than by the spirit. In the first lesson he read about the angry and jealous God of the Jews, and in the second declared the everlasting Love of the Father, Who sent His beloved Son to suffer for His children. Naturally the congregation could not understand such a contradiction, and Mr. Sparrow did not explain, because he did not understand himself. Therefore on Sundays he was rather a failure, while on week-days he was highly successful. The fishermen and their wives could comprehend a parson who helped them in their small needs and talked kindly to them, and shared their joys as well as their sorrows. But what they could not comprehend was the priest who tried to bully them into seeking a vague state of existence, which to them appeared to be vapour and moonshine. They wanted proofs, or at least reason, and they got neither.
In his sermons Mr. Sparrow told those who listened drowsily that if they were black with sin, they would go to hell: if they kept innocently white, they would arrive in a dreamland heaven: but he made no provision for the grey people. And as themajority of the congregation, if not the whole, belonged to the third category, being neither particularly good nor particularly sinful, the alternatives did not interest them much. Those in church adopted various attitudes, said certain words, sang certain tunes, and went through a set ceremony, with a vague idea that it was all necessary somehow to arrange matters for a vague future. When Montrose came out he commented on their orderly behaviour, and utter ignorance of what it all meant.
"Though of course," he added truthfully, "there were some who understood more than the rest. Still, what a clockwork ceremony!"
"Oh, but, Douglas, the liturgy of the Church of England is very beautiful."
"The most beautiful the mind of man can conceive," he admitted readily. "What can be more glorious than the Litany, which includes all possible petitions that mortals can offer. Said understandingly nothing can be more helpful."
"Mr. Sparrow read it beautifully, and the responses were made correctly."
"Oh yes! But I missed the living spirit. It was all words, repeated parrot-fashion by the majority—I don't say all—of those present."
"But what can the vicar do, Douglas? You know how dull the people are?"
"They are children, more or less stupid," said Montrose with conviction, "and can grasp very little. Since Mr. Sparrow teaches them to love God and love their neighbour, he is doing all that he can do. But he could colour the greyness of his sermon: he could speak in parables as the Master did. Thenhe would arrest their attention, and some ideas, if put picturesquely, would stick in their minds. A man will forget a series of admonitions if stated baldly: he will certainly remember some if connected with a story."
"Perhaps," said Alice doubtfully. "But Mr. Sparrow is a really good man."
"Isn't that rather irrelevant?" observed the young man dryly. "I quite admit that he is a good man. It is not his fault that the Church has lost her esoteric knowledge, which was reserved for the intellectual, who wished to believe with the head as well as with the heart. But he is only a sample of many parsons. His intentions are of the best, but he does not speak with conviction to my mind."
"He is a true believer," urged the girl, rather distressed.
"I am sure he is everything that is genuine and kind," replied her lover, a trifle impatiently. "But he lacks that wisdom which comes from logical reasoning on the things he discourses about."
"But can religion be proved logically?"
"Certainly; but only when one knows the esoteric teaching which the Church had, but which the Church has lost. Eberstein has taught much of it to me during the last three years, and there are few questions connected with religion and the Bible which I cannot answer in at least a reasonable way. Go to Mr. Sparrow and he will assure you that half the questions you ask are a mystery into which you must not pry. What is the result, Alice?"
"I'm sure I can't say," she answered good-humouredly.
"The result is," continued Montrose, growing more vehement, "that whenever a man begins to think, he leaves the Church from sheer inability to gain the information which is needed to reconcile what is taught with common sense. Only the people who don't think, who are Christians because they happen to have been brought up Christians, remain in the Church, and accept emotionally and blindly whatever is told them on ecclesiastical authority. That, when examined, is no authority at all to the thinking man."
"And the inner teaching?"
"It gives a perfectly reasonable and logical explanation which proves that the exoteric teaching is true. I believe all that the Church sets forth save the one word 'eternal' before the one word 'hell.' But then I know why I believe and can defend my belief in a most positive manner, so that any man with common sense must admit the logic of my arguments. Think if the parsons knew of this teaching, and gave it out, how the churches would be thronged. People are not irreligious nowadays. There never was a time when men and women wished to know about the truth more anxiously than they do to-day. But they go to those in authority and are given a stone in place of bread."
"Why will not the parsons take this teaching?"
"I cannot say. It changes nothing they teach outwardly, save the horrible doctrine of eternal punishment, and gives back to all in a rational and convincing way the faith they are gradually losing. Yet the Church goes on blindly repeating the same things Sunday after Sunday, until they havelost their force. The inner teaching would revive that force, if accepted, and the Church would be able to fulfil her true mission, which is to lead civilisation. As it is, her children will not stay with her. Pain is forcing the most advanced souls to try and understand the problems of existence, and this understanding the esoteric teaching gives, as I have proved myself. But the Church should be the teacher: not pain, which comes from ignorance."
"But these fishermen and women would only be bewildered if they sought to understand the problems of life in the way you do."
"Of course: because I am at a higher point of evolution. But what they are I was, and only pain drove me to acquire further knowledge, as pain will drive them in future lives. What Mr. Sparrow teaches them is all right: they are satisfied with bread and do not desire cake. But what I maintain is that the vicar should know more, and then he could do more good with his simple instruction by luring them on to think D E F as well as A B C. However, he is a good man and does his best according to his lights, and that is well. I daresay he is an interesting man when he talks archæology, because that is his hobby and he is sincere."
"Oh, Douglas, I am sure Mr. Sparrow's religion is sincere."
"I am sure it is," assented Montrose quickly. "But his understanding is so limited that he is unable to make religion interesting. And believe me, Alice, that since I met Eberstein and learned what religion really is, I find it the most interesting thing in the world. I know little as yet, as I learn butslowly. Still I am beginning to grasp the great scheme of the present creation, and it is so glorious and beautiful that I shall never rest until I understand it sufficiently to take a conscious part in it, and do the work appointed to me as Douglas Montrose."
Alice was silent. What her lover said was beyond her understanding, as, save some discussions with the limited Mr. Sparrow, she had never talked about such great subjects. Her father never spoke of religion and never went to church, so she really only knew what the vicar could teach her. So far as that went all was well, but she sometimes yearned for a fuller comprehension of creation and for reasonable explanations of life's riddles. From what Montrose had said it seemed likely that he could teach her what she wished to know, and that Eberstein, to whom he had referred, could teach her more when the time came. Her face glowed at the idea and she felt anxious to be instructed at once. But by this time they had wandered down the path to the beach, below the black cliffs, and her lover was talking of other things. She therefore left theology alone for lighter conversation, and approved of Montrose's appreciation of the beauty which clothed sea and land.
"What a lovely place, Alice. I am sure the fairies dance on these yellow sands in the moonlight."
"Of course they do," said Alice, now talking on a subject about which she knew a great deal. "Fairies really exist, you know. Señor Narvaez calls them Nature-spirits. He showed me some one day."
Montrose turned on her in surprise. "Are you clairvoyant?"
"Yes! Señor Narvaez says so!"
"And does he know anything about clairvoyance?"
"A great deal. So does my father. They both take an interest in such things, you see, and study them."
"And you?"
"Oh, I know very little, save what information Don Pablo has given me. He says that my clairvoyant faculty must be trained before it can be of any use."
"True enough. Eberstein told me also that clairvoyance must be trained. But is Señor Narvaez the man to train it?"
"He knows much about the unseen, Douglas."
"I should not be surprised to learn that what he does know is of the worst, Alice," said Douglas dryly. "There is something evil about that man. I have only met him twice and each time I was uncomfortable in his presence. He is like a snake, a toad—a—a—oh, any noxious animal. And to think that he wanted to marry you. I never heard of such insolence."
"He means well," said Alice soothingly.
"I doubt it. Anything he means is to his own advantage. I shouldn't be at all surprised to learn that he was a Brother of the Shadow, since he knows about unseen things."
"A Brother of the Shadow?"
"So Eberstein tells me Black Magicians are called."
"But are there really such men?"
"Yes. There are White Magicians and Black. They both have acquired super-physical powers thesame in essence, acting differently when used differently. Good men use them to help: bad men use them to hurt. Just like dynamite, you know, dear. You can use it for a good purpose to blow up rocks blocking a harbour, or for a bad one to destroy life. But the thing itself and the action of the thing are the same. How did you see these fairies?"
"Nature-spirits," insisted Alice quickly. "Oh, one day when I was on the moor Don Pablo came along. He told me about them and I did not believe in such things. Then he took my hand, saying I was clairvoyant. In some way his touch or some power which he poured into me opened"—Alice was puzzled how the experience could be explained—"opened a third eye, as it might be. I don't know exactly how to put it, but in some way I saw——"
"Saw what?"
"Little men and women on the heather. Some were playing and others were at work. The ground I sat on was alive with them. Yet when Don Pablo took his hand away, the third eye closed and they vanished. But of course they were still around me, though I could not see them. I told Julian about pixies and nixies, and he laughingly said that it needed the eye of faith to see them. I daresay that was my third eye. Do you understand?"
"Perfectly. Eberstein has explained some of these things to me. And I had an experience——" Douglas broke off abruptly, remembering that the doctor had asked him to say nothing about his vision. "Well, it doesn't matter. But I quite believe that the veil can be lifted, or perhaps—abetter way of putting it—the veil can be seen through."
It was lucky for Montrose that Alice's attention was distracted at the moment, as she might have pressed him overhard to relate his experience. And as she had her full share of feminine curiosity, she would not have been put off with evasive replies. But at the rude jetty a boat had arrived and in the boat was a tall girl, whom Miss Enistor recognised at once. She told Montrose to stay where he was and ran down the slope to speak with Rose Penwin. The reason why she did not want Douglas to accompany her was obvious.
"Oh, Rose, why have you not been up to see me?" asked Alice, when the girl moored her boat to the jetty and stepped ashore.
"I have been too busy, miss," replied Rose, smiling, and showing a set of very white teeth. "Did you want me?"
"It's about Job Trevel."
"Oh!" Rose flushed and drew herself up. "What's he been saying?"
"Nothing. I haven't seen him. But people are talking, Rose."
"Let them talk," retorted the girl sullenly. "If I'd a shilling for every bad word they say of me I should be rich."
Alice looked at her in pained silence. Rose was a magnificent-looking woman, tall and stately, highly coloured and beautiful. With her black hair and black eyes and perfectly moulded figure, she looked the embodiment of a sea-goddess. Also her dress was picturesque, with a touch of colour here and therepleasing to the eye. But what Alice looked at most was a snake bracelet of Indian workmanship in silver which clung round her right wrist. "Do you think it right to let Don Pablo give you such presents?"
Rose flushed still deeper and her eyes flashed with anger. "He might be my grandfather," she snapped in a savage manner.
"But he isn't," replied Alice earnestly. "Oh, Rose, you know how hot-blooded Job is. And if you give him cause to be jealous——"
"I don't care if he's jealous or not, miss. The likes of me is a sight too good for the likes of him."
"But he's an honest man——"
"So is Don Pablo, and what's more he's a richer man. If he was young I wouldn't let him give me things. But whatever they may say, an old gentleman like that don't mean no harm. Besides, I haven't said yes to Job."
"But you will say yes."
"That depends upon how Job behaves himself, miss. I'm not going to have him glowering and swearing as if I was doing something wrong, which I ain't. And begging your pardon, miss, I don't see what you've got to do with it."
"I don't want to see you get into trouble," said Alice indiscreetly.
Rose flashed round furiously. "Who said I was going to get into trouble? I like pretty things, and if an old gentleman gives them to me, where's the harm, I should like to know?"
"Job's jealousy——"
"Let him keep it to himself," interrupted Rose,who was in a fine rage. "I ain't his wife yet to be at his beck and call. And perhaps I never shall be if it comes to that. Don Pablo says that a girl like me would make plenty of money in London as an artist's model: or I might go on the stage."
"I think Don Pablo should be ashamed of himself to poison your mind in this way," burst out Alice, angry in her turn. "Don't be a fool."
Inherited respect for the Squire's daughter kept Rose within bounds, but for the moment she looked as though she would strike Alice. With an effort she turned away, biting her lip and clenching her hands. "I'll forget myself if I stay, miss. You'd best keep away from me!" and before Miss Enistor could stop her she fairly ran up the path past Montrose on her hurried way to the village. Douglas turned to stare after the flying figure, and wondered what Alice had said to send the girl away with such wrath depicted on her face.
At the same moment as Rose disappeared Alice heard a deep male voice speaking to her, and turned to see Job clambering up on the hither side of the jetty. He was a tall, bulky, powerful man, with red hair and keen blue eyes, handsome and virile in a common way, and exhibited a strength which appealed to every woman for miles around. At one time it appealed to Rose, but since Don Pablo had poisoned her mind she had risked an unpleasant exhibition of that strength by her coquettish behaviour. Job looked dour and dangerous, and there was a spark in his blue eyes.
"I heard what you said, Miss Alice," he remarked, drawing a deep breath. "I was under the jettywaiting for her coming. But when you spoke to her I thought I'd just wait to hear if she'd listen to sense."
"It doesn't seem like it, Job," said Alice sadly, and looked with distress on the splendid figure of her foster-brother.
"No, it don't, miss," he responded gloomily. "She's got the bit between her teeth, she has. It's all that foreign devil, begging your pardon for the word, Miss Alice. I'd like to strangle him."
"Don't be silly, talking in that way, Job. It's dangerous."
"It will be for him, if he don't sheer off," muttered the man vengefully.
"Job, you know quite well that Don Pablo is an old man: he must be eighty if an hour. You can't be jealous of him."
"But I am, Miss Alice, and it ain't no good saying as I'm not. What right has he to give her presents and talk about taking her to London? I'll break his neck if he goes on with such talk."
Alice tried to defend the Spaniard, not because she thought he was acting rightly, but for the simple reason that she wished to talk Job into a calmer state of mind. At the moment the man was dangerous. "Don Pablo only admires Rose as a beautiful woman," she urged.
"Then he shan't. No one shall admire her but me. And if he wants to marry, Miss Alice——"
"Oh, nonsense," she broke in. "Why, he's too old."
"Well, they did say as you were going to marry him," retorted Trevel coolly.
"I am going to do nothing of the sort," cried the girl, stamping her foot. "I think you should be more sensible than to suggest such a thing."
"I didn't suggest it," said Job stolidly. "But the Squire wants——"
"I don't care what the Squire wants," interrupted Alice, with another stamp. "People say things they have no right to say. You are my foster-brother, Job, and I allow you more licence than most. But you must never speak to me in this way again."
"I didn't mean any harm, Miss Alice, and my heart is sore."
"Poor Job!" Alice became sorry for the big man. "You do suffer, and Rose ought to be ashamed of herself to cause you such pain. Get her to marry you at once and laugh at Don Pablo."
"She won't. He's got her fair under his thumb, Miss Alice," said Trevel gloomily. "I hate him, and so does everyone else. He's the only man as I ever heard the parson have a bad word for. There's something about that foreign chap," Job clenched a huge fist, "as makes you want to squash him like a toad."
Alice nodded comprehendingly. "All the same you must do him no harm, or you will get into trouble. And remember, Job, that I am your friend"—she gave him her hand—"and to prove it I shall tell you what will please you. I am engaged to that gentleman over there—Mr. Montrose."
Trevel shook the hand heartily and his face grew good-natured. "I'm fair glad of it, miss. I've seen the gentleman and like the gentleman. He's been down in the village with Mr. Hardwick, as we likealso. As to that foreigner, miss—ugh!" Job scowled and turned away, while Alice went back to Douglas.
"I have been trying to reconcile two lovers, but I have failed," she told him.
"What is the cause of the quarrel?" asked the young man, amused.
"A dangerous one. Don Pablo," and she gave details.
"What an old beast!" said Montrose. "If I were that fisherman I'd screw his neck."
"Don't put such ideas into Job's head," cried Alice rebukingly. "He is angry enough as it is!"
"All the worse for Don Pablo, my dear!" and so they left the matter, which was of less importance then than it became afterwards.