Sir Edwardlay back lazily in his chair, with a letter in a woman's handwriting crumpled at his feet.
"She must make the best of it now," said he, gazing at the fire. "She is not worse off than others, come to that." And he lolled among the cushions, gazing into the fire, with a hard and cruel look on his countenance, on which the stamp of sensuality was unmistakably impressed.
It was a large and luxuriously-furnished apartment, with everything so arranged asto minister to the senses and afford them the fullest gratification which suggestions could impart.
But Sir Edward, lolling by the fire this evening, experienced little satisfaction in his luxurious surroundings: the eroding tooth of thought they could no way quiet; and it was the irritation of this that he most desired to have allayed.
He lighted a cigar, and began to smoke vigorously, leaning back the while and contemplating the smoke-clouds that drifted round in swirling folds and spirals, an occasional ring mounting airily over all.
Smoking away steadily, cigar after cigar—for he was an insatiable smoker as he was insatiable in everything—Sir Edward seemed presently to be almost hidden among the smoke-wreaths, which had nowthickened in the room with unexampled rapidity.
At first he felt inclined to ring for a servant and have the windows opened to let in a breath of air, but there was a certain amount of interest in watching the floating veils of smoke; and, besides, in the mere act of idly watching these he could let certain vivid tableaux, with which Memory was amusing him, drift beyond the range of his attention, he hoped. So he lay back, letting the smoke thicken in the atmosphere, while he followed the fantastic wreaths lazily with his eyes.
It was almost as if he were dozing as he lay there; for he could have sworn that in the chair on the opposite side of the fireplace he perceived a grey old fogey reclining among the cushions, yet with deep-sunken eyes fixed watchfully on his face.
It was really absurd to have an utter stranger intrude his company on him in this unceremonious manner, and Sir Edward felt inclined to question him sharply, and, if need be, have him turned out neck and crop.
But instead of taking up the intendedrôleof inquisitor, he found himself reduced ignominiously to therôleof the questioned one.
"Where were you thinking of going to-night?" asked the Visitor. "To the theatre, or the opera, or to that 'private club' we know of?" And the Visitor looked at him with a glance of quiet intelligence which Sir Edward somehow felt powerless to resent.
"I was thinking. . . ."
"Of going with me? Quite right!" replied the Visitor. "With me you shallgo: unless we can come to terms together. In which case, possibly, I may leave you behindfor a time."
Sir Edward ceased to smoke: and his hands trembled on his knees.
But he made no movement, and uttered no protest. Before the glance of his visitor he quailed and was dumb.
"Ruth Medwin, I presume, must bear her disgrace as best she can? You will neither recognize her, nor make her an allowance, I understand."
"I think I have changed my mind. . . ."
"Too late," said the Visitor. "After having seenmeyou can change your mind no more."
Sir Edward lay motionless among the cushions of his chair.
"I should like . . . if you will allow me. . . ." he began feebly.
"I can allow you only one choice: and that a peremptory one. Will you go with me instantly—I think you know me—or shall I call for you againon any terms I care to fix?"
"Will your terms be as pitiless. . . ."
"You shall hear them, if you please."
Sir Edward sank deeper among the soft cushions: his whole life concentrated in the watchful stare with which he fixed his eyes on his visitor's face.
"Shall I take you with me now to undergo your punishment—and, I need scarcely tell you, it will not be a light one—or would you prefer a delay before you accompany me: a period of expiation, in some form I may decide on, with a hope of a reduction in your punishment at the end?"
"A delay—a period of expiation, for God's sake!"
"You are certain you prefer it?"
"I implore it! I entreat it! For God's sake, grant me a respite!"
"Be it so."
The soul that had been Sir Edward's sickened with disgust.
It was located in the body of a miserable cab-horse; one of the sorriest hacks in the East End of London, and practically fit only for the knacker, one would have said.
It was a life the human soul found inexpressibly hateful. If this were expiation, it was in a purgatory indeed. But in a purgatory of filth and of disgusting sensations, instead of in a torturing purgatory of fire.
To be lashed with the whip, and galled excruciatingly with the harness; to have the bit between the teeth, or tugging at the jaws unmercifully; and to have the blinkers ever blotting out the vision of the world: to strain every sinew, and have the service accepted thanklessly; to be tortured with discomfort, and to work absolutely without reward—it was a life devoid of even the meanest compensations: loathsome, and in every way abhorrent to thought.
The horses, and other animals he met in the streets, he might have communicated with in some way or other, but his driver—a drunken, quarrelsome fellow—was always tugging at the bit or brandishing the whip; and if the poor animal even tried to turn his head, he was belaboured as brutally as if he had swerved or fallen asleep.
There was no chance even of rubbing noses at the drinking-troughs, or of laying his head on the neck of a companion at the stand. And whatever might be taking place in the streets through which he was passing, he was debarred from bestowing on it even the most casual attention.
His mental activity was ignored, or trampled on, with an indifference that was never once relaxed or relieved.
His life was a horror unexampled in its profundity. The cruel debasement and defilement of it penetrated so deeply that he repented bitterly of the choice into which he had been betrayed. He would infinitely have preferred suffering among his equals in hell.
A year of this life was as much as he could endure. One day he stumbled across a tram-line, and, falling, broke hisleg—hopelessly snapping the tendon, and otherwise injuring himself—and he was carted off to the knackers to receive hiscoup de grâce.
A moment or two before he was killed, the eyes of the animal lighted up with a strangely human expression—which was succeeded by a look of the most unappeasable despair.
Evidently he had again seen the grey old man.
But the Visitor's communication to him remained unrevealed, and it was probably torturing him still when he . . . died?
"I shallseek the fields of amaranth," said the young man defiantly. "And I shall find them," added he, turning tenderly to his mother. "And when I have found them I will comeback foryou, dear mother, and I will take you with me that we may dwell there in peace."
"What do you know of peace, and why should you desire it?" asked the father, with a certain cold contempt in his tone. "You have not yet lived; and you have certainly not laboured. Rest is for those who have laboured and grown weary. Inthat rest that you desire you would have an empty mind for showman, and of its meagre entertainment you would tire as speedily as a child. Live first, and watch the puppets of memory play afterwards. The fields of amaranth will wait for you however long you live."
But the young man insisted: "I want to find themnow. And when I have found them I will come foryou, mother, dear; and we will return to them together and be happy and at peace."
But the mother's eyes were troubled with an inexplicable expression. "It were better that you should wait till I come toyou," she answered gently. "As come to you I surely shall—one day. But come not to fetch me . . . if once you find the fields."
"I surelyshallcome for you," cried the youth.
"No, no!" implored the mother.
But he smiled on her, and was gone.
It was a long journey, and a toilsome one, and the end of it the youth could neither learn of nor anticipate.
The fields of amaranth? Yes: all had heard of them. But no one knew any one who had ever found them. And, for themselves, they were content to know these waited for them somewhere. They had ties—they had businesses—they were content to live and wait.
"When I return from them, shall I give you tidings of them?" asked the young man, earnestly.
"No, no!" They were vehement in their dissuasions that he should not: finally even fleeing from him in terror at the thought.
And the young man mused perplexedlyas he walked on. "Are therereallyfields of amaranth for those who can find them?" he asked of a wrinkled, white-haired wayfarer. "Or is it merely a bait, a delusion, and a lie?"
"Yes, surely, my son, these fields await us all: else life, at best, were a sorry game for most of us. It is there we shall rest and reap our reward."
"But no one seems eager to set out for them and discover them."
"No one?" quoth the old man, looking at him strangely: "there are many ways of getting there: you have chosen only one. There are other roads, and crowded ones: though you know nothing of them yet."
The young man brushed past him hot with disdain. He was merely an old dotard: empty-minded like the rest.
The lures of the highway were manyand formidable; but the young man turned aside from them impatiently. "I am bound for the fields of amaranth," cried he haughtily: "when I return I will taste these good things you offer."
"Will he ever return?" whispered a girl to her mother.
She had looked with eyes of love on the daring young wayfarer; and a vague regret shivered through her as he passed on.
"God only knows. But I doubt it," said the mother.
The girl hid her face in her apron and wept.
But the young man had not overheard the whisper, and with head held high he pushed on along the road.
And here were the fields of amaranth at last! He could see them smiling faintly on the other side of the valley. But theyhad a strangely vague and unsubstantial look. One might almost have fancied he were looking at a mirage.
And between the young wayfarer and the fields of amaranth the rugged hillside sloped abruptly: its foot being shrouded in a dense white mist. He could hear a river murmuring sullenly somewhere in the depths, but the mist hid the waters and he could only hear their moan.
How far he had left the busy highway behind him! He would like to take just one farewell glance at it. The fields beyond him seemed to waver deceptively in his eyes. One glance at the highway, with its booths and its faces, and his vigour, strangely waning, would surely be renewed.
But as he turned and saw the dear familiar highway, along which he hadtrudged so many weary miles, his heart went out in a yearning towards it, and he stretched out his arms to it, hungering for its life.
So mighty was the fascination it now exercised over him, that he began to rush headlong down the hill towards it, eager to be once more mingling in its throng, and to once more feel its hum in his ears.
At the foot of the hill he met the fair young girl whose eyes had erstwhile followed him so wistfully, and he flung himself into her arms sobbing violently.
"The life here—you—I cannot part with them!" he cried passionately. And he shuddered: "If the wish had come too late!"
"Youare quite sure you will never change? will never desert me, or be untrue to me?"
"I am absolutely sure of it, my darling!" he answered resolutely. "Any pledge my sweet one desires I will give her freely," added he, as he again kissed her passionately on the mouth.
"Would you leave me your soul in pawn?" asked the maiden, smiling at him bewitchingly with her deliciously red lips; her cheeks dimpling and her brown eyes sparkling, and her heaving breasts but thinly hidden from his gaze.
"Willingly! And be glad to leave it in my darling's custody!" And his lips hovered caressingly around her just-disclosed shoulder.
"Very well, I will accept the pledge," said she.
He was beginning again to kiss her fondlingly.
"You are a man of honour, are you not?" asked she; showing her even white teeth, and dimpling her rose-leaf cheeks temptingly.
"Certainly. I hope so."
"Then let me have your soul."
"But that would mean death for me! Do you desire me to die, my love?" And a look of questioning wonder crept into his eyes.
"By no means! I have not been reared by a philosopher for nothing.This crystal ball"—and she held out to him a tiny globe of crystal—"put your lips to it and pawn your soul to its keeping. I will warrant you, it will hold it as safely as I could."
He glanced at the tiny globe distrustfully.
"Are you afraid? Do you wish to withdraw from your word?"
"By no means."
"Then breathe against it, my love." And she held the crystal ball temptingly towards him. "You can imagine it is my lips you are touching," added she, with a light, coquettish laugh, leaning provocatively close to him.
He took the crystal reluctantly, and breathed against it as she wished.
"Oh!" cried he suddenly, drawing back his lips.
She took the crystal globe from him and peered into it anxiously. Then cried, in a tone of triumph, "Look! there it is."
He was aware of something cloudy—vague and light as smoke—floating, as it were, in the core of the crystal. And suddenly he felt a sense of want within himself.
She put the crystal in her bosom, and let it lie between her breasts.
"It is warm and pleasant there: you will never let it grow cold, will you?"
"Never!" And she laughed; dimpling rosily in her mirth. "Now you can set off on your journey," said the maiden.
"I have no wish now to leave your side," he whispered meekly.
"This rose, that I have been wearing, you were wishing for just now. See! I toss it yonder! Fetch and keep it!" cried the maiden.
He ran after it; groping for it where it had fallen in the grass.
"Cuckoo! cuckoo!" sounded all around him. It was as if the wood had suddenly grown vocal with cuckoos.
He turned his head quickly. The maiden had disappeared.
"Why did I trust my soul to her keeping?" he wailed drearily. "If she should lose it; or mislay it; or should even let it grow cold! My love! my love! my love!" he began calling.
"Cuckoo! cuckoo!" kept sounding across the grass.
He ran hither and hither: he followed the woodland paths feverishly.
At times he fancied he caught a glimpse of her vanishing garments; of the sunlight glinting on her long gold tresses. Now he imagined he could hear her laughterechoing among the tree-trunks: and anon he even fancied he could hear her singing. But he pursued her down the long green vistas in vain.
He sat down beneath a tree and clasped his hands drearily. "What a fool I was to trust my soul to her!" he wailed.
And at that moment he was aware of a ragged pedlar coming along the forest glades, and whistling as he came.
"Ho! young man! you look melancholy," quoth the pedlar. "What d'ye lack? A philtre to make your sweetheart love you? Ribbons for a lady? A collar for your hound?"
"I want a soul," said the young man, glancing at him hungrily.
"A common want!" quoth the pedlar, grinning broadly. "But here in my pack I have souls in plenty. Dip in your hand and take one boldly!"
"I should like to choose. . . ."
"It is take it, or leave it. I allow no choice. I am offering you a gift."
The pedlar laid his half-open pack on the grass.
"Dip in your hand and take one, if you will."
The young man dipped in his hand at a venture, and drew out one—the soul of an ape.
"Not that! I will not have that!" cried he.
"Then you will have none," said the pedlar, dropping the soul in his pack again. "If the great Soul Maker, who manufactures them by the million, allows neither picking nor choosing, beyond the casual dip of chance, do you think that a mere pedlar in souls, like myself, can do business on a basis whichhehas foundunprofitable? Pooh, man, get back your soulif you can, or else you may do without one, as far as I am concerned." And off strolled the pedlar, whistling as he went.
The young man leaned his head dejectedly on his hand.
"How can I get back my soul?" he moaned.
"Why not live without one?" croaked a voice above his shoulder.
He looked up, and saw a sooty old raven peering down at him.
"Live without a soul! You'll never miss it," croaked the raven.
"Can I?" cried the young man: amazed, yet hopeful.
"Can I?" croaked the raven, mockingly echoing him. "Can I?Of course you can, young fool!"
"Then I will!" exclaimed the young man, starting to his feet.
"That's right," croaked the raven. "You're the right sort—youare!"
"A capital idea that!" quoth the young man, cheerfully.
He looked up, but the raven had hopped away among the branches.
"Well, at any rate, his hint was well meant, and I'll follow it!" quoth the young man, striding out boldly towards the houses which he could just see glimmering beyond the edge of the wood.
"Ugh! How ugly and dirty it has become!" quoth the maiden, gazing in the crystal at the soul which she had coveted and stolen. "I will throw it away, it no longer amuses me!"
And she threw it from her into the mire of the city: and the wheels and the feet rapidly buried it in the mud.
The grey-haired Bishop looked "so beautiful" in his coffin, that the deaconesses and the dear good sisters longed to kiss him.
"None of 'em ever found out that you wanted a soul," croaked the raven, who sat perched on the window-sill, blinking in the sunshine.
But there was no response to this: for how can a dead man talk?
Henderson & Spalding, Ltd., Marylebone Lane, London, W.
Transcriber's Notes:Obvious punctuation errors repaired.Both hillside and hill-side were used in this book and were retained.Text uses both Belovèd and Beloved once.In the original text, each story began with the title on a page alone, then a blank page, then the title was repeated at the start of the story itself. These repeated titles were removed to avoid redundancy.The remaining correction made is indicated by a dotted line under the correction. Scroll the mouse over the word and the original text willappear.
Obvious punctuation errors repaired.
Both hillside and hill-side were used in this book and were retained.
Text uses both Belovèd and Beloved once.
In the original text, each story began with the title on a page alone, then a blank page, then the title was repeated at the start of the story itself. These repeated titles were removed to avoid redundancy.
The remaining correction made is indicated by a dotted line under the correction. Scroll the mouse over the word and the original text willappear.