Here, on a sudden impulse, I took up the book, closed it and held it clasped in my two hands. As I did this, a great darkness overwhelmed me—a sound like thunder crashed on my ears, and I felt the whole room reeling into chaos. The floor sank, and I sank with it, down to a great depth so swiftly that I had no time to think what had happened till the sensation of falling stopped abruptly, and I found myself in a narrow green lane, completely shadowed by the wide boughs of over-arching trees. Hardly could I realise my surroundings when I saw Rafel!—Rafel Santoris himself walking towards me—but—not alone! The eager impulse to run to him was checked—I stood quiet, and cold to the heart. A woman was with him—a woman young and very beautiful—his arm was round her, and his eyes looked with unwearied tenderness at her face. I heard his voice—caressing, and infinitely gentle.
"Beloved!" he said—"I call you by this name as I have always called you through many cycles of time! Is it not strange that even the eager spirit, craving for its preordained mate, is subject to error? I thought I had found her whom I should love a little while before I met you—but this was a momentary blindness!—YOU are the one I have sought for many centuries!—YOU are the one and only beloved!—promise never to leave me again!" She answered—and I heard her murmur, soft as a sigh—"I promise!" Still walking together like lovers, they came on—I knew they must pass me,—and I stood in their way that Rafel Santoris at least might see me—might know that I had adventured into the House of Aselzion for his sake, and that so far I had not failed! If he were false, then surely the failure would be his! With a sickening heart I watched him approach,—his blue eyes rested on me carelessly with a cold smile—his fair companion glanced at me as at a stranger—and they moved on and passed out of sight. I could not have spoken, had I tried—I was stricken dumb and feeble. This was the end, then? I had made my journey to no purpose,—he had already found another 'subject' for his influence!
Stunned and bewildered with the confusion of thought in my brain, I tried to walk a few paces, and found the ground soft as velvet, while a cool breeze blowing through the trees refreshed my aching forehead and eyes. I still held the book—'The Secret of Life'—and in a dull, aimless way thought how useless it was! What does Life matter if Love be untrue? The sun was shining somewhere above me, for I saw glinting reflections of it through the close boughs, and there were birds singing. But both beauty of sight and beauty of sound were lost to me—I had no real consciousness left save that the lover who professed to love me with an eternal love loved me no more! So the world was desolate, and heaven itself a blank!—death, and death alone seemed dear and desirable! I walked slowly and with difficulty—my limbs were languid, and I had lost all courage. If I could have found my way to Aselzion I would have told him—"This is enough! No more do I need the secret of youth or life, since love has left me."
Presently I began to think more coherently. A little while back I had heard voices behind a wall saying that Rafel Santoris was dead,—drowned in his own yacht 'off Armadale, in Skye.' If that was true how came he here? I questioned myself in vain,—till presently I gathered up sufficient force to remember that love—REAL love—knows no change. Did I believe in my lover's love, or did I doubt it? That was a point for my own consideration! But, had I not the testimony of my own eyes? Was I not myselt the witness of his altered mind?
Here, seeing a rustic seat under one of the shadiest trees, I sat down, and my mind gradually steadied itself. Why, I inwardly asked, had I been so suddenly and forcibly brought into this place for no apparent reason save to look upon Rafel Santoris in the company of another woman whom it seemed that he now preferred to me? Ought that to make any difference in my love for him? "In love, if love be love, if love be ours, Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal powers, Unfaith in aught is want of faith in all." If the happiness of the one I loved was obtained through other means than mine, ought I to grudge it? And yet!—my heart was full of a sick heaviness,—it seemed to me that I had lately been the possessor of an inestimable joy which had been ruthlessly snatched from me. Still meditating in solitary sadness, I sat in the soft gloom wondering at the strange chance that had brought me into such a place, and, curiously enough, never thinking that the whole adventure might be the result of a pre-ordained design.
Presently, hearing slow footsteps approaching, I looked up and saw an aged man walking towards me, accompanied by a woman of gentle and matronly appearance who supported him on her arm. The looks of both these personages were kindly, and inspired confidence at a glance,—and I watched them coming with a kind of hope that perhaps they might explain my present dilemma. I was particularly attracted by the venerable and benevolent aspect of the man—and as he drew near, seeing that he evidently intended to speak to me, I rose from my seat, and made a step or two forward to meet him. He inclined his head courteously, and smiled upon me with a grave and compassionate air.
"I am very glad,"—he said, in a friendly tone—"that we have not come too late. We feared—did we not?" here he looked to his companion for confirmation of his words—"that you might have been hopelessly ensnared and victimised before we could come to the rescue."
"Alas, yes!" said the woman, in accents of deep pity; "And that would have been terrible indeed!"
I stared at them both, utterly bewildered. They spoke of rescue,—rescue from what? 'Hopelessly ensnared and victimised.' What did they mean? Since I had seen Rafel Santoris with another woman he called 'beloved'—I had felt almost incapable of speech—but now I found my voice suddenly.
"I do not understand you"—I said, as clearly and firmly as I could—"I am here by my own desire, and I am not being ensnared or victimised. Why should I need rescue?"
The old man shook his head compassionately.
"Poor child!" he said—"Are you not a prisoner in the House ofAselzion?"
"With my own consent,"—I answered.
He lifted his hands in a kind of appealing astonishment, and the woman smiled sadly.
"Not so!"—she told me—"You are under a very serious delusion. You are here by the wicked will of Rafel Santoris—a man who would sacrifice any life remorselessly in the support of his own mad theories! You are under his influence, you poor creature!—so easily trapped, too!—you think you are following your own way and carrying out your own wishes, but you are really the slave of Santoris and have been so ever since you met him. You are a mere instrument on which he can play any tune." And she turned to the old man beside her with an appealing gesture—"Is it not so?"
He bent his head in the affirmative.
For a moment my brain was in a whirl. Could it be possible that what they said was true? Their looks were sincere,—they could have no object but kindness in warning me of intended mischief. I tried to conceal the torturing anxiety that possessed me, and asked quietly— "If you have good reason to think all this, what would you advise me to do? If I am in danger how shall I escape from it?"
The woman looked curiously at me, and her eyes glittered with sudden interest. Her venerable companion replied to my question—
"Escape is quite easy here and now. You have only to follow us and we will take you out of this wood and escort you to a place of safety. Then you can return to your own home and forget—"
"Forget what?" I interrupted him.
"All this foolishness"—he answered, with a gentle seriousness—"This idea of eternal life and love which the artful conjurer Rafel Santoris has instilled into your too sensitive and credulous imagination—these fantastic beliefs in the immortality and individuality of the soul,—and you will accept old age and death with the sane resignation of ordinary mortals. Such love as he professes to believe in does not exist,—such life can never be,—and the secret of his youth—"
"Ah!" I exclaimed eagerly—"Tell me of that! And of Aselzion's splendid prime when he should be old and feeble? Tell me of that also!"
For the first time during this interview, my two companions looked confused. I saw this, and I gained confidence from their evident embarrassment.
"Why," I pursued—"should you come to me with warnings against those whom God or Destiny has brought into my life? You may perhaps say that you yourselves have been sent by God—but does Deity contradict Itself? I am not conscious of having suffered any evil through Rafel Santoris or through Aselzion—I am pained and perplexed and tortured by what I hear and see—but my hearing and sight are capable of being deceived—why should I think of evil things which are not proved?"
The woman surveyed me with sudden scorn.
"So you will stay here, the dupe of your own sentiments and dreams!"—she said, contemptuously—"You, a woman, will remain among a community of men who are known impostors, and sacrifice your name and reputation to a mere chimera!"
Her look and manner had completely changed, and I was at once on my guard.
"My name and reputation are my own to protect,"—I answered, coldly—"Whatever I do I shall be ready to answer for to anyone having the right to ask."
The old man now advanced and laid his hand on my arm. His eyes sparkled angrily.
"You must be saved from yourself"—he said, sharply, "You must come with us whether you will or no! We have seen too many victims of Aselzion's art already—we are resolved to save you from the peril which threatens you."
And he made an effort to draw me closer to him—but my spirit was up and I held back with all my force.
"No, I will not go with you!" I exclaimed, hotly—"God alone shall remove me from harm if any harm is really meant towards me. I do not believe one word you have said against Rafel Santoris or against Aselzion—I love the one, and I trust the other!—let me go my own way in peace!"
Hardly had I spoken these words when both the old man and woman threw themselves upon me and seizing me by force, endeavoured to drag me away with them. I resisted with all my strength, still holding tightly the book of the 'Secret of Life' in one hand. But their united efforts were beginning to overpower me, and feeling myself growing weaker and weaker I cried aloud in desperation:
"Rafel! Rafel!"
In an instant I stood free. My captors loosed their hold of me, and I rushed away, not knowing whither—only running, running, running, afraid of pursuit—till I suddenly found myself alone on the borders of a dark stretch of water spreading away in cold blackness to an unseen horizon.
I stopped abruptly, brought perforce to a standstill. There was nothing but the black water heaving in front of me with a slow and dizzying motion and faintly illumined by a dim, pearly light like that of a waning moon. I looked behind me, fearing my persecutors were following, and saw that a thick mist filled the air and space to the obliteration of everything that might otherwise have been visible. I had thought it was day, and that the sun was shining, but now it appeared to be night. Utterly fatigued in body and mind, I sank down wearily on the ground, close to the edge of the strange dark flood which I could scarcely see. The quiet and deep obscurity had a lulling effect on my senses—and I thought languidly how good it would be if I might be allowed to rest where I was for an indefinite time.
"I can understand"—I said to myself—"why many people long for death and pray for it as a great blessing! They have lost love—and without love, life is valueless. To live on and on through cycles of time in worlds that are empty of all sweetness,—companionless and deprived of hope and comfort—this would be hell!—not heaven!"
"Hell—not heaven!" said a voice near me.
I started and looked up—a shadowy figure stood beside me—that of a woman in dark trailing garments, whose face shone with a pale beauty in the dim light surrounding us both.
"So you have found your way here at last!" she said, gently—"Here, where all things end, and nothing begins!"
I rose to my feet and confronted her.
"Where all things end!" I repeated—"Surely where life exists there is no end?"
She gave me a fleeting smile.
"Life is a dream,"—she said—"And the things of life are dreams within the dream! There are no realities. You imagine truths which are deceptions."
I looked at her in wonder and bewilderment. She was beautiful—and the calm sadness of her eyes expressed compassion and tenderness.
"Then—is Creation a lie?" I asked.
She made no immediate answer, but pointed with one hand towards the dark water. I looked, and uttered a cry of ecstasy—there, shining in the heaving blackness like a vision from fairyland, was the 'Dream'—glittering from stem to stern with light that sparkled like millions of diamonds!
"Your Dream of Love!" said the woman beside me—"Behold it for the last time!"
With straining eyes and beating heart I watched—and saw the shining vessel begin to sink slowly into the deep watery blackness—down, down still lower, till only her masts were visible—then something defiant and forceful sprang up within me,—I would master this torture, I thought—I would not yield to the agony that threatened to drive me to utter despair.
"This is a phantom of sorrow!"—I said—"It has no meaning! The love that is in my heart is my own!—it is my life, my soul, my inmost being!—it is eternal as God Himself, and to Him I commend it!"
I spoke these words aloud, holding the book of the 'Secret of Life' clasped to my breast—and raised my eyes trustfully to the dense darkness which should have been the sky. Then I felt the woman's hand on mine. Her touch was warm and gentle.
"Come!" she said, softly.
And I saw a small boat slip out on the gloomy water, guided towards me by One whose face was hidden in a fold of black. My companion drew me with her and signed to me to enter. Something in myself, as well as in her looks, impelled me to obey, and as she stepped into the boat I followed. We were borne along in silence for what seemed to me a long time, till suddenly I began to hear strange sounds of wailing, and shuddering cries of appeal, and our darkness was lightened by the drifting to and fro of pale forms that were luminous and human in shape though scarcely of human resemblance.
"What are these?" I whispered.
My companion took my hand and held it.
"Listen!" she answered.
And gradually, out of a clamour of weeping and complaint, I heard voices which uttered distinct things.
"I am the Phantom of Wealth"—said one—"For me men and nations have rushed on destruction,—for me they have sacrificed happiness and missed the way to God! For me innocence has been betrayed and honour murdered. I am but a Shadow, but the world follows me as if I were Light—I am but the gold dust of earth, and men take me for the glory of Heaven!"
"I am the Phantom of Fame"—said another—"I come with music and sweet promises—I float before the eyes of man, seeming to him an Angel!—I speak of triumph and power!—and for me brave hearts have broken, and bright spirits have been doomed to despair! I am but a Shadow—but the world believes me Substance—I am but a breath and a colour, but men take me for a fixed Star!"
"I am the Phantom of Pride!"—said a third voice—"For me humanity scales the height of ambition—for my sake king's and queens occupy uneasy thrones, and surround themselves with pomp and panoply—for me men lie and cheat and wrong their neighbours—for me the homes that should be happy are laid waste—for me false laws are made and evil conquers good I am but a Shadow—and the world takes me for the Sun!—I am but a passing flash of light, and men take me for the perfect Day!"
Other voices joined in and echoed wildly around me—and I rose up in the boat, loosing my hold from the clasp of the woman who was with me.
"You are phantoms all!" I cried, half unconscious of my own words—"I want God's angels! Where is Love?"
The voices ceased—the strange flitting figures that wailed round me faded away into mist, and disappeared—and a light, deep and golden and wonderful, began to shine through the gloom. My companion spoke.
"We have been looking at dreams,"—she said—"You ask for the onlyReal!"
I smiled. A sudden inrush of strength and authority possessed me.
"You bade me look my last upon my dream of Love!" I said—"But you knew that was impossible, for Love is no dream!"
The golden radiance widened into a perfect splendour, and our boat now glided over a shining sea. As in a vision I saw the figure that steered and guided it, change from darkness to brightness—the black fold fell from its face—Angel eyes looked at me—Angel lips smiled!—and then—I found myself suddenly alone on the shore of a little bay, blue as a sapphire in the reflection of the blue sky above it. The black stretch of water which had seemed so dreary and impassable had disappeared, and to my astonishment I recognised the very shore near the rock garden which was immediately under my turret room. I looked everywhere for the woman who had been in the boat with me—for the boat itself and its guide—but there was no trace of them. Where and how far I had wandered I could not imagine—but presently, regaining nerve and courage, I began to fancy that perhaps my strange experience had been preordained and planned as some test of my faith and fortitude. Had I failed? Surely not! For I had not doubted the truth of God or the power of Love! There was only one thing which puzzled me,—the memory of those voices behind a wall—the voices which had spoken of Rafel's death and treachery. I could not quite rid myself of the anxiety they had awakened in my mind though I tried hard not to yield to the temptation of fear and suspicion. I knew and felt that after all it is the voices of the world which work most harm to love—and that neither poverty nor sorrow can cut the threads of affection between lovers so swiftly as falsehood and calumny. And yet I allowed myself to be moved by vague uneasiness on this account, and could not entirely regain perfect composure.
The door of the winding stair leading to my room in the turret stood open—and I availed myself of this tacit permission to return thither. I found everything as I had left it, except that when I sought for the mysterious little room hung with purple silk, where I had begun to read the book called 'The Secret of Life,' a book which through all my strange adventure I still had managed to keep with me, I could not find it. The walls around me were solid; there was no sign of an opening anywhere.
I sat down by the window to think. There before my eyes was the sea, calm, and in the full radiance of a brilliant sun. No mysterious or magic art suggested itself in the visible scene of a smiling summer day. Had I been long absent from this room, I wondered? I could not tell. Time seemed to be annihilated. And so far as I myself was concerned I desired nothing in this world or the next save just to know if Rafel Santoris still lived—and—yes!—one other assurance—to feel that I still possessed the treasure of his love. All the past, present and future hung on this possibility,—there was nothing more to hope for or to attain. For if I had lost Love, then God Himself could give me no comfort, since the essential link with Divine things was broken.
Gradually a great and soothing quietude stole over me and the cloud of depression that had hung over my mind began to clear. I thought of my recent experience with the man and woman who had sought to 'rescue' me, as they said, and how when in sheer desperation I had called "Rafel! Rafel!" they had suddenly disappeared and left me free. Surely this was a sufficient proof that I was not forgotten by him who had professed to love me?—and that his aid might still be depended upon? Why should I doubt him?
I had placed my book, 'The Secret of Life,' on the table when I re-entered my room—but now I took it up again, and the pages fell open at the following passage:—
"When once you possess the inestimable treasure of love, remember that every effort will be made to snatch it from you. There is nothing the world envies so much as a happy soul! Those who have been your dearest friends will turn against you because you have a joy in which they do not share,—they will unite with your foes to drag you down from your height of Paradise. The powers of the coarse and commonplace will be arrayed against you—shafts of disdain and ridicule will be hurled at your tenderest feelings,—venomous lies and cruel calumnies will be circulated around you,—all to try and draw you from the circle of light into darkness and chaos. If you would stand firm, you must stand within the whirlwind; if you would maintain the centre-poise of your Soul, you must preserve the balance of movement,—the radiant and deathless atoms whereof your Body and Spirit are composed must be under steady control and complete organisation like a well disciplined army, otherwise the disintegrating forces set up by the malign influences of others around you will not only attack your happiness, but your health, break down your strength and murder your peace. Love is the only glory of Life,—the Heart and Pulse of all things,—a possession denied to earth's greatest conquerors—a talisman which opens all the secrets of Nature—a Divinity whose power is limitless, and whose benediction bestows all beauty, all sweetness, all joy! Bear this in mind, and never forget how such a gift is grudged to those who have it by those who have it not!"
Reading thus far, a light began to break in upon me. Had not all the weird and inexplicable experience of the past hours (or days) tended to shake me from Love and destroy my allegiance to the ideal I cherished? And—had I yielded to the temptation? Had I failed? I dared not estimate either failure or success!
Leaving my place at the window, I saw that the little 'lift' or dresser in the wall had come up noiselessly with its usual daintily prepared refection of fruit and bread and deliciously cool spring water. I had felt neither hunger nor thirst during my strange wanderings in unknown places, but now I was quite ready for a meal, and enjoyed it with all the zest of an unspoilt appetite. When I had finished, I returned to my precious book, and placing it on the table, I propped up my head between my two hands and set myself resolutely to study. And I write down here the passages I read, exactly as I found them, for those who care to practise the lessons they teach.
"The exercise of the Will is practically limitless. It is left unfettered so that we may be free to make our own choice of life and evolve our own destiny. It can command all things save Love, for Love is of God and God is not subject to authority. Love must be born IN the Soul and OF the Soul. It must be a dual flame,—that is to say, it must find its counterpart in another Soul which is its ordained mate, before it can fulfil its highest needs. Then, like two wings moved by the same soaring impulse, it assists the Will and carries it to the highest heaven. Through its force life is generated and preserved—without it, life escapes to other phases to find its love again. Nothing is perfect, nothing is lasting without the light and fire of this dual flame. It cannot be WILLED either to kindle or to burn; it must be born of itself and IN itself, and shed its glory on the souls of its own choice. All else is subject to order and command. Love alone is free."
"Power over all things and all men is obtained by organisation—that is to say, 'setting one's house in order.' The 'house' implied is the body in which the Soul has temporary dwelling; every corner of it must be 'in order,'—every atom working healthfully in its place without any suggestion of confusion. Then, whatever is desired shall be attained. Nothing in the Universe can resist the force of a steadfastly fixed resolve; what the Spirit truly seeks must, by eternal law, be given to it, and what the body needs for the fulfilment of the Spirit's commands will be bestowed. From the sunlight and the air and the hidden things of space strength shall be daily and hourly renewed; everything in Nature shall aid in bringing to the resolved Soul that which it demands. There is nothing within the circle of Creation that can resist its influence. Success, wealth, triumph upon triumph come to every human being who daily 'sets his house in order'—whom nothing can move from his fixed intent,—whom no malice can shake, no derision drive from his determined goal,—whom no temptation can drag from his appointed course, and who is proof against spite and calumny. For men's minds are for the most part like the shifting sands of the sea, and he alone rules who evolves Order from Chaos."
"Life is eternal because it cannot die. Everything that lives MUST live for ever. Everything that lives has ALWAYS lived. What is called death, is by law impossible. Life is perpetually changing into various forms,—and every change it makes we call 'death' because to us it seems a cessation of life, whereas it is simply renewed activity. Every soul imprisoned to-day in human form has lived in human form before,—the very rose that flowers on its stem has flowered in this world before. Each individual Spirit preserves its individuality and, to a certain extent, its memory. It is permitted to remember a few out of the million incidents and episodes with which its psychic brain is stored, but ONLY a few during its period of evolvement. When it reaches the utmost height of spiritual capacity, and is strong enough to know and see and understand, then it will remember all from the beginning. Nothing can ever be forgotten, inasmuch as forgetfulness implies waste, and there is no waste in the scheme of the Universe. Every thought is kept for use,—every word, every sigh and tear is recorded. Life itself, in our limited view of it, can be continued indefinitely on this earth, if we use the means given to us to preserve and renew it. It was easy to preserve and prolong it in the early days of the world's prime, for our planet was then nearer to the sun. In the present day it is returning to a position in the heavens which encourages and sustains life—and men live longer without knowing why, never thinking that it is the result of the immediate situation of the planet with regard to the sun. The Earth is not where it was in the days of Christ; it has been rushing through space these two thousand years, and yet mankind forgets that its place in the heavens is different from that which it formerly occupied, and that with this difference the laws of climate, custom and living are changed. It is not Man who alters his surroundings—it is Nature, whose order cannot be disobeyed. Man thinks that the growth of science and what he calls his 'progress' is the result of his own cleverness alone; on the contrary, it is the result of a change in his atmospheric ether which not only helps scientific explanation and discovery, but which tends to give him greater power over the elements, as well as to prolong his life and intellectual capability. There is no such thing as 'standing still' in the Universe. Every atom, every organism is doing something, or going somewhere, and there is no stop. Rest itself is merely a form of Progress towards Beauty and Perfection, and there is no flaw anywhere in the majestic splendour of God's scheme for the ultimate happiness of His entire Creation."
"The ascetic is a blasphemer of God and of the work for which God alone is responsible. By withdrawing himself from the world of men he withdraws himself from human sympathy. By chastising the body and its natural emotions and desires, he chastises that which God has made as a temple for his soul to dwell in. By denying the pleasures of this world, he denies all the good which God has prepared and provided for him, and he wrongs the fair happiness of Nature and the order in which the Universe is planned. The so-called 'religious' person who retires into a monastery, there to pray and fast and bemoan the ills of the flesh, is an unnatural creature and displeasing to his Maker. For God looked upon everything He had made and found it 'good.' Good—not bad, as the arrogant ascetic would assume. Joy, not sorrow, should be the keynote of life—the world is not a 'vale of tears' but a flower-filled garden, basking in the perpetual sunshine of the smile of God. What is called 'sin' is the work of Man—God has no part in it. 'By pride the angels fell.' By pride Man delays his eternal delight. When he presumes to be wiser than his Creator,—when he endeavours to upset the organisation of Nature, and invents a kind of natural and moral code of his own, then comes disaster. The rule of a pure and happy life is to take all that God sends with thankfulness in moderation—the fruits of the earth, the joys of the senses, the love of one's fellow-creatures, the delights of the intellect, the raptures of the soul; and to find no fault with that which is and must ever be faultless. We hear of wise men and philosophers sorrowing over 'the pain and suffering of the world'—but the pain and suffering are wrought by Man alone, and Man's cruelty to his fellows. From Man's culpable carelessness and neglect of the laws of health has come every disease, as from Man's egotism, unbelief and selfishness have sprung all the crimes in the calendar." I paused here, for it seemed to me that it was getting dark,—at any rate I could not see to read very clearly. I looked at the window, but very little light came through it,—a sudden obscurity, like a heavy cloud, darkened all visible things. I quickly made up my mind that I would not yield to any more fanciful terrors, or leave the room, even if I saw another outlet that night. With this determination I undressed quickly and went to bed. As I laid my head on the pillow I felt a kind of coldness in the air which made me shiver a little—an 'uncanny' sensation to which I would not yield. I saw the darkness thickening round me, and closed my eyes, resolving to rest—and so succeeded in ordering all my faculties to this end that within a very few minutes I was soundly asleep.
My slumber was so profound and dreamless that I have no idea how long it lasted, but when finally I awoke it was with a sense of the most vivid and appalling terror. Every nerve in my body seemed paralysed—I could not move or cry out,—invisible bands stronger than iron held me a prisoner on my bed—and I could only stare upwards in horror as a victim bound to the rack might stare at the pitiless faces of his torturers. A Figure, tall, massive and clothed in black, stood beside me—I could not see its face—but I felt its eyes gazing down upon me with a remorseless, cold inquisitiveness—a silent, searching enquiry which answered itself without words. If every thought in my brain and every emotion of my soul could have been cut out of me with a dissecting knife and laid bare to outward inspection, those terrible eyes, probing deep into the very innermost recesses of my being, would have done the work.
The beating of my heart sounded loud and insistent in my own ears,—I lay still, trying to gain control over my trembling spirit,—and it was almost with an awful sense of relief that I saw the figure move at last from its rigid attitude and beckon me—beckon slowly and commandingly with one outstretched arm from which the black, dank draperies hung like drifting cloud. Mechanically obeying the signal, I strove to rise from my bed—and found that I could do so,—I sat up shiveringly, looking at the terrifying Form that towered above me, enclosing me as it were in its own shadow—and then, managing to stand on my feet, though unsteadily, I mutely prepared to follow where it should lead. It moved on—and I went after it, compelled by some overpowering instinct against which I dared not rebel. Once the vague, half-formed thought flitted through my brain—"This is Death that summons me away,"—till with the thought came the remembrance that according to the schooling I was receiving, there is no such thing as 'Death,' but only the imaginary phantom we call by that name.
Slowly, sedately, and with an indescribable majesty of movement, the dark Figure glided on before me, and I, a trembling little creature, followed it, I knew not whither. There was no obstacle in our course,—doors, walls and windows seemed to melt asunder into nothingness as we passed—and there was no stop to our onward progress till suddenly I saw before me a steep and narrow spiral stairway of stone winding up into the very centre of a rocky pinnacle, which in its turn lifted its topmost peak into the darkness of a night sky sprinkled with millions of stars. The sombre Figure paused: and again I felt the search-light of its invisible eyes burning through me. Then, as though satisfied with its brief survey, it began to ascend the spiral stair.
I followed step by step,—the way was long and difficult—the sharp turns dizzying to the senses, and there seemed no end to the upward winding. Sometimes I stumbled and nearly fell—sometimes I groped on hands and knees, always seeing before me the black-draped Form that moved on with such apparently little care as to whether or no I fared ill or well in my obedience to its summons.
And now, as I climbed, all sorts of strange memories began to creep into the crannies of my brain and perplex me with trouble and uncertainty. Chiefly did my mind dwell on cruelties—the cruelties practised by human beings to one another,—moral cruelties especially, they being so much worse than any physical torture. I thought of the world's wicked misjudgments passed on those who are greater in spirit than itself,—how, even when we endeavour to do good to others, our kindest actions are often represented as merely so many forms of self-interest and self-seeking,—how our supposed 'best' friends often wrong us and listen credulously to enviously invented tales against us,—how even in Love—ah!-Love!—that most etherial yet most powerful of passions!—a rough word, an unmerited slight, may separate for a lifetime those whose love would otherwise have been perfect. And still I climbed, and still I thought, and still the dark Phantom-Figure beckoned me on and on.
And then I began to consider that in climbing to some unknown, unseen height in deep darkness I was, after all, doing a wiser thing than living in the world with the ways of the world,—ways that are for the most part purely hypocritical, and are practised merely to overreach and out-do one's fellow-men and women—ways of fashion, ways of society, ways of government which are merely temporary, while Nature, the invincible and eternal, moves on her appointed course with the same inborn intuition, namely, to destroy that which is evil and preserve only that which is good. And Man, the sole maker of evil, the only opposer of Divine Order, fools himself into the belief that his evil shall prosper and his falsehood be accepted as truth, if he can only sham a sufficient show of religious faith to deceive himself and others on the ascending plane of History. He who has invented Sin has likewise invented a God to pardon it, for there is no sin in the natural Universe. The Divine Law cannot pardon, for it is inviolate and bears no trespass without punishment.
So I mused in my inward self, and still I climbed, keeping my eyes fixed on the Figure that led me on, and which now, having reached the end of the spiral stair, was slowly mounting to the highest peak of the rocky pinnacle which lifted itself to the stars. An icy wind began to blow,—my feet were bare, and I was thinly clad in my night-gear with only the addition of a white woollen wrap I had hastily flung round me for warmth when I left my bed to follow my spectral leader—and I shivered through and through with the bitter cold. Yet I went on resolutely,—indeed, having started on this perilous adventure, there was no returning, for when I looked back on the way I had come, the spiral stair had completely vanished, and there was nothing but black and empty space!
This discovery so terrified me that for the moment I lost breath, and I came to a halt in the very act of ascending. Then I saw the Figure in front of me turn round with a threatening movement, and I felt that with one second more of hesitation I should lose my footing altogether and slip away into some vast abysmal depth of unimaginable doom. Making a strong effort, I caught back my escaping self-control, and forced my shuddering limbs to obey my will and resume their work-and so, slowly, inch by inch, I resumed my climb, sick with giddiness and fear and chilled to the very heart. Presently I heard a rumbling roar like the sound of great billows rushing into hollow caverns which echoed their breaking in thuds of booming thunder. Looking up, I saw the Figure I had followed standing still; and I fancied that the sombre draperies in which it was enveloped showed an outline of glimmering light. Fired by a sudden hope, I set myself to tread the difficult path anew, and presently I too stood still, beside my mysterious Leader. Above me was a heaven of stars;—below an unfathomable deep of darkness where nothing was visible;—but from this nothingness arose a mighty turbulence as of an angry sea. I remained where I found myself, afraid to move;—one false step might, I felt, hurl me into a destruction which though it would not be actual death would certainly be something like chaos. Almost I felt inclined to catch at the cloudy garments of the solemn Figure at my side for safety and protection, and while this desire was yet upon me it turned its veiled head towards me and spoke in a low, deep tone that was infinitely gentle.
"So far!—and yet not far enough!" it said—"To what end wilt thou adventure for the sake of Love?"
"To no End whatsoever,"—I answered with sudden boldness—"But to everlasting Continuance!"
Again I thought I saw a faint glowing light within its sombre draperies.
"What wouldst thou do for Love?" its voice again enquired—"Wouldst thou bear all things and believe all things? Canst thou listen to falsehood bearing witness against truth, and yet love on? Wilt thou endure all suffering, all misunderstanding, all coldness and cruelty, and yet keep thy soul bright as a burning lamp with the flame of faith and endeavour? Wouldst thou scale the heavens and plunge to the uttermost hell for the sake of him thou lovest, knowing that thy love must make him one with thee at the God-appointed hour?"
I looked up at the Figure, vainly striving to see its face.
"All these things I would do!" I answered—"All that is in the power of my soul to endure mortally or immortally, I will bear for Love's sake!"
Again the light flashed through its black garments. When it next spoke, its voice rang out harshly in ominous warning.
"Thy lover is dead!" it proclaimed—"He has passed from this sphere to another, and ye shall not meet again for many cycles of time! DOST THOU BELIEVE IT?"
A cold agony gripped my breast, but I would not yield to it, and answered resolutely—
"No! I do not believe it! He could not die without my knowing and feeling the parting of his soul from mine!"
There was a pause, in which only the thunder of that invisible sea far down below us was audible. Then the voice went on,
"Thy lover is false!" it said—"His love for thee was a passing mood—already he regrets—already he wearies in thought of thee and loves thee no more! DOST THOU BELIEVE IT?"
I took no time for thought, but answered at once without hesitation—
"No! For if he does not love me his Spirit lies!—and no Spirit CAN lie!"
Another pause. Then the voice put this question—
"Dost thou truly believe in God, thy Creator, the Maker of heaven and earth?"
Lifting my eyes half in hope, half in appeal to the starry deep sky above me, I replied fervently—
"I do believe in Him with all my soul!"
A silence followed which seemed long and weighted with suspense. Then the voice spoke once more—
"Dost thou believe in Love, the generator of Life and the moving Cause and Mind of all created things?"
And again I replied—
"With all my soul!"
The Figure now bent slightly towards me, and the light within its darkness became more denned and brilliant. Presently an arm and hand, white and radiant—a shape as of living flame—was slowly outstretched from the enfolding black draperies. It pointed steadily to the abyss below me.
"If thy love is so great"—said the voice—"If thy faith is so strong—if thy trust in God is sure and perfect—descend thither!"
I heard—but could not credit my own hearing. I gazed at the shrouded and veiled speaker—at the commanding arm that signed my mortal body to destruction. For a moment I was lost in wild terror and wilder doubt. Was this fearful suggestion a temptation or a test? Should it be obeyed? I strove to find the centre-poise of my own self—to gather all my forces together,—to make myself sure of my own will and responsible for my own deeds,—and then—then I paused. All that was purely mortal in me shuddered on the brink of the Unknown. One look upward to the soft gloom of the purple sky and its myriad stars—one horrified glance downward at the dark depth where I heard the roaring of the sea! I clasped my hands in a kind of prayerful desperation, and looked once more at the solemn Shadow beside me.
"If thy love is so great!" it repeated, in slow and impressive tones—"If thy faith is so strong! If thy trust in God is so sure and perfect!"
There came a moment of tense stillness—a moment in which my life seemed detached from myself so that I held it like a palpitating separate creature in my hands, Suddenly the recollection of the last vision of all those I had seen among the dark mountains of Coruisk came back to me vividly—that of the woman who had knelt outside a barred gate in Heaven, waiting to enter in—"O leave her not always exiled and alone!" I had prayed then—"Dear God, have pity! Unbar the gate and let her in! She has waited so long!"
A sob broke unconsciously from my lips—my eyes filled with burningtears that blinded me. Imploringly I turned towards the relentlessFigure beside me once more—its hand still pointed downwards—and againI seemed to hear the words—
"If thy love is so great! If thy faith is so strong! If thy trust inGod is so sure and perfect!"
And then I suddenly found my own Soul's centre,—the very basis of my own actual being—and standing firmly upon that plane of imperishable force, I came to a quick resolve.
"Nothing can destroy me!" I said within myself—"Nothing can slay the immortal part of me, and nothing can separate my soul from the soul of my beloved! In all earth, in all heaven, there is no cause for fear!"
Hesitating no longer, I closed my eyes,—then extending my clasped hands I threw myself forward and plunged into the darkness!—down, down, interminably down! A light followed me like a meteoric shaft of luminance piercing the blackness—I retained sufficient consciousness to wonder at its brilliancy, and for a time I was borne along in my descent as though on wings. Down, still down!—and I saw ocean at my feet!—a heaving mass of angry waters flecked with a wool-like fleece of foam!
"The Change that is called Death, but which is Life!"
This was the only clear thought that flashed like lightning through my brain as I sank swiftly towards the engulfing desert of the sea!—then everything swirled into darkness and silence!
* * ** **
A delicate warm glow like the filtering of sunbeams through shaded silk and crystal—a fragrance of roses—a delicious sound of harp-like music—to these things I was gradually awakened by a gentle pressure on my brows. I looked up—and my whole heart relieved itself in a long deep sigh of ecstasy!—it was Aselzion himself who bent over me,—Aselzion whose grave blue eyes watched me with earnest and anxious solicitude. I smiled up at him in response to his wordless questioning as to how I felt, and would have risen but that he imperatively signed to me to lie still.
"Rest!" he said,—and his voice was very low and tender. "Rest, poor child! You have done more than well!"
Another sigh of pure happiness escaped me,—I stretched out my arms lazily like one aroused from a long and refreshing slumber. My sensations were now perfectly exquisite; a fresh and radiant life seemed pouring itself through my veins, and I was content to remain a perfectly passive recipient of such an inflow of health and joy. The room I found myself in was new to me—it seemed made up of lovely colourings and a profusion of sweet flowers—I lay enshrined as it were in the centre of a little temple of beauty. I had no desire to move or to speak,—every trouble, every difficulty had passed from my mind, and I watched Aselzion dreamily as he brought a chair to the side of my couch and sat down—then, taking my hand in his, felt my pulse with an air of close attention.
I smiled again.
"Does it still beat?" I asked, finding my voice suddenly—"Surely the great sea has drowned it!"
Still holding my hand, he looked full into my eyes.
"'Many waters cannot quench love'!" he quoted softly. "Dear child, you have proved that truth. Be satisfied!"
Raising myself on my pillows, I studied his grave face with an earnest scrutiny.
"Tell me,"—I half whispered—"Have I failed?"
He pressed my hand encouragingly.
"No! You have almost conquered!"
Almost! Only 'almost'! I sank back again on the couch, wondering and waiting. He remained beside me quite silent. After a little the tension of suspense became unbearable and I spoke again—
"How did I escape?" I asked—"Who saved me when I fell?"
He smiled gravely.
"There was nothing to escape from"—he answered—"And no one saved you since you were not in danger."
"Not in danger!" I echoed, amazed.
"No! Only from yourself!"
I gazed at him, utterly bewildered. He gave me a kind and reassuring glance.
"Have patience!" he said, gently—"All shall be explained to you in good time! Meanwhile this apartment is yours for the rest of your stay here, which will not now be long—I have had all your things removed from the Probation room in the tower, so that you will no more be troubled by its scenic transformations!" Here he smiled again. "I will leave you now to recover from the terrors through which you have passed so bravely;—rest and refresh yourself thoroughly, for you have nothing more to fear. When you are quite ready touch this"—and he pointed to a bell—"I shall hear its summons and will come to you at once."
Before I could say a word to detain him, he had retired, and I was left alone.
I rose from my couch,—and the first impression I had was that of a singular ease and lightness—a sense of physical strength and well-being that was delightful beyond expression. The loveliness and peace of the room in which I was enchanted me,—everything my eyes rested upon suggested beauty. The windows were shaded with rose silk hangings—and when I drew these aside I looked out on a marble loggia or balcony overhung with climbing roses,—this, in its turn, opened on an exquisite glimpse of garden and blue sea. There was no clock anywhere to tell me the time of day, but the sun was shining, and I imagined it must be afternoon. Adjoining this luxurious apartment was an equally luxurious bathroom, furnished with every conceivable elegance,—the bath itself was of marble, and the water bubbled up from its centre like a natural spring, sparkling as it came. I found all my clothes, books and other belongings arranged with care where I could most easily get at them, and to my joy the book 'The Secret of Life,' which I thought I had lost on my last perilous adventure, lay on a small table by itself like a treasure set apart.
I bathed and dressed quickly, allowing myself no time to think upon any strange or perplexing point in my adventures, but giving myself entirely up to the joy of the new and ecstatic life which thrilled through me. A mirror in the room showed me my own face, happy and radiant,—my own eyes bright and smiling,—no care seemed to have left a trace on my features, and I was fully conscious of a perfect strength and health that made the mere act of breathing a pleasure. In a very short time I was ready to receive Aselzion, and I touched the bell he had indicated as a signal. Then I sat down by the window and looked out on the fair prospect before me. How glorious was the world, I thought!—how full of perfect beauty! That heavenly blue of sky and sea melting into one—the tender hues of the clambering roses against the green of the surrounding foliage—the lovely light that filtered through the air like powdered gold!—were not all these things to be thankful for? and can there be any real unhappiness so long as our Souls are in tune with the complete harmony of Creation?
Hearing a step behind me, I rose—and with a glad smile stretched out my hands to Aselzion, who had just then entered. He took them in his own and pressed them lightly—then drawing a chair opposite to mine, he sat down. His face expressed a certain gravity, and his voice when he began to speak was low and gentle.
"I have much to tell you"—he said—"but I will make it as brief as I can. You came here to pass a certain psychic ordeal—and you have passed it successfully—all but the last phase. Of that we will speak presently. For the moment you are under the impression that you have been through certain episodes of a more or less perplexing and painful nature. So you have—but not in the way you think. Nothing whatever has happened to you, save in your own mind—your adventures have been purely mental—and were the result of several brains working on yours and compelling you to see and to hear what they chose. There!—do not look so startled!"—for I had risen with an involuntary exclamation—"I will explain everything quite clearly, and you will soon understand."
He paused—and I sat down again by the window, wondering and waiting.
"In this world," he went on, slowly—"it is not climate, or natural surroundings that affect man so much as the influences brought to bear upon him by his fellow-men. Human beings really live surrounded by the waves of thought flung off by their own brains and the brains of those around them,—and this is the reason why, if they are not strong enough to find a centre-poise, they are influenced by ways and moods of thought which would never be their own by choice and free-will. If a mind, or let us say a Soul, can resist the impressions brought to bear upon it by other forces than itself—if it can stand alone, clear of obstacle, in the light of the Divine Image, then it has gained a mastership over all things. But the attainment of such a position is difficult enough to be generally impossible. Influences work around us everywhere,—men and women with great aims in life are swept away from their intentions by the indifference or discouragement of their friends—brave deeds are hindered from accomplishment by the suggestion of fears which do not really exist—and the daily scattering and waste of psychic force and powerful mentality by disturbing or opposing brain-waves, is sufficient to make the world a perfect paradise were it used to that end."
He waited a moment—then bent his eyes earnestly upon me as he resumed—
"You do not need to be told by me that you have lived on this earth before, and that you have many times been gently yet forcibly drawn into connection with the other predestined half of yourself,—that Soul of love which blindly seeking, you have often rejected when found—not of yourself have you rejected it—but simply because of the influences around you to which you have yielded. Now in this further phase of your existence you have been given another chance—another opportunity. It is quite possible that had you not come to me you would have lost your happiness again, and it was this knowledge which made me receive you, against all the rules of our Order, when I saw that you were fairly resolved. Your ordeal would have been longer had you not made the first bold advance yourself on the occasion of your entrance into our chapel. The light of the Cross and Star drew you, and your Soul obeyed the attraction of its native element. Had you opposed its intention by doubts and fears, I should have had more trouble with you than I should have cared to undertake. But you made the first step yourself with a rare courage—the rest was comparatively easy."
He paused again and again went on.
"I have already said that you are under the impression of having gone through certain adventures or episodes, which have more or less distressed and perplexed you. These things have had NO EXISTENCE except in your mind! When I took you up to your room in the turret, I placed you under my influence and under the influence of four other brains acting in conjunction with myself. We took entire possession of your mentality, and made it as far as possible like a blank slate, on which we wrote what we chose. The test was to see whether your Soul, which is the actual You, could withstand and overcome our suggestions. At first hearing, this sounds as if we had played a trick upon you for our own entertainment—but it is not so,—it is merely an application of the most powerful lesson in life—namely, THE RESISTANCE AND CONQUEST OF THE INFLUENCES OF OTHERS, which are the most disturbing and weakening forces we have to contend with."
I began to see clearly what he meant me to understand, and I hung upon his words with eager attention.
"You have only to look about you in the world," he continued—"to realise the truth of what I say. Every day you may meet some soul whose powers of accomplishment might be superb if it were not for the restricting influences to which it allows itself to succumb. How often do you not come upon a man or woman of brilliant genius, who is nevertheless rendered incompetent by opposing influences, and who therefore lives the life of a bird in a cage! Take the thousands of men wrongly mated, whose very wives and children drag them down and kill every spark of ambition and accomplishment within them! Take the thousands of women persuaded or forced into unions with men whose low estimate of woman's intellect coarsens and degrades her to a level from which it is almost impossible to rise! This is the curse of 'influences'—the magnetic currents of other brains which set our own awry, and make half the trouble and mischief in the world. Not one soul in a hundred thousand has force or courage to resist them! The man accustomed to live with a wife who without doing any other harm, simply kills his genius by the mere fact of her daily contact, moods, and methods, makes no effort to shake himself free from the apathy her influence causes, but simply sinks passively into inaction. The woman, bound to a man who insists on considering her lower than himself, and often pulled this way and that by the selfish desires or aims of her children or other family belongings, becomes a mere domestic drudge or machine, with no higher aims than are contained in the general ordering of household business. Love,—the miraculous touchstone which turns everything to gold,—is driven out of the circle of Life with the result that Life itself grows weary of its present phase, and makes haste to seek another more congenial. Hence proceeds what we call age and death."
I was about to interrupt by an eager question—but he silenced me by a gesture.
"Your position," he went on—"from a psychic standard,—which is the only necessary, because the only lasting attitude,—is that of being brought into connection with the other half of your spiritual and immortal Ego,—which means the possession of perfect love, and with it perfect life. And because this is so great a gift, and so entirely Divine, influences are bound to offer opposition in order that the Soul may make its choice VOLUNTARILY. Therefore, when I, and the other brains acting with me, placed you under our power, we impressed you with all that most readily shakes the feminine mind—doubt, jealousy, suspicion, and all the wretched terrors these wretched emotions engender. We suggested the death of Rafel Santoris as well as his treachery,—you heard, as you thought, voices behind a wall—but there were no voices—only the suggestion of voices in your mind. You saw strange phantoms and shadows,—they had no existence except in so far as we made them exist and present themselves to your mental vision. You wandered away into unknown places, so you imagined,—but as a matter of fact you NEVER LEFT YOUR ROOM!"
"Never left my room!" I echoed—"Oh, that cannot be!"
"It can be, because it is!" he answered me, smiling gravely—"The only thing in your experience that was REAL was the finding of the book 'The Secret of Life'—in the purple-draped shrine. Here it is"—and he took it up from the table on which it lay—"and if you had turned it over a little more, you would have found this"—and he read aloud—
"'All action is the material result of Thought. Suffering is the result of THINKING INTO PAIN—disease the result of THINKING INTO WEAKNESS. Every emotion is the result of wrong or right THINKING, with one exception—Love. Love is not an Emotion but a Principle, and as the generator of Life pervades all things, and is all things. Thought, working WITHIN this Principle, creates the things of beauty and lastingness,—Thought, working OUTSIDE this Principle, equally creates the things of terror, doubt, confusion, and destruction. There is no other Secret of Life—no other Elixir of Youth—no other Immortality!'"
He pronounced the last words with gentle and impressive emphasis, and a great sweetness and calm filled my mind as I listened.
"I—or I should say we—for four of my Brethren were deeply interested in you on account of the courage you had shown—we took you up to the utmost height of endurance in the way of mental terror—and, to our great joy, found your Soul strong enough to baffle and conquer the ultimate suggestion of Death itself. You held firmly to the truth that there is NO death, and with that spiritual certainty risked all for Love. Now we have released you from our spells!"—and his eyes were full of kindness as he looked at me—"and I want to know if you thoroughly realise the importance of the lesson we have taught?"
I met his enquiring glance fully and steadily.
"I think I do,"—I said—"You mean that I must stand alone?"
"Alone, yet not alone!"—he answered, and his fine face was transfigured into light with its intense feeling and power—"Alone with Love!—which is to say alone with God, and therefore surrounded by all god-like, lasting and revivifying things. You will go back from this place to the world of conventions,—and you will meet a million influences to turn you from your chosen way. Opinion, criticism, ridicule, calumny and downright misunderstanding—these will come out against you like armed foes, bristling at every point with weapons of offence. If you tell them of your quest of life and youth and love, and of your experience here, they will cover you with their mockery and derision—if you were to breathe a word of the love between you and Rafel Santoris, a thousand efforts would be instantly made to separate you, one from the other, and snatch away the happiness you have won. How will you endure these trials?—what will be your method of action?"
I thought a moment.
"The same that I have tried to practise here"—I answered—"I shall believe nothing of ill report—but only of good."
He bent his eyes upon me searchingly.
"Remember," he said—"what force there is in a storm of opinion! The fiercest gale that ever blew down strong trees and made havoc of men's dwellings is a mere whisper compared with the fury of human minds set to destroy one heaven-aspiring soul! Think of the petty grudge borne by the loveless against Love!—the spite of the restless and unhappy against those who have won peace! All this you will have to bear,—for the world is envious—and even a friend breaks down in the strength of friendship when thwarted or rendered jealous by a greater and more resistless power!" I sighed a little.
"I have few friends,"—I said—"Certainly none that have ever thought it worth while to know my inner and truest self. Most of them are glad to be my friends if I go THEIR way—but if I choose a way of my own their 'friendship' becomes mere quarrel. But I talk of choosing a way! How can I choose—yet? You say my ordeal is not over?"
"It will be over to-night,"—he answered—"And I have every hope that you will pass through it unflinchingly. You have not heard from Santoris?"
The question gave me a little thrill of surprise.
"Heard from him?—No"—I replied—"He never suggested writing to me."
Aselzion smiled.
"He is too closely in touch with you to need other correspondence,"—he said—"But be satisfied that he is safe and well. No misadventure has befallen him."
"Thank God!" I murmured. "And—if—"
"If he loves you no more,"—went on Aselzion—"If he has made an 'error of selection' as the scientists would say, and is not even now sure of his predestined helper and inspirer whose love will lift him to the highest attainment—what then?"
"What then? Why, I must submit!" I answered, slowly—"I can wait, even for another thousand years!"
There was a silence, during which I felt Aselzion's eyes upon me. Then he spoke again in a lighter tone.
"Let us for the moment talk of what the world calls 'miracle'"—he said—"I believe you are just now conscious of perfect health, and of a certain joy in the mere fact of life. Is it not so?"
Smiling, I bent my head in acquiescence.
"Understand then"—he continued—"that while you control the life-forces of which you are made, by the power of an all-commanding spirit, this perfect health, this certain joy will continue. And more than this—everything in Nature will serve you to this end. You have but to ask your servants and they will obey. Ask of the sun its warmth and radiance,—it will answer with a quick bestowal—ask of the storm and wind and rain their powers of passion,—they will give you their all,—ask of the rose its fragrance and colour, and the very essence of it shall steal into your blood,—there is nothing you shall seek that you will not find. Try your own powers now!"—and with the word he got up and opened the window a little wider, then signed to me to step out on the balcony—"Here are roses climbing up on their appointed way—bend them to-wards you by a single effort of the will!"
I gazed at him in complete surprise and bewilderment. His answering looks were imperative.
"By a single effort of the will!" he repeated.
I obeyed him. Raising my eyes to the roses where they clambered upwards round the loggia, I inwardly commanded them to turn towards me. The effect was instantaneous. As though blown by a light breeze they all bent down with their burden of bright blossom—some of the flowers touching my hands.
"That would be called 'miraculous' by the ignorant," said Aselzion—"And it is nothing more than the physical force of the magnetic light-rays within you, which, being focused in a single effort, draw the roses down pliantly to your will. No more miracle is there in this than that of the common magnet which has been vainly trying to teach us lessons about ourselves these many years. Now, relax your will!"
Again I obeyed, and the roses moved gently away and upward to their former branching height.
"This is an object lesson for you,"—said Aselzion, smiling then—"You must understand that you are now in a position to draw everything to you as easily as you drew those roses! You can draw the germs of health and life to mix and mingle with your blood—or—you can equally draw the germs of disease and disintegration. The ACTION is with you. From the sun you can draw fresh fuel for your brain and nerves—from the air the sustenance you demand—from beautiful things their beauty, from wise things their learning, from powerful things their force—NOTHING can resist the radiating energy you possess if you only remember HOW to employ it. In every action it must be focused on the given point—it must not be disturbed or scattered. The more often it is used the more powerful it becomes—the more all-conquering. But never forget that it must work WITHIN the Creative Principle of Love—not outside it."
I sat absorbed and half afraid.
"And to-night—?" I said, softly.
He rose from his chair and stood up to his full superb stature, looking down upon me with a certain mingling of kindness and pity.
"To-night,"—he replied—"we shall send for you! You will confront the Brethren, as one who has passed the same mental test through which they are passing! And you will face the last fear! I do not think you will go back upon yourself—I hope not—I strongly desire you to keep your courage to the end!"
I ventured to touch his hand.
"And afterwards?" I queried.
He smiled.
"Afterwards—Life and its secrets are all with you and Love!"