Various - "Punch, Or The London Charivari, Vol. 100, June 20, 1891"

Juhani Aho - "Hellmannin herra; Esimerkin vuoksi; Maailman murjoma"

Louise de la Ramée, a.k.a. Ouida - "The Waters of Edera"

Anonymous, Arranged for piano by Percy Grainger - "British Folk Music Settings Nr. 4, Shepherd's Hey"

Book Review: The Dream by Gurbaksh Chahal
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Weapons of Mystery written by Joseph Hocking

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"'What are you writing?' she cried.

"'I am writing a letter to the superintendent of the nearest police
station, telling him to come with some men to Temple Hall to arrest a
murderer.'

"'Have you no mercy?' she said.

"'Mercy, lady. Only the Great Spirit above knows what I had made up my
mind to give up, when I told you the condition on which I would be
silent. I loved my friend as Jonathan loved David, and he is
dead--murdered by an enemy's hand. Vengeance is one of the sweetest
thoughts to an Eastern, and I meant to be avenged. You begged for his
life, and I offered it--for your love. I asked you to marry me--me, who
would give up everything for you; but you refused. I grieve for you,
lady; but since I cannot have love, I must have revenge.'

"He went on writing, while Miss Forrest clasped her hands as if in
prayer.

"I am relating this very badly, Justin. I cannot remember many of the
things that were said; I cannot call to mind all the gestures, the tones
of voice, or the awful anguish which seemed to possess them both. I can
only give you a scrappy account of what passed."

I remembered Tom's powers of memory, however, for which he had always
been remarkable at school, and I knew that the account he gave me was
not far from correct, and I begged him to go on.

"At length she turned to him again," continued Tom. "'I am going to
show,' she said, 'that I believe Mr. Blake innocent. You asked me for
love; that I cannot give you. I do not love you, I never shall love you;
but such is my belief in Mr. Blake's innocence that I promise you this:
if he is not proved to be guiltless within a year, I will marry you.'

"He leapt to his feet, as if to embrace her.

"'No,' she said; 'you have not heard all my conditions. Within that year
you are not to see me or communicate with me.'

"'But,' he cried, 'if Kaffar is dead, if these terrible evidences of
murder are real, then in a year--say next Christmas Eve; 'twas on
Christmas Eve we first met in England--then you will promise to be my
wife?'

"'I promise.'

"'And your promise shall be irrevocable?'

"She turned on him with scorn. 'The promise of a lady is ever
irrevocable,' she said.

"'Ah!' cried Voltaire, 'love is a stronger passion than vengeance, and my
love will win yours.'

"'Meanwhile,' she went on without noticing this rhapsody, 'if you breathe
one word or utter one sound by which suspicion can fall on Mr. Blake, my
promise is forfeited; if you stay here after to-morrow, or attempt to
see me within this and next Christmas Eve, my promise is also
forfeited.'

"'What, am I to leave you at once?'

"'At once.'

"He left the room immediately after," said Tom, "while, after saying
'Good-night' to me, she too retired to her bedroom."

To say that I was astonished at the turn things had taken would not give
the slightest idea of my feelings. And yet a great joy filled my heart.
The sword of Damocles, which seemed to hang over my head, possessed no
terror.

"Is that all, Tom?" I said at length.

"This morning, as I told you, he arranged for Kaffar's luggage to be
sent to Egypt, while he himself is preparing to depart."

"Where is he going?"

"To London."

"And Miss Forrest?"

"She, I hope, will stay with us for some time. But, Justin, can you
really give no explanation of these things? Surely you must be able to?"

"I cannot, Tom. I am hedged in on every side. I'm enslaved, and I cannot
tell you how. My life is a mystery, and at times a terror."

"But do you know what has become of Kaffar?"

"No more than that dog barking in the yard. All is dark to me."

Tom left me then, while I, with my poor tired brain, tried to think what
to do.




CHAPTER XIII

A MESMERIST'S SPELL


I found on entering the breakfast-room that my presence caused no
surprise, neither did any of the guests regard me suspiciously. It had
gone abroad that I had gone out to find Kaffar, but was unable to do so;
and as Voltaire had publicly spoken of Kaffar's luggage being sent to
Cairo, there was, to them, no mystery regarding him.

Several spoke of his going away as being a good riddance, and declared
him to be unfit for respectable society; but I did not answer them, and
after a while the subject dropped.

Voltaire, however, was not in the room; and when, after having
breakfasted, I was wondering where he was, I felt the old terrible
sensation come over me. I tried to resist the influence that was drawing
me out of the room, but I could not. I put on my overcoat and hat, and,
drawn on by an unseen power, I went away towards the fir plantation in
which the summer-house was built.

As I knew I should, I found Voltaire there. He smiled on me and lifted
his hat politely. "I thought I would allow you to have a good breakfast
before summoning you," he said, "especially as this is the last
conversation we shall have for some time."

I thought I detected a look of triumph in his eyes, yet I was sure he
regarded me with intense hatred.

"Yes," I said, "I am come. What is your will now?"

"This. I find that Mr. Temple has told you about an interview which was
held in the library last night."

"Yes; it is true."

"Do you know of what you are in danger?"

"No--what?"

"Hanging."

"What for?"

"For murdering Kaffar."

"Did I kill him? I remember nothing. What was done was not because of
me, but because of the demon that caused me blindly to act."

"Names are cheap, my man, and I don't mind. Claptrap morality is
nothing to me. Yes, you killed Kaffar--killed him with that knife you
held in your hand. I meant that you should. Kaffar was getting
troublesome to me, and I wanted to get him out of the way. To use you as
I did was killing two birds with one stone. You know that Miss Forrest
has promised to marry me if Kaffar be not forthcoming by next Christmas
Eve. That, of course, can never be, so my beautiful bride is safe;" and
he looked at me with a savage leer.

"Have you brought me here to tell me that?"

"No; but to tell you a little good news. I have decided to hold you as
the slave to my will until the day Miss Gertrude Forrest becomes Mrs.
Herod Voltaire, and then to set you free. Meanwhile, I want to give you
a few instructions."

"What are they?"

"You are not to take one step in trying to prove that Kaffar is alive."

"Ah!" I cried; "you fear I might produce him. Then I have not killed
him, even through you. Thank God! thank God!"

"Stop your pious exclamations," he said. "No, you are wrong. You did
kill Kaffar, and he lies at the bottom of yonder ghostly pool; so that
is not the reason. Why I do not wish you to search for him is that
thereby you might find out things about me that I do not wish you to
do. In such a life as mine there are naturally things that I do not wish
known. In going to my old haunts, trying to unearth Kaffar, you would
learn something about them. And so I command you," he continued, in a
hoarse tone that made me shudder, "that you do not move one step in that
direction. If you do--well, you know my power."

From that moment I felt more enslaved than ever. I shuddered at the
thought of disobeying him; I felt more than ever a lost man. As I felt
at that moment, in spite of my desire to let every one know this man's
power over me, I would rather have pulled out my tongue than have done
so.

"Are those all your commands?" I said humbly.

"Ah! you are cowed at last, are you?" he said mockingly. "You matched
your strength with mine; now you know what it means. You did not think I
could crush you like a grasshopper, did you? Yes, I have one other
command for you. You must go to London to-morrow, and go on with your
old work. You must not hold any communication with Miss Forrest, my
affianced bride. I myself am going to London to-day, and most likely
shall remain there for a while. Perhaps I shall want to see you
occasionally. If I do, you will quickly know. I shall have no need to
tell you my address;" and he laughed a savage laugh.

"Is that all?" I said.

"That is all. You will come to the wedding, Mr. Blake. You shall see her
arrayed for her husband, dressed all in white, as a bride should be. You
shall see her lips touch mine. You shall see us go away together--the
woman you love, and the man who has crushed you as if you were a worm."

This maddened me. By a tremendous effort of will I was free. "That shall
never be. Somehow, some way, I will thwart you," I cried. "I will free
myself from you; I will snap your cruel chain asunder."

"I defy you!" he said. "You can do nothing that I have commanded you not
to do. For the rest I care not a jot."

He went away, leaving me alone, and then all the sensations of the
previous nights came back to me. I remembered what the ghost was
supposed to foretell, and the evil influence the dark pond was said to
have. I saw again the large red hand on the water's surface. I recalled
dimly the struggle, the fighting, the strange feeling I had as my senses
began to leave me. Could I have killed him? If I did, I was guiltless
of crime. It was not my heart that conceived the thought; it was not I
who really did the deed. I had no pangs of conscience, no feeling of
remorse, and yet the thought that I had hurried a man into eternity was
horrible.

I wandered in the plantation for hours, brooding, thinking, despairing.
No pen can describe what I felt, no words can convey to the mind the
thoughts and pains of my mind and heart. Never did I love Miss Forrest
so much, never was Voltaire's villainy so real; and yet I was to lose
her, and that man--a fiend in human form--was to wed her. I could do
nothing. He had paralyzed my energies. He had set a command before me
which was as ghastly as hell, and yet I dared not disobey. I, a young,
strong man, was a slave--a slave of the worst kind. I was the plaything,
the tool of a villain. I had to do as he told me; I had to refrain from
doing what he told me I was not to do. I had done I knew not what.
Perchance a hangman's rope was hanging near me even now. I could not
tell. And yet I dared not rise from my chains, and see whether the
things I had been accused of doing were true.

I went back to the house. Voltaire was gone, while the guests and family
were having their lunch. I felt that I could not join them, so I went
into the library. I had not been there ten minutes when Miss Forrest
entered. She looked pale and worried. I suppose that I, too, must have
been haggard, for she started when she saw me. She hesitated a moment,
and then spoke.

"The whole party are going for a ride this afternoon. They have just
been making arrangements. They are going to ask you to join them. Shall
you go?" she asked.

"No; I shall not go," I replied.

"Will you come here at three o'clock?"

"Yes," I said, wondering what she meant; but I had not time to ask her,
for two young men came into the room.

I went to my room and tried to think, but I could not. My mind refused
to work. I watched the party ride away--it was comparatively small now,
for several had returned to their homes--and then I found my way to the
library.

I sat for a while in silence, scarcely conscious of my surroundings; and
then I wondered how long Miss Forrest would be before she came, and what
she would tell me. The clock on the mantelpiece began to strike three;
it had not finished when she entered the room.

I placed a chair for her beside my own, which she accepted without a
word.

For a minute neither of us spoke; then she said abruptly, "You told me
you loved me when we rode out together the other day."

"I did," I said, "and I do love you with all the intensity that a human
heart is capable of loving; but it is hopeless now."

"Why?"

"You have promised to marry another man."

"What do you know of this?"

Both of us were very excited. We were moved to talk in an unconventional
strain.

"Mr. Temple told me of your interview together last night."

A slight flush came to her face. "But Mr. Temple has told you the
condition of the promise as well," she said.

"Yes; but that condition makes me hopeless."

"What!" she cried. "But no, I will not entertain such a thought. You are
as innocent as I am."

"Yes, I am innocent in thought, in intent, and in heart; but as for the
deed itself, I know not."

"I do not understand you," she said; "you speak in words that convey no
meaning to my mind. Will you explain?"

"I cannot, Miss Forrest. I would give all I possess if I could. I have
nothing that I would keep secret from you, and yet I cannot tell you
that which you would know."

Did she understand me? Did her quick mind guess my condition? I could
not tell, and yet a strange look of intelligence flashed from her eyes.

"Mr. Blake," she said, "my soul loathes the thought of marrying that
man. If ever my promise has to be fulfilled, I shall die the very day on
which he calls me wife."

My heart gave a great throb of joy; her every word gave me hope in spite
of myself.

"Mr. Blake," she continued, "I never must marry him."

"God grant you may not," I said.

"I must not," she said, "and you must keep me from danger."

"I, Miss Forrest! I would give the world if I could: but how can I? You
do not know the terrible slavery that binds me, neither can I tell you."

"I shall trust in you to deliver me from this man," she went on without
heeding me. "You must prove yourself to be innocent."

"To do that I must bring this man Kaffar. I know nothing of him. I could
never find him. Oh, I tell you, Miss Forrest, a thousand evil powers
seem to rend me when I attempt to do what I long for."

"I shall trust in you," she cried. "Surely you are sufficiently
interested in me to save me from a man like Voltaire?"

"Interested?" I cried. "I would die for you, I love you so. And yet I
can do nothing."

"You can do something; you can do everything. You can save me from him."

"Oh," I cried, "I know I must appear a pitiful coward to you. It is for
me you have placed yourself in this position, while I refuse to try to
liberate you from it. If I only could; if I dared! But I am chained on
every hand."

"But you are going to break those chains; you are going to be free; you
are going to be happy."

Her words nerved me. The impossible seemed possible, and yet everything
was misty.

"Only one thing can make me happy," I said, "and that can never be now.
I have lost my strength; I am become a pitiful coward."

"You are going to be happy!" she repeated.

"Miss Forrest," I said, "do not mock me. My life for days has been a
hell. I have had a terrible existence; no light shines in the sky. You
cannot think what your words mean to me, or you would not speak them."

"Will you not, for my sake, if not for your own, exert yourself? Will
you not think of my happiness a little? The thought of marrying that
man is madness."

"Miss Forrest," I cried, "you must think I have lost all manhood, all
self-respect, when you hear what I say; but the only thing that could
make me think of trying to do what is ten thousand times my duty to do,
is that you will give me some hope that, if I should succeed, you will
be the wife of such a poor thing as I am."

She looked at me intently. She was very pale, and her eyes shone like
stars. Beautiful she looked beyond compare, and so grand, so noble. She
was tied down to no conventionalities; whither her pure true heart led
her, she followed.

"If you succeed," she said, "I will be your wife."

"But not simply from a feeling of pity?" I cried. "I could not let you
do that. I have manliness enough for that even yet."

"No," she said proudly, "but because you are the only man I ever did or
can love."

For a minute I forgot my woes, my pains. No ghastly deed taunted me with
its memory, no dark cloud hung in the skies. I felt my Gertrude's lips
against mine; I felt that her life was given to me. I was no longer
alone and desolate; a pure, beautiful woman had trusted me so fully, so
truly, that hope dawned in my sky, and earth was heaven.

"Now, Justin," she said, after a few minutes of happy silence, "you must
away. Every hour may be precious. God knows how gladly I would be with
you, but it must not be. But remember, my hope lies in you, and my love
is given to you. God bless you!"

She went away then and left me; while I, without knowing why, prepared
to start for London.

I had a great work to do. I had, if I was to win Gertrude for my wife,
to break and crush Voltaire's power over me. I had to find Kaffar, if he
was to be found, and that to me was an awful uncertainty, and I had to
bring him to Gertrude before the next Christmas Eve.

Away from her the skies were dark again, great heavy weights rested on
my heart, and my life seemed clogged. Still her love had nerved me to do
what I otherwise could never have done. It had nerved me to try; and so,
with her warm kiss burning on my lips, I hurried off to the great
metropolis without any definite idea why I was going.




CHAPTER XIV

GOD


For the next three months I was an atheist! These are easy words to
write, but terrible to realize. No one but those who know can tell the
terror of a man who has given up belief in an Eternal Goodness, in a
living God that cares for man.

I left Yorkshire with some little hope in my heart--the memory of
Gertrude's words was with me, cheering me during the long ride; but when
once alone in my rooms, nothing but a feeling of utter desolation
possessed my heart. The terrible night on the Yorkshire moors came back
again, the dark forbidding waters, the ghastly red hand, the gleaming
knife, the struggle--all were real. Did I kill him? I did not know.
Possibly I was a murderer in act, if not in thought. I could not bear to
think of it. Who can bear to think of having taken away a
fellow-creature's life? And he might be lying in Drearwater Pond even
then!

Then there was the terrible spell that this man had cast upon me. I felt
it clinging to every fibre of my being. I was not living a true life; I
was living a dual life. A power extraneous to myself, and yet possessing
me, made me a mere machine. As the days and weeks passed away things
became worse. I promised Gertrude to exert myself to find Kaffar, to set
her free from her promise to Voltaire; but I could not do it. His
command was upon me. I felt that it was ever in his mind that I should
not make any efforts, and I had to obey. And his power was evil, his
motives were fiendish, his nature was depraved. Still preachers talked
of a loving God, of the good being stronger than the evil. It could not
be.

"Try! Try! Resist! Resist! Struggle! Struggle!" said hope and duty and
love; and I tried, I resisted, I struggled. And still I was bound in
chains; still I was held by a mysterious occult power.

Then it ceased to feel to be a duty to rid Gertrude of Voltaire. Why
should I struggle and resist? Supposing I succeeded, was I any more fit
to be her husband than he? What was I? At best a poor weak creature, the
plaything of a villain. At any time he could exert his power and make
me his slave. But I might be worse than that. I might, with my own hand,
have sent a man into eternity. How did I know it was Voltaire's power
that made me do the deed? Might not my blind passion have swept me on to
this dark deed? But that could not be. No, no; I could not believe that.
Besides, Voltaire had told me it was because of him. Still, I was not
fit to be her husband.

Then her words came back to me, and her pure influence gave me strength.
She, so pure, so true, had seemed to understand my position, had bid me
hope and be brave. She had told me she loved me--she, whom hundreds of
brave men would love to call their own. I would try again. I _would_
brake the chains Voltaire had forged; I WOULD hurl from me the incubus
that would otherwise crush me.

I tried again, and again; and again, and again I failed.

I did not pray. I could not. If God cared, I thought, He would help the
innocent. I was innocent in thought, and still I was not helped. God did
not care, for He helped me not. Months had passed away, and I had taken
no forward step. I was still enslaved. The preachers were wrong; God did
not care for the beings He had made.

There was no God.

God meant "the good one." "God is eternally good, all-powerful, if there
is a God. But there is not," I said. Evil was rampant. Every day vice
triumphed, every day virtue suffered. Goodness was not the strongest
force. Vice was conquering; evil powers were triumphant. Why should any
exception be made for me? If there is a God, evil would be checked,
destroyed; instead of which, it was conquering every day. There could be
no God; and if no God, good and evil were little more than names. We
were the sport of chance, and chance meant the destruction of anything
like moral responsibility. I could not help being constituted as I was,
neither could Voltaire help his nature. One set of circumstances had
surrounded his life, another mine, and our image and shape were
according to the force of these circumstances. As for a God who loved
us, it was absurd.

And yet who gave us love--made us capable of loving? Was love the result
of chance, which was in reality nothing? And again, whence the idea of
God, whence the longing for Him? Besides, did not the longing for Him
give evidence of His being?

But I will not weary the reader with my mental wanderings; they are
doubtless wearisome enough, and yet they were terribly real to me
Although I have used but a few pages of paper in hinting at them, they
caused me to lie awake through many a weary night.

Still no help came.

I went to a church one Sunday night. There was nothing of importance
that struck me during the service, save the reading of one of the
lessons. It was the story of the youth who was possessed with a devil,
which the disciples could not cast out. The minister was, I should
think, a good man, for he read it naturally, and with a great deal of
power; and when he came to the part where Jesus came and caused the evil
spirit to come out of him, my heart throbbed with joy. Was there hope
for me? Was Jesus Christ still the same wonderful power? Was He here
now--to help, to save?

That was at the end of three months.

I went home and prayed--prayed to be delivered from the evil power which
chained me.

I might as well have turned my thoughts in another direction for all the
good I could see it did me. The old numbing feeling still possessed me.
My little spark of faith began to die. It was foolishness to think of
God, I said.

A week later, I walked in Hyde Park. An evil influence seemed to draw me
in the direction of the Marble Arch. I had not gone far, when I met
Voltaire. I knew then that I was more in his power than ever. He did not
speak--he only looked; but it was a look of victory, of power.

I got into Oxford Street and got on a 'bus. Mechanically I bought a
paper, one of the leading dailies. Listlessly I opened it, and the first
words that caught my eyes were "Reviews of Books." I glanced down the
column, and saw the words, "David Elginbrod," by George Macdonald. "This
book is one of remarkable power," the paper went on to say, "and will
appeal to the highest class of minds. Its interest is more than
ordinary, because it deals with the fascinating subjects of Animal
Magnetism, Mesmerism, and Spiritualism. Moreover, Dr. Macdonald shows
what enormous power, for evil or for good, may be exerted by it; indeed,
the principal characters in the story are so influenced by it, that the
author is led to make quite a study of these occult sciences."

I did not read the review further; what I had read was sufficient to
determine me to buy the book. Accordingly, on my arrival in the City, I
obtained a copy; and then, with all possible haste, I made my way home,
and, throwing myself in a chair, sat down to read it.

I did not cease reading until I had finished what I regarded then, and
still regard, as one of the finest religious novels of the age. This may
seem to many extravagant praise; but when I remember the influence it
had on my life, I feel inclined to hold to my opinion.

Putting aside the other parts of the book, that in which I was so
fearfully interested might be briefly stated thus:--

Mesmerism and animal magnetism may be regarded as human forces. Those
possessing them, and thereby having the power to mesmerize, may
subjugate the will of those who are susceptible to mesmeric influences,
and hold them in a complete and terrible slavery. The oftener the victim
yields to the will of the mesmerist, the stronger will his power become.
There is only one means by which the person under this influence can be
free. This is by obtaining a strength superior to that of the mesmerist,
which is only to be realized by being in communion with a Higher Life,
and participating in that Life. Only the Divine power in the life of the
victim can make him possess a power superior to the mesmerist's.
Possessing that, he becomes free, because he possesses a life superior
to mere physical or human power.

The victim in the book is led to seek that Divine Life in her, and
although she loses her physical life, she dies freed from the terrible
thraldom which has been cursing her existence.