"Oh,for a proof,"he prayed,"that no sane man can doubt!My faith is implicit in the bishop and the vision,and I feel that in some way I shall return to earth ere the close of another day,for I know I am awake,and that this is no dream."A fire burned in the mouth of the cave,within which Bearwarden and Cortlandt lay sleeping.The specks of mica in the rocks reflected its light,but in addition to this a diffused phosphorescence filled the place,and the large sod-covered stones they used for pillows emitted purple and dark red flames.
"Is that you,Dick?"asked Bearwarden,awaking and groping about.
"We built up the fire so that you should find the camp,but it seems to have gone down."Saying which,he struck a match,whereupon Ayrault ceased to see the phosphorescence or bluish light.At that moment a peal of thunder awakened Cortlandt,who sat up and rubbed his eyes.
"I think,"said Ayrault,"I will go to the Callisto and get our mackintoshes before the rain sets in."Whereupon he left his companions,who were soon again fast asleep.
The sky had suddenly become filled with clouds,and Ayrault hastened towards the Callisto,intending to remain there,if necessary,until the storm was over.For about twenty minutes he hurried on through the growing darkness,stopping once on high ground to make sure of his bearings,and he had covered more than half the distance when the rain came on in a flood,accompanied by brilliant lightning.Seeing the huge,hollow trunk of a fallen tree near,and not wishing to be wet through,Ayrault fired several solid shots from his revolver into the cavity,to drive out any wild animals there might be inside,and then hurriedly crawled in,feet first.He next drew in his head,and was congratulating himself on his snug retreat,when the sky became lurid with a flash of lightning,then his head dropped forward,and he was unconscious.
CHAPTER XI.
DREAMLAND TO SHADOWLAND.
As Ayrault's consciousness returned,he fancied he heard music.
Though distant,it was distinct,and seemed to ring from the ether of space.Occasionally it sounded even more remote,but it was rhythmical and continuous,inspiring and stirring him as nothing that he had ever heard before.Finally,it was overcome by the more vivid impressions upon his other senses,and he found himself walking in the streets of his native city.It was spring,and the trees were white with buds.The long shadows of the late afternoon stretched across the way,but the clear sky gave indication of prolonged twilight,and the air was warm and balmy.Nature was filled with life,and seemed to be proclaiming that the cold was past.
As he moved along the street he met a funeral procession.
"What a pity,"he thought,"a man should die,with summer so near at hand!"He was also surprised at the keenness of his sight;for,inclosed in each man's body,he saw the outline of his soul.But the dead man's body was empty,like a cage without a bird.He also read the thoughts in their minds.
"Now,"said a large man in the carriage next the hearse,"I may win her,since she is a widow."The widow herself kept thinking:"Would it had been I!His life was essential to the children,while I should scarcely have been missed.I wish I had no duties here,and might follow him now."While pondering on these things,he reached Sylvia's house,and went into the little room in which he had so often seen her.The warm southwesterly breeze blew through the open windows,and far beyond Central Park the approaching sunset promised to be beautiful.The table was covered with flowers,and though he had often seen that variety,he had never before noticed the marvellous combinations of colours,while the room was filled with a thousand delicious perfumes.The thrush hanging in the window sang divinely,and in a silver frame he saw a likeness of himself.
"I have always loved this room,"he thought,"but it seems to me now like heaven."He sat down in an arm-chair from force of habit,to await his fiancee.
"Oh,for a walk with Sylvia by twilight!"his thoughts ran on,"for she need not be at home again till after seven."Presently he heard the soft rustle of her dress,and rose to meet her.Though she looked in his direction,she did not seem to see him,and walked past him to the window.She was the picture of loveliness silhouetted against the sky.He went towards her,and gazed into her deep-sea eyes,which had a far-away expression.
She turned,went gracefully to the mantelpiece,and took a photograph of herself from behind the clock.On its back Ayrault had scrawled a boyish verse composed by himself,which ran:
"My divine,most ideal Sylvia,O vision,with eyes so blue,'Tis in the highest degree consequential,To my existence in fact essential,That I should be loved by you."As she read and reread those lines,with his whole soul he yearned to have her look at him.He watched the colour come and go in her clear,bright complexion,and was rejoiced to see in her the personification of activity and health.Beneath his own effusion on the photograph he saw something written in pencil,in the hand he knew so well:
"Did you but know how I love you,No more silly things would you ask.
With my whole heart and soul I adore you--Idiot!goose!bombast!"
And as she glanced at it,these thoughts crossed her mind:"Ishall never call you such names again.How much I shall have to tell you!It is provoking that you stay away so long."He came still nearer--so near,in fact,that he could hear the beating of her heart--but she still seemed entirely unconscious of his presence.Losing his reserve and self-control,he impulsively grasped at her hands,then fell on his knees,and then,dumfounded,struggled to his feet.Her hands seemed to slip through his;he was not able to touch her,and she was still unaware of his presence.
Suddenly a whole flood of light and the truth burst upon him.He had passed painlessly and unconsciously from the dreamland of Saturn to the shadowland of eternity.The mystery was solved.
