Unattained ambitions,and those who died before their time;those who tried,in a half-hearted way,to improve their opportunities,and accomplished something,and those who neglected them,and did still less--all are together here,the just with the unjust,though it be for the last time.The grave absorbs their bodies and ends their probationary record,from which there is no appeal."Near by were some open graves,ready to receive their occupants,while a little farther on he recognized the Cortlandt mausoleum,looking exactly as when shown him,through his second sight,by the spirit on the previous day.
From the graves filled recently,and from many others,rose threads of coloured matter,in the form of gases,the forerunners of miasma.He now perceived shadowy figures flitting about on the ground and in the air,from whose eyes poured streams of immaterial tears.Their brains,hearts,and vertebral columns were the parts most easily seen,and they were filled with an inextinguishable anguish and sorrow that from its very intensity made itself seen as a blue flame.The ruffles and knickerbockers in which some of these were attired,evidently by the effects of the thoughts in their minds,doubtless from force of habit from what they had worn on earth while alive,showed that they had been dead at least two hundred years.Ayrault also now found himself in street clothes,although when in his clubs he had worn a dress suit.
"Tell me,fellow-spirits,"he said,addressing them,"how can Icommunicate with one that is still alive?"They looked at him with moist eyes,but answered not a word.
"I attributed the misery in my heart,"thought Ayrault,"entirely to the distress at losing Sylvia,which God knows is enough;but though I suspected it before,I now see,by my companions,that Iam in the depths of hell."
CHAPTER XII.
SHEOL.
Failing to find words to convey his thoughts,he threw himself into an open grave,praying that the earth might hide his soul,as he had supposed it some day would hide his body.But the ground was like crystal,and he saw the white bones in the graves all around him.Unable to endure these surroundings longer,he rushed back to his old haunts,where he knew he should find the friends of his youth.He did not pause to go by the usual way,but passed,without stopping,through walls and buildings.Soon he beheld the familiar scene,and heard his own name mentioned.
But there was no comfort here,and what he had seen of old was but an incident to what he gazed on now.Praying with his whole heart that he might make himself heard,he stepped upon a foot-stool,and cried:
"Your bodies are decaying before me.You are burying your talents in the ground.We must all stand for final sentence at the last day,mortals and spirits alike--there is not a shadow of a shade of doubt.Your every thought will be known,and for every evil deed and every idle word God will bring us into judgment.The angel of death is among you and at work in your very midst.Are you prepared to receive him?He has already killed my body,and now that I can never die I wish there was a grave for my soul.I was reassured by a vision that told me Iwas safe,but either it was a hallucination,or I have been betrayed by some spirit.Last night I still lived,and my body obeyed my will.Since then I have experienced death,and with the resulting increased knowledge comes the loss of all hope,with keener pangs than I supposed could exist.Oh,that I had now their opportunities,that I might write a thesis that should live forever,and save millions of souls from the anguish of mine!Inoculate your mortal bodies with the germs of faith and mutual love,in a stronger degree than they dwelt in me,lest you lose the life above."But no one heard him,and he preached in vain.
He again rushed forth,and,after a half-involuntary effort,found himself in the street before his loved one's home.
Scarcely knowing why,except that it had become nature to wish to be near her,he stood for a long time opposite her dwelling.
"O house!"he cried,"inanimate object that can yet enthral me so,I stand before your cold front as a suppliant from a very distant realm;yet in my sadness I am colder than your stones,more alone than in a desolate place.She that dwells within you holds my love.I long for her shadow or the sound of her step.
I am more wretchedly in love than ever--I,an impotent,invisible spirit.Must I bear this sorrow in addition to my others,in my fruitless search for rest?My life will be a waking nightmare,most bitter irony of fate."The trees swayed above his head,and the moon,in its last quarter,looked dreamily at him.
"Ah,"thought Ayrault,"could I but sleep and be happy!
Drowsiness and weariness,fatigue's grasp is on me;or may Sylvia's nearness soothe,as her voice has brought me calm!
Quiet I may some day enjoy,but slumber again,never!I see that souls in hades must ever have their misdeeds before them.Happy man in this world,the repentant's sins are forgiven!You lose your care in sleep.Somnolence and drowsiness--balm of aching hearts,angels of mercy!Mortals,how blessed!until you die,God sends you this rest.When I recall summer evenings with Sylvia,while gentle zephyrs fanned our brows,I would change Pope's famous line to 'Man never is,but always HAS BEENblessed.'"
A clock in a church-steeple now struck three,the sound ringing through the still night air.
"It will soon be time for ghosts to go,"thought Ayrault."Imust not haunt her dwelling."
There was a light in Sylvia's study,and Ayrault remained meditatively gazing at it.
"Happy lamp,"he thought,"to shed your light on one so fair!
