A Son of Perdition: An Occult Romance

Even in that heaven-world, despair seized him, when he found that the invisible barrier withheld him from his beloved. On her side she seemed equally desirous to come to him, and held out her arms in vain longing. On his face and her face were looks of appealing love baffled by the impossibility of meeting heart to heart. Then a shadow grew up between them swiftly; the shadow menacing and dark of a yellow-skinned man, rather like a Chinese, from whose throat ran a stream of blood. Who this man was Montrose could not tell, even though he had recognised Alice in a different guise. And the enemy – Montrose felt that the wounded creature was an enemy – grew larger and larger until the blackness of which he was part blotted out the splendour of the girl. Blotted out also the atmosphere of colour and music and radiancy, until Montrose, sinking downward in the gloom, opened his physical eyes to find himself seated in the chair opposite Eberstein. Only a single moment had elapsed, for the journey had been as swift as that of Mahomet to the seventh heaven mounted on Al Borak, but he seemed to have been away for hours. The discrepancy was to Montrose impossible to reconcile, even though he grasped confusedly the fact that he had been – in the Fourth Dimension say – where there is no time.

"You now know what Alice Enistor has to do with you," said Eberstein in a quiet impressive tone.

"I don't in one way," faltered the still bewildered young man, "and yet I do in another. All I can be certain of is that she is mine."

"Undoubtedly. She is yours and you are hers."

"Then why could we not come together?"

"The shadow of your sin came between and parted you."

"My sin?"

"That which you committed five thousand years ago," explained the doctor patiently. "Then, self-willed, self-centred, you would not wait the striking of the hour which would have made you one, and therefore, seeking to obtain your desire by force, you broke the Great Law. The Great Law broke you, as it breaks all who disobey. For many ages your soul and her soul have been asunder, but now in the fullness of time you meet again on this physical plane in new vestments of flesh. But your sin has not yet been expiated, and you cannot yet be one with her you love. The shadow stands between you twain and will stand until the debt is paid."

"The shadow – the man?" stammered Montrose confusedly.

"You owe him a life!"

"But he is my enemy. I feel strongly that he is my enemy."

"He was and is: it depends greatly upon you if he continues to be. If one obeys truly the Law of Love, one must not be angered even with one's enemy. What says the Blessed Son of the Most High God?"

As if the words had been placed in his mouth, Montrose replied softly: "Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you and persecute you!"

Eberstein bowed his stately head. "Such is the Law of Love."

Rubbing his eyes to make certain that he was entirely awake, Montrose sought for an interpretation. "I do not quite understand."

"There is no need for you to understand further, my friend. This much enlightenment has been vouchsafed you through the mercy of God. For the rest you must work and walk by faith, seeing as in a glass darkly, obeying the Great Law of your own free will, so that your unselfish love may cause hatred to cease."

"Whose hatred?"

"That of the man you sinned against. Only with the aid of the Blessed One!" – Eberstein made the sign of the cross – "can you prevent the Son of Perdition from descending into the Abyss."

"Who is the Son of Perdition?"

"Your enemy, whom Christ loves as He loves you. Your task is to make yourself a channel through which the grace of the Blessed One can freely pour for the salvation of this erring soul. Oh, think how glorious it is that you should be permitted to be the instrument of Christ in this mighty work."

"But I do not know how to go about the work!" exclaimed the bewildered man.

"Watch and pray, my son, for the time when you must act is near at hand. Only by making yourself receptive to the holy influence will you know how to act when the time is ripe."

"You will help me?"

"I am bound to help you since I am obedient to the Law. But much has to be done by yourself, Montrose. I cannot command, as each man has free-will with which even the Logos Himself does not interfere. Christ stands at the door of your heart, but will not enter unless you invite His entrance. Only by doing what you ought to do will the Spirit of Love enter and sup with you."

"But what am I to do?" demanded Montrose desperately.

"Ask your own heart."

"It says nothing."

"The time is not yet ripe for it to say anything. Watch and pray! Come," the doctor spoke in a more matter-of-fact tone, "it is growing late. Go home and sleep: you are becoming exhausted."

"But tell me, Eberstein, if I am right in what I think," pleaded Montrose earnestly. "I know intuitively that I met Miss Enistor in some previous life and that I loved her, as I love her now when we come together for the first time in this incarnation. I had all the feeling of being her friend. Oh what do I say! Friend is too weak a word – of being her lover. If I understand rightly, some sin committed by me has parted us, and that sin I have to expiate before we can come together again."

"That is the case. But ask me no more now. With the aid of the Blessed One you must work out your salvation in fear and trembling."

"Indicate my enemy and I shall forgive him for Alice's sake," cried the young man with impetuous generosity.

"You must forgive him for his own."

"How can I when I don't know why we are enemies?"

"You will know when it is necessary you should know."

Montrose passed his hands across his brow and stood up slowly. "It is all bewildering and difficult."

"Very bewildering and very difficult. I answered that question earlier in the evening. We talk in a circle. To do so is a waste of time. Good-night!"

Another question was trembling on Montrose's lips, but he refrained from putting it, and with a silent hand-shake departed slowly. Accustomed to come and go at will in this house, which was more a home to him than any habitation he had known, the young man descended the stairs and let himself out into the silent square. The balmy summer night was brilliant with stars, and charged with some mysterious healing influence, which soothed and relaxed his weary nerves. On all sides the great city was yet awake and alive with people, each one intent upon the realisation of his or her desire. But here, isolated from the roaring thoroughfares, the quadrangle was comparatively lonely and dark, as the passers-by were few and the lights widely scattered. The central gardens, with their trees and shrubs and turf and flowers, slept within the rusty iron railings, speaking every now and then as a wandering breeze woke the leaves to sigh and whisper. The hurrying steps of a wayfarer, the measured heavy tread of a policeman, the murmur of distant life: Montrose heard these things without hearing as it were, as without seeing he stared at the silent cats gliding through the shadows. He walked along, wrapped up in his own thoughts, seeking mechanically his rooms and bed.

Notwithstanding his accession to considerable wealth, the fortunate youth had but slightly changed his mode of living. He enjoyed better lodgings, better clothes, more nourishing food, and was free from the obligation of compulsory work to exist. But he still lived in unfashionable Bloomsbury, a quiet, inexpensive, and somewhat recluse life, not seeking to enter what is known as society. With his good looks and undeniable talents and newly acquired wealth, he would have been welcome to the gay throng who flutter in the sunshine of pleasure. But there was nothing in Montrose which responded to such aimless allurements. Once or twice friends had taken him to this house and that, where the butterflies gathered, and on this particular night Eberstein had induced him to dine at Mrs. Barrast's. But entertainments of all kinds bored Montrose immensely, and only the presence of Alice had aided him to endure the shallow chatter of his hostess and the artificiality of his surroundings. The after-events in Eberstein's room had both startled and awed him, so that he was still greatly moved by what had taken place when he reached his modest lodgings.

But, as common sense told him, thinking would not help him, as his thoughts spun in a circle and always brought him back to the same point. That point was the meeting with Alice and the weird feelings which contact with her personality had aroused in him. She belonged to his life in some way which he could not quite put into words, and he belonged to hers. They were together and yet apart, but what parted them it was impossible to say, as the vision had not indicated in detail the especial sin, or what had led to the commission of that sin. Soon he would know more – Eberstein had assured him of that. Therefore it would be best to wait for the knowledge. He had been given light enough in the darkness of the path to take the next step, and that light revealed Alice waiting for him to come to her. He was only too willing to do so, as the feeling that he loved her deeply grew with overwhelming swiftness. When she knew what was in his heart and he knew what was in hers, then the next step could be taken. What it might be and where it would lead to Montrose could not say.

However, the doctor had given him necessary instructions for the moment in the phrase "Watch and pray!" To watch for the dawning love in Alice and to pray that he might be worthy of such love seemed to be his task, and a very delightful task it would be. Therefore Montrose knelt down and prayed with all his clean heart that every possible blessing might befall the girl and that, if it was God's will, he might become her husband to cherish and protect her. Then he went to bed in a peaceful frame of mind. Sleep came to him almost immediately, but before his eyes closed he felt that Alice was near him, and knew that in some wordless manner Alice spoke to him.

"We have much to learn and there is pain in the learning," she whispered, "but we are together to suffer together."

"Suffering does not matter," said Montrose, as in a dream, "we are together!"

CHAPTER VIII

LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM

After the storm comes the calm, and when trouble has endured for a season peace descends to refresh the exhausted soul. Montrose had suffered a great deal during the five-and-twenty years of his present life, and it was time that he should enjoy a rest. Ever since he could remember, dark clouds had enshrouded him, and with a fainting heart he had groped his way through the gloom. The meeting with Eberstein had been the end of sorrow and the beginning of joy, for the doctor had bidden him raise his eyes to the hills made glorious by the rising sun. With the legacy of Lady Staunton the dawn had come, but only when he met Alice did Montrose feel that the sun was above the horizon. As by magic the darkness was swept away, and now he walked in golden sunshine, no longer alone. She was beside him, and he wondered how he could have endured life without her dear presence. For the next three weeks he was in heaven rather than on earth.

Of course the first desire of Montrose was to share with Alice the wonderful knowledge that he had acquired so strangely. But a note from Eberstein prevented this. The doctor wrote that he was going abroad for a few weeks, and that in the meanwhile Montrose was to tell the girl nothing of his late experiences. "Woo her as an ordinary youth woos an ordinary maid," said the letter. "She is yours and you are hers, so nothing can come between you for the time being. I say for the time being, since there is an ordeal which you must face before you stand before the altar. Whether you ever do stand there to take her as your wife depends upon your courage and forbearance and love. Meantime keep what you have seen and what you have heard to yourself. When I return I shall explain what is necessary for you to know!" This note was delivered the first thing in the morning after Montrose's weird experience, and when he called round to see Eberstein he found that the doctor had already departed for Paris. There was nothing left for him to do but to obey instructions.

Montrose did this very willingly. After all he was a man living in the world of men, and wished to make love like an ordinary person. Certainly Alice was an angel, and might not be satisfied with ordinary love-making, but she also was human, and appreciated the domesticity of life. Montrose remembered reading in some book Eberstein had lent him: "For every step you take in other planes, take two on the plane you know, since you are here to learn the lessons of this plane!" Thus the young man abandoned for the moment his search after super-physical knowledge and gave himself up to the joy of being an ordinary mortal. And in one way or another he hoped to elevate a commonplace wooing to a romantic passion, but all strictly within the limitations of the physical brain. When the gods descended from Olympus to follow after nymphs, they came as mere men. In a like way did Montrose set about his courting of Alice as the one woman in the world for him.

Mrs. Barrast quite approved of the romance. For a time she had been rather annoyed that so handsome and rich a young man had not laid himself at her feet. But being really good-natured, if extraordinarily vain, the little woman had ceased to play the part of dog in the manger, and forwarded the aim of Montrose by every means in her power. At heart she was a great match-maker like most women, and the fact that Montrose possessed Lady Staunton's wealth made her zealous to bring about the marriage. She looked upon herself as quite a dea ex machinâ, and, certain that all would turn out as she wished, had already arranged how the bridesmaids should be dressed, what people ought to be asked to the wedding, what present she would give, and where the young couple should spend their honeymoon. There was no doubt that Mrs. Barrast, like many another frivolous person, was a great hand at counting her chickens before they were hatched.

"But the dinky little things will come out of the eggs all right," she said to Alice, a week after that young lady had made the acquaintance of Montrose. "He's a nice boy and any one can see he's head over heels in love with you, my dear. But I wish you would dress in colours, Alice. It looks so silly for an engaged girl to go about in black."

"I am not engaged yet," replied Miss Enistor doubtfully, "and I never may be, Amy. My father has to be consulted."