A VISION AND A REALITY.

If Cuthbert Ellison ever forgets any portion of his eventful career, it will certainly not be the part connected with his sail that evening. The sun lay like a disc of fire upon the horizon's edge as he left the bay; his ruddy glare lit up the sea, the islands, and the cloudless heavens, and the effect grew even more weird and wonderful the further he sank into his crimson bed. Ellison put his boat about and steered directly for the sinking orb, the water churning into foam under the little vessel's bows as he progressed. He seemed hardly conscious of his actions. He sat in the stern-sheets staring straight ahead of him, seeing little or nothing of the sea around him, looking only through his mind's-eye at his home and the momentous event that was occurring there. His own sin and its consequences seemed as nothing to him now in the white light of his new and greater anxiety. If anything disastrous should befall his wife in his absence, if she should die before he could get back to her, what would happen to him then? In that case the sooner he himself died the better. The very idea of such a thing set him trembling like a leaf. He knew now exactly how much he cared for his wife, and in his present state that knowledge was not a soothing one. He realised what the world, his world, would be to him without her.

The sun sank lower and lower until only a flake of gold remained to show where he was taking his departure. With his total disappearance the wind dropped entirely, and the boat stood pulseless upon the pearly levels of the deep. Then from the corners of the world great shadows stole out to meet him. The evening star trembled in its place, and one by one her sisters came to watch with her. Sometimes a big fish rose near the boat, and disappeared again with a sullen splash, awed perhaps by the silence and solemnity of the world upon the surface. Far away to starboard he could discern the dim outline of the land, but all around him was only water—water—water. He furled the sail, and, to defend himself against the terror of his own thoughts, took to the oars. It was a heavy boat to pull, but he found comfort in thus tiring himself.

For nearly an hour he rowed on and on, the night closing in around him as he went. At last, thoroughly wearied, he drew in his oars, and again took his place in the stern. By this time it was quite dark. The stars shone now, not by ones or twos, but in their countless thousands. They were not, however, to shine for long, for in the east a curious trembling faintness foretold the rising of the moon. Little by little this indistinctness spread across the sky, and one by one the stars fell under its subtle influence and went back to their coffers in the treasure house of night. Then, with a beauty indescribable, a rim of gold looked up above the edge of the world, and grew every moment larger. It was the moon—the great round glorious tropic moon, and with her coming a broad track of silver was thrown by a giant hand across the ocean. On this the boat seemed but a tiny speck, a frail atom in that immensity of water. Not a sign of land was now to be seen anywhere, and to Ellison it seemed as if, in his anxiety, he had said good-bye to it forever. He stood up and looked around him. Still to right and left, before him and behind, was only water slowly heaving in the moonlight.

It had a curious effect upon his overstrung nerves, this expanse of moonlit water. A peculiar giddiness seized him. He sat down again and buried his face in his hands. Then suddenly something inside his head seemed to give way, and he looked up again. Whether he was mad for the time being, and really thought he saw the things he describes so vividly now, or whether he was dreaming, is a matter only for conjecture. At any rate, it seemed to him that from the place where he was, far removed from all the influences of the world, he saw a vision, the vision of the world's dead rising up to meet him. Sitting in the stern of his tiny boat, grasping the thwarts with either hand and looking out across the water, he watched and trembled. He saw the greatness of the deep opened as by a mighty hand. And from the void thus made, he witnessed a procession of the world's dead troop forth upon the silent waters like men walking on a silver road. There was no sound with them, not a footfall, neither a voice nor a rustle of garments. They came out of the east a mighty army, such as no man could number. They passed him where he sat and marched on again, still without a sound, towards the west. Every age and every nationality—semi-humans from the prehistoric ages, Israelites, Egyptians, Ethiopians, Medes, Persians, Assyrians, Babylonians, Goths, Greeks, Romans, Huns, and Norsemen; every race and every colour from the world's first death to the tiniest child giving up its little life at the moment that he looked was represented there. There were old men bowed down with the weight of years, young men in all the pride of manly strength, aged women, gentle matrons and young girls, children, and even tiny babes. Men slain in battle with their wounds still gaping on their shattered bodies; men drowned at sea, with the weeds of ocean twined about them; kings and nobles in their robes of state, priests in their sacred vestments, and peasants in their homespun; holy men in flowing garments, martyrs and those who fought with beasts at Ephesus; English wives and dark skinned African mothers—all were there. They approached him, looked at him, and then passed upon their way. Some had hope written in their faces, some despair, some ineffable peace, some the imprint of everlasting remorse. Not one but bore some mark to witness to the life he or she had pursued on earth. On and on they passed; already the procession seemed to stretch from pole to pole, and every moment was adding to their number. But there was no sound at all with them.

Suddenly an intense fear and dread came over Ellison, such as he had never experienced in his life before. Had this vision been sent to prepare him for some great sorrow? Was it possible that Esther could be among them? Surely if she were she would come to him. Hardly conscious of what he was doing, he clambered forrard in the boat, and resting his hands upon the gunwale, stared at the passing multitude. There were mothers in plenty with infants in their arms—but Esther was not among them. He searched and searched, and still the relentless march went on—still they stretched out across the seas. All the dead of the earth, century and century and bygone ages; all the dead of the sea and under the sea paraded before him, and still the march went on. From every quarter of the globe the army was recruited, and everyone paused to look at this distracted man. In sheer weariness of movement he called upon them to stop—to stop if only for a minute. His voice rang out across the deep, again and again. But there was no change; there could be no halting in that march of death. As fast as the last ranks appeared thousands more came from all quarters to carry it on again. At first he had been all dumb, senseless wonderment. Then suddenly his ears were opened, and a second awful terror seized and held him spell-bound. He tried to shut his eyes to them, but they would not be shut out; he tried to stop his ears, but now the tramp of that mighty army could not be prevented. On and on and on it went, clashing and clanging, rolling and thundering, coming out of the east and disappearing into the west. And over it all the moon shone down pitiless and cold as steel. He tried to cry for mercy, but this time his voice refused to answer to his call. He stretched out his hands in feeble, despairing supplication, but still the march went on. At last he could hold out no longer; he stood up, raised his arms to Heaven, and pleaded piteously. As if in answer his senses deserted him, and he fell back into the bottom of his boat in a dead faint.

When he recovered himself the sky was overcast with clouds. He looked about him half expecting to see the procession still parading past his boat, but it was gone. He was alone once more upon the waters, and, to add to his feeling of desolation, a soft rain was wetting him to the skin. How long he had lain there unconscious he could not tell. He looked at his watch, but it had stopped at half-past eight—the moment of his fall. A smart breeze was blowing, and, in a frenzy of recollection, he turned the boat's head for home, resolved to know the worst. In a moment he was tearing through the water like a thing possessed. This sense of rapid movement was just what his spirits needed; he could not go fast enough. A brisk sea was running, but over it his craft dashed like a flying stag. He could not be more than a dozen miles from the station at the very most—an hour's smart sailing. He shook out the reef he had taken in the canvas and let the boat do her best.

With a heart like this tiny cockle-shell borne upon the tossing, tumbling sea, one moment uplifted by hope, and the next falling deep down into the trough of despair, he sailed on and on. Every second was bringing him nearer and nearer to his home. Already through the haze he could make out the bold outline of the island. Ten minutes later he was abreast of it, skimming safely along out of reach of that white line of dashing breakers. Rounding the point, he caught a glimpse of the lights of the station. With a rush his fear gripped hold of him again, not to leave him till he knew the best or worst. Like a drunken man he drove his boat ashore, leaped out on the sands, and commenced to haul her up. It was only when he had done this that he became aware of something lying on the sand just above high-water mark. It was the body of a man stretched out at full length. Wondering whether he could be still under the influence of the nightmare that had held him so at sea, he approached it. To his intense surprise it was Murkard—dead drunk. Kneeling by his side, he shook him vigorously, but without result. He was insensible, and from all appearances likely to remain so for some hours to come. But even this did not strike Ellison as it would have done at any other time; it appeared to him to be part and parcel of the nightmare under the influence of which he had so long been labouring. Rising to his feet he bent over the man, took him in his arms, and bore him up the hill to the hut.

No sound came from his own dwelling; indeed, had it not been for the light burning in the little sitting room window it might have been uninhabited. Having laid his burden on the bed, he retraced his steps and went across to know his fate. As he approached the house he became conscious of a figure sitting in the veranda. When it rose, and came softly out to meet him, he recognised his friend the doctor. Ellison's tongue refused its office, his throat was like a lime-kiln. The other saw his state, and in a whisper said:

"I have waited here to congratulate you. You ought to be a happy man. Your wife and son are doing excellently well."

Ellison reeled as if he had received a blow.

"Mother and son!" he managed to gasp. "Oh, my God, you're not deceiving me?"

As if in answer a little thin wail stole out from the house into the darkness, a little cry that went straight and plump to the very centre of the father's heart. It was true, then? There could be no deception about that!

"Oh, thank God! thank God!"

Again that feeble little voice came out to them, and again Ellison's nature was stirred to its lowest depths. All the world seemed centred in that tiny wail.

"And how is she? There is no danger? For mercy's sake tell me candidly. You don't know what I've suffered these last few hours."

"Your wife is doing wonderfully well. You need have no fear now. The old woman who is with her is an excellent nurse, and I shall come across first thing in the morning. I only waited to have the pleasure of telling you this myself."

"How can I thank you? And you have been sitting here so long in the dark without anyone to look after you. You must think me inhospitable to the last degree. Come inside now."

They went into the room, and Ellison set refreshment before the doctor. He would, however, not touch a drop himself.

"I dare not," he said, in reply to the other's look of astonishment. "In the state I'm in I should be dead drunk if I drank a thimbleful. I can tell you I wouldn't live this night again for something."

"I wouldn't be answerable for your brain if you did," the doctor replied, glancing at the haggard face before him. "What on earth have you been doing with yourself! You look as if you'd been communing with the Legions of the Dead."

"So I have—so I have. You've just hit it. That's what I have been doing. I've seen the dead of all the world troop past me to-night."

"Give me your wrist."

He spoke in a tone of command, and almost unconsciously Ellison extended one arm. The doctor placed his finger on the pulse.

"Nothing much the matter there. You only want a good night's sleep now the anxiety's over, and I prophesy you'll be as fit as a fiddle to-morrow. I shouldn't be at all surprised if you tell me you're the proudest father in the hemisphere. Bless you, I know your sort!"

Ellison laughed softly, but for all that it was a mirthless laugh. He had not recovered yet from the shock of all he had undergone that evening.

"When may I see her?"

"She is asleep now. When she wakes, perhaps. The nurse, however, will settle that point. You must abide strictly by what she says for a week or two. Above all you must not frighten your wife with that face. Make that more cheerful before you go in, or I'll keep you away from her for a month."

"I'd break your neck if you did. And I'm pretty muscular even now."

"I'll take that assertion on trust. Now I must be going."

"I'll see you down to your boat."

They walked to the shore together. One of the Kanaka hands was in waiting to put the doctor across. When the little craft had disappeared from view, Ellison went back to the house. He was bathing in a sea of happiness. His fondest dream was realised. He went into the sitting room and threw himself upon the sofa. He had hardly been there a minute before the door opened, and Mrs. Fenwick appeared bearing in her arms a bundle. He sprang to his feet once more, trembling in every limb.

"I'm sure I wish you joy, sir," she began, as she came towards him. "He's the noblest boy I've seen these many years; I ought to know, for I've nursed a-many."

She parted the blankets that enshrined the treasure, and Ellison looked down on the little face.

"Take him in your own arms, sir. It's a proud father you ought to be."

For the first time in his life Ellison held his son in his arms. How sweet and desirable the world seemed to him then. In spite of everything that had gone before he would not have changed places with any man who breathed. But he was not to be permitted the honour of holding the infant long.

"When may I see my wife?" he asked, as he laid the babe back in his nurse's arms.

"I'll call you when she wakes, sir."

For nearly an hour he was left alone. The little clock on the mantelpiece ticked off the score. Not a sound came from the outer world save the monotonous thunder of the surf upon the reef. He contrasted this night with that when, after the fight at the Hotel of All Nations, he had waited on the side of the hill, wondering what the morrow would bring forth, and whether it was too late for him to pull up and save himself. But he had pulled up, and now he——

Again a knock came to the door, and once more Mrs. Fenwick entered the room.

"She is awake now, sir. If you would like to see her for a moment, you can do so. But you must be careful not to excite her."

Ellison gave his promise, and followed the woman into his wife's room. Esther looked very white and thin; but it was evident she was glad to see him. Her pretty hair straggled across the pillow, and her great eyes looked into his with a love that nothing could ever quench. One hand lay on the coverlet; he took it softly in his, and raised it to his lips. A little smile of intense happiness hovered round her mouth. Suddenly he seemed to remember. Turning to the nurse, he whispered:

"Give me the child."

Without a word she did as she was ordered, and again Cuthbert Ellison held his new-born son in his arms. Then stooping, with all the tenderness his nature was capable of, he laid the sleeping babe within the hollow of the mother's arm. And bending over her, he kissed her on the lips.

"God bless and keep you both," he said, and softly hurried from the room, his heart overflowing with joy and thankfulness.