O eyes of pale forget-me-not blue,

Wash’d more pale by a dreamy dew!

O red red lips, O dainty tresses,

O heart the breath of the world distresses!

O little lady, do they divine

That they have fathomed thee and thine?

Fools! let them fathom lire, and beat

Light in a mortar; ay, and heat

Soul in a crucible! Let them try

To conquer the light, and the wind, and the sky!

Darkly the secret faces lurk,

We know them least where most they work;

And here they meet to mix in thee,

For a strange and mystic entity,

Making of thy pale soul, in truth,

A life half trickery and half truth!

Ballads of St. Abe.

Moxmouth Crescent, Bays water, is one of those forlorn yet thickly populated streets which lie under the immediate dominion of the great Whiteley, of Westbourne Grove. The houses are adapted to limited means and large families; and in front of them is an arid piece of railed-in ground, where crude vegetable substances crawl up in the likeness of trees and grass. The crescent is chiefly inhabited by lodging-house and boarding-house keepers, City clerks, and widows who advertise for persons ‘to share the comforts of a cheerful home,’ with late dinners and carpet balls in the evening. It is shabby-genteel, impecunious, and generally depressing.

To one of the dingiest houses in this dingy crescent, Professor Mapleleafe, after his interview with our hero, cheerfully made his way.

He took the ’bus which runs along Marylebone Road to the Royal Oak, and thence made his way on foot to the house door. In answer to his knock the door was opened by a tall red-haired matron wearing a kitchen apron over her black stuff dress. Her complexion was sandy and very pale, her eyes were bold and almost fierce, her whole manner was selfassertive and almost aggressive; but she greeted the Professor with a familiar smile, as with a friendly nod he passed her by, hastening upstairs to the first floor.

He opened a door and entered a large room furnished in faded crimson velvet, with a dining-room sideboard at one end, cheap lithographs on the walls, and mantelpiece ornamented with huge shells and figures in common china.

The room was quite dark, save for the light of a small paraffin lamp with pink shade; and on a sofa near the window the figure of a young woman was reclining, drest in white muslin, and with one arm, naked almost to the shoulder, dabbling in a small glass water tank, placed upon a low seat, and containing several small water-lilies in full bloom.

Anyone who had seen the photograph which the Professor had left behind him in the clergyman’s house, would have recognised the original at a glance. There was the same petite almost child-like figure, the same loose flowing golden hair, the same elfin-like but pretty face, the same large, wild, lustrous eyes. But the face of the original was older, sharper, and more care-worn than might have been guessed from the picture. It was the face of a woman of about four-or five-and-twenty, and though the lips were red and full-coloured, and the eyes full of life and lightness, the complexion had the dulness of chronic ill-health.

The hand which hung in the water, playing with the lily-leaves, was thin and transparent, but the arm was white as snow and beautifully rounded.

The effect would have been perfectly poetic and ethereal, but it was spoiled to some extent by the remains of a meal which stood on the table close by—a tray covered with a soiled cloth, some greasy earthenware plates, the remains of a mutton chop, potatoes and bread.

As the Professor entered, his sister looked up and greeted him by name.

‘You are late, Salem,’ she said with an unmistakeable American accent. ‘I was wondering what kept you.’

‘I’ll tell you,’ returned the Professor.

‘I’ve been having a talk with Mr. Ambrose Bradley, at his own house. I gave him our lines of introduction. I’m real sorry to find that he’s as ignorant as a redskin of the great science of solar biology, and the way he received me was not reassuring—indeed, he almost showed me the door.’

‘You’re used to that, Salem,’ said Eustasia with a curious smile.

‘Guess I am,’ returned the Professor dryly; ‘only I did calculate on something different from a man of Bradley’s acquirements, I did indeed. However, he’s just one of those men who believe in nothing by halves or quarters, and if we can once win him over to an approval of our fundamental propositions, he’ll be the most valuable of all recruits to new causes—a hot convert.’

The woman sighed—a sigh so long, so weary, that it seemed to come from the very depths of her being, and her expression grew more and more sad and ennuyÉe, as she drew her slender fingers softly through the waters of the tank.

‘Ain’t you well to-night, Eustasia?’ inquired the Professor, looking at her with some concern.

‘As well as usual,’ was the reply. ‘Suppose European air don’t suit me; I’ve never been quite myself since I came across to this country.’

Her voice was soft and musical enough, and just then, when a peculiar wistful light filled the faces of both, it was quite possible to believe them to be brother and sister. But in all other outward respects, they were utterly unlike.

‘Tell me more about this young clergyman,’ she continued after a pause. ‘I am interested in him. The moment I saw him I said to myself he is the very image of—of——

She paused without finishing the sentence, and looked meaningly at her brother.

‘Of Ulysses E. Stedman, you mean?’ cried the Professor, holding up his forefinger. ‘Eustasia, take care! You promised me never to think of him any more, and I expect you to keep your word.’

‘But don’t you see the resemblance?’

‘Well, I dare say I do, for Ulysses was well-looking enough when he wasn’t in liquor. Don’t talk about him, and don’t think about him! He’s buried somewhere down Florida way, and I ain’t sorry on your account neither.’

‘Killed! murdered! and so young!’ cried the girl with a cry so startling, and so full of pain, that her brother looked aghast. As he spoke, she drew her dripping right hand from the tank and placed it wildly upon her forehead. The water-drops streamed down her face like tears, while her whole countenance looked livid with pain.

‘Eustasia!’

‘I loved him, Salem! I loved him with all my soul!’

‘Well, I know you did,’ said the little man soothingly. ‘I warned you against him, but you wouldn’t listen. Now that’s all over; and as for Ulysses being murdered, he was killed in a free fight, he was, and he only got what he’d given to many another. Don’t you take on, Eustasia! If ever you marry, it will be a better man than he was.’

‘Marry?’ cried the girl with a bitter laugh. ‘Who’d marry me? Who’d ever look at such a thing as I am? Even he despised me, Salem, and thought me a cheat and an impostor. Wherever we go, it’s the old story. I hate the life; I hate myself. I’d rather be a beggar in the street than what I am.’

‘Don’t underreckon yourself, Eustasia! Don’t underreckon your wonderful gifts!’

‘What are my gifts worth?’ said Eustasia.

‘Can they bring him back to me? Can they bring back those happy, happy days we spent together? Haven’t I tried, and tried, and tried, to get a glimpse of his face, to feel again the touch of his hand; and he never comes—he will never come—never, never! I wish I was with him in the grave, I do.’

Her grief was truly pitiable, yet there was something querulous and ignoble in it too, which prevented it from catching the tone of true sorrow. For the rest, the man whose memory awakened so much emotion had been pretty much what the Professor described him to be—a handsome scoundrel, with the manners of a gentleman and the tastes of a rowdy. A professional gambler, he had been known as one of the most dangerous adventurers in the Southern States, having betrayed more women, and killed more men, than any person in his district. A random shot had at last laid him low, to the great relief of the respectable portion of the community.

The Professor eyed his sister thoughtfully, waiting till her emotion had subsided. He had not long to wait. Either the emotion was shallow itself, or Eustasia had extraordinary power of self-control. Her face became comparatively untroubled, though it retained its peculiar pallor; and reaching out her hand, she again touched the water and the lilies swimming therein.

‘Salem!’ she said presently.

‘Yes, Eustasia.’

‘Tell me more about this Mr. Bradley. Is he married?’

‘Certainly not.’

‘Engaged to be married?’

‘I believe so. They say he is to marry

Miss Craik, the heiress, whom we saw in church to-day.’

Eustasia put no more questions; but curiously enough, began crooning to herself, in a low voice, some wild air. Her eyes flashed and her face became illuminated; and as she sang, she drew her limp hand to and fro in the water, among the flowers, keeping time to the measure. All her sorrow seemed to leave her, giving place to a dreamy pleasure. There was something feline and almost forbidding in her manner. She looked like a pythoness intoning oracles:

Dark eyes aswim with sibylline desire,

And vagrant locks of amber!

Her voice was clear though subdued, resembling, to some extent, the purring of a cat.

‘What are you singing, Eustasia?’

‘“In lilac time when blue birds sing,” Salem.’

‘What a queer girl you are!’ cried the Professor, not without a certain wondering admiration. ‘I declare I sometimes feel afraid of you. Anyone could see with half an eye that we were brother and sister only on one side of the family. Your mother was a remarkable woman, like yourself. Father used to say sometimes he’d married a ghost-seer; and it might have been, for she hailed from the Highlands of Scotland. At any rate, you inherit her gift.’

Eustasia ceased her singing, and laughed again—this time with a low, self satisfied gladness.

‘It’s all I do inherit, brother Salem,’ she said; adding, in a low voice, as if to herself, ‘But it’s something, after all.’

‘Something!’ cried the Professor. ‘It’s a Divine privilege, that’s what it is! To think that when you like you can close your eyes, see the mystical coming and going of cosmic forces, and, as the sublime Bard expresses it,

Penetrate where no human foot hath trod

Into the ever-quickening glories of God,

See star with star conjoin’d as soul with soul,

Swim onward to the dim mysterious goal,

Hear rapturous breathings of the Force which flows

From founts where the eternal godhead glows!

I envy you, Eustasia; I do, indeed.’

Eustasia laughed again, less pleasantly.

‘Guess you don’t believe all that. Sometimes I think myself that it’s all nervous delusion.’

‘Nervous force you mean. Well, and what is nervous force but solar being? What you see and hear is as real as—as real as—spiritual photography. Talking of that, I gave Mr. Bradley one of your pictures, taken under test conditions.’

‘You gave it him?’

‘Dropt it in his room, where he’s certain to find it.’

‘Why did you do that?’ demanded the girl almost sharply.

‘Why? Because, as I told you, I want to win him over. Such a man as he is will be invaluable to us, here in England. He has the gift of tongues, to begin with; and then he knows any number of influential and wealthy people. What we want now, Eustasia, is money.’

‘We always have wanted it, as long as I can remember.’

‘I don’t mean what you mean,’ cried the Professor indignantly. ‘I mean money to push the great cause, to propagate the new religion, to open up more and more the arcanum of mystic biology. We want money, and we want converts. If we can win Bradley over to our side, it won’t be a bad beginning.’

‘Who is to win him over? I?’

‘Why, of course. You must see him, and when you do, I think it is as good as done. Only mind this, Eustasia! Keep your head cool, and don’t go spooning. You’re too susceptible, you are! If I hadn’t been by to look after you, you’d have thrown yourself away a dozen times.’

Eustasia smiled and shook her head. Then, with a weary sigh, she arose.

‘I’ll go to bed now, Salem.’

‘Do—and get your beauty-sleep. You’ll want all your strength to-morrow. We have a seance at seven, at the house of Mrs. Upton. Tyndall is invited, and I calculate you’ll want to have all your wits about you.’

‘Good night!’

‘Good night,’ said the Professor, kissing her on the forehead; then, with a quiet change from his glib, matter-of-fact manner to one of real tenderness, he added, looking wistfully into her eyes, ‘Keep up your spirits, Eustasia! We shan’t stay here long, and then we’ll go back to America and take a long spell of rest.’ Eustasia sighed again, and then glided from the room. She was so light and fragile that her feet seemed to make no sound, and in her white floating drapery she seemed almost like a ghost.

Left alone, the Professor sat down to the table, drew out a pencil and number of letters, and began making notes in a large pocket-book.

Presently he paused thoughtfully, and looked at the door by which Eustasia had retreated.

‘Poor girl!’ he muttered. ‘Her soul’s too big for her body, and that’s a fact. I’m afraid she’ll decline like her mother, and die young.’