A Journey in Other Worlds [119]
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