A Journey in Other Worlds [124]
her in the right
and keep her from all harm! Sleep on, Sylvia. Sweet one, sleep.
Yon stars fade beside your eyes. Your thoughts and your soul are
fairer far than the east in this day's sunrise. I know what I
have lost. Ah, desolating knowledge! for I have read Sylvia's
heart, and know I was loved as truly as I loved. When Bearwarden
and Cortlandt break her the news--ah, God! will she live, and do
they yet know I am dead?"
Again came that spasm to shed spirit tears, and had he not known
it impossible he would have thought his heart must break.
The birds twittered, and the light grew, but Ayrault lay with his
face upon the ground. Finally the spirit of unrest drove him on.
He passed the barred door of his own house, through which he had
entered so often. It was unchanged, but seemed deserted. Next,
he went to the water-front, where he had left his yacht.
Invisibly and sadly he stood upon her upper deck, and gazed at
the levers, in response to his touch on which the craft had cleft
the waves, reversed, or turned like a thing of life.
"'Twas a pretty toy," he mused, "and many hours of joy have I had
as I floated through life on board of her."
As he moped along he beheld two unkempt Italians having a
piano-organ and a violin. The music was not fine, but it touched
a chord in Ayrault's breast, for he had waltzed with Sylvia to
that air, and it made his heart ache.
"Oh, the acuteness of my distress," he cried, "the utter depth of
my sorrow! Can I have no peace in death, no oblivion in the
grave? I am reminded of my blighted, hopeless love in all kinds
of unexpected ways, by unforeseen trifles. Oh, would I might,
indeed, die! May obliteration be my deliverer!"
"Poor fellows," he continued, glancing at the Italians, for he
perceived that neither of the players was happy; the pianist was
avaricious, while the violinist's natural and habitual jealousy
destroyed his peace of mind.
"Unhappiness seems the common lot," thought Ayrault. "Earth
cannot give that joy for which we sigh. Poor fellows! though you
rack my ears and distress my heart, I cannot help you now."
CHAPTER XIII.
THE PRIEST'S SERMON.
It being the first day of the week, the morning air was filled
with chimes from many steeples.
"Divine service always comforted in life," thought Ayrault,
"perchance it may do so now, when I have reached the state for
which it tried to prepare me."
Accordingly, he moved on with the throng, and soon was ascending
the heights of Morningside Park, after which, he entered the
cathedral. The priest whose voice had so often thrilled him
stood at his post in his surplice, and the choir had finished the
processional hymn. During the responses in the litany, and
between the commandments, while the congregation and the choir
sang, he heard their natural voices as of old ascending to the
vaulted roof and arrested there. He now also heard their
spiritual voices resulting from the earnestness of their prayers.
These were rung through the vaster vault of space, arousing a
spiritual echo beyond the constellations and the nebulae. The
service, which was that of the Protestant Episcopal Church,
touched him as deeply as usual, after which the rector ascended
the steps to the pulpit.
"The text, this morning," he began, "is from the eighth chapter
of St. Paul's Epistle to the Romans, at the eighteenth verse:
'For I reckon that the sufferings of this present time are not
worthy to be compared to the glory that shall be revealed in us.'
Let us suppose that you or I, brethren, should become a free and
disembodied spirit. A minute vein in the brain bursts, or a clot
forms in the heart. It may be a mere trifle, some unexpected
thing, yet the career in the flesh is ended, the eternal life of
the liberated spirit begun. The soul slips from earth's grasp,
as air from our fingers, and finds itself in the frigid,
boundless void of space. Yet, through some longing this
and keep her from all harm! Sleep on, Sylvia. Sweet one, sleep.
Yon stars fade beside your eyes. Your thoughts and your soul are
fairer far than the east in this day's sunrise. I know what I
have lost. Ah, desolating knowledge! for I have read Sylvia's
heart, and know I was loved as truly as I loved. When Bearwarden
and Cortlandt break her the news--ah, God! will she live, and do
they yet know I am dead?"
Again came that spasm to shed spirit tears, and had he not known
it impossible he would have thought his heart must break.
The birds twittered, and the light grew, but Ayrault lay with his
face upon the ground. Finally the spirit of unrest drove him on.
He passed the barred door of his own house, through which he had
entered so often. It was unchanged, but seemed deserted. Next,
he went to the water-front, where he had left his yacht.
Invisibly and sadly he stood upon her upper deck, and gazed at
the levers, in response to his touch on which the craft had cleft
the waves, reversed, or turned like a thing of life.
"'Twas a pretty toy," he mused, "and many hours of joy have I had
as I floated through life on board of her."
As he moped along he beheld two unkempt Italians having a
piano-organ and a violin. The music was not fine, but it touched
a chord in Ayrault's breast, for he had waltzed with Sylvia to
that air, and it made his heart ache.
"Oh, the acuteness of my distress," he cried, "the utter depth of
my sorrow! Can I have no peace in death, no oblivion in the
grave? I am reminded of my blighted, hopeless love in all kinds
of unexpected ways, by unforeseen trifles. Oh, would I might,
indeed, die! May obliteration be my deliverer!"
"Poor fellows," he continued, glancing at the Italians, for he
perceived that neither of the players was happy; the pianist was
avaricious, while the violinist's natural and habitual jealousy
destroyed his peace of mind.
"Unhappiness seems the common lot," thought Ayrault. "Earth
cannot give that joy for which we sigh. Poor fellows! though you
rack my ears and distress my heart, I cannot help you now."
CHAPTER XIII.
THE PRIEST'S SERMON.
It being the first day of the week, the morning air was filled
with chimes from many steeples.
"Divine service always comforted in life," thought Ayrault,
"perchance it may do so now, when I have reached the state for
which it tried to prepare me."
Accordingly, he moved on with the throng, and soon was ascending
the heights of Morningside Park, after which, he entered the
cathedral. The priest whose voice had so often thrilled him
stood at his post in his surplice, and the choir had finished the
processional hymn. During the responses in the litany, and
between the commandments, while the congregation and the choir
sang, he heard their natural voices as of old ascending to the
vaulted roof and arrested there. He now also heard their
spiritual voices resulting from the earnestness of their prayers.
These were rung through the vaster vault of space, arousing a
spiritual echo beyond the constellations and the nebulae. The
service, which was that of the Protestant Episcopal Church,
touched him as deeply as usual, after which the rector ascended
the steps to the pulpit.
"The text, this morning," he began, "is from the eighth chapter
of St. Paul's Epistle to the Romans, at the eighteenth verse:
'For I reckon that the sufferings of this present time are not
worthy to be compared to the glory that shall be revealed in us.'
Let us suppose that you or I, brethren, should become a free and
disembodied spirit. A minute vein in the brain bursts, or a clot
forms in the heart. It may be a mere trifle, some unexpected
thing, yet the career in the flesh is ended, the eternal life of
the liberated spirit begun. The soul slips from earth's grasp,
as air from our fingers, and finds itself in the frigid,
boundless void of space. Yet, through some longing this