And he led the way by some unknown path on to a high moorland dotted with crags, with hills rising black in the distance. Stars were shining bright in the clear sky, for it had deepened to that length of twilight which approaches night. A crescent moon rose over the irregular bank of mountains—the narrowest, clearest crescent, like a thin slit in the blue-grey heaven. Over there was the sound of running water. How different from the deep gurgle of the wood! And there the white splashing of a waterfall over a rocky bed. There was a clump of fir trees and the smell of the pine forest; and there—oh! what was that? Oh! only another bitter cry, and you thought it was the cry of a dog or wolf in the autumn’s frosty distance.
“One hears very plainly on this moorland,” observed the Spirit, and smiled again. “This is the sounding board and mirror of the world. One hears and sees. One pays a pretty dear price, but I think it is the one of the few things that returns full value.”
Deborah was silent. The moor was so unutterably lonely; a vaster loneliness than the forest; it did not stifle, it awed.
“Look over there,” pointed the Spirit, “where the sky is hidden by the black billows of cloud. That inky pile is always there. Below it you see the gloomy mass of the forest boundary. Black, black, always black. Now I will hold this wing of my robe with my hand, so. Look through it towards the Silent Wood. What do you see?”
“Bubbles of light floating here and there at intervals amongst the trees.”
“Will-o’-the-wisps. Here—there—up and down—now quick, now slow. Watch and listen earnestly.”
And Deborah, looking through the robe, saw the bubbles shining in the darkness; and listening, heard the sound of faintest music—harp strings and bells—and the lights kept time to them. Ting! ting! They danced in the branches, balls of clearest, transparent light. Oh! There was a beauty! Crimson and larger than most. The Spirit moved slightly, the scene became clearer. Why, it was another dark path, and the ball, moving airily, lit it up as it tossed gracefully forward to the magic sounds. Another figure in the path. This time a man. And he was running and stumbling forward in the darkness, grasping at the dazzling ball. But it always evaded him. The music quickened—his step quickened also. The shining globe danced forward. Then he, being weary, for the road had been long and dark, and he had stumbled often, leant back against a gnarled tree trunk, his chin sunk upon his breast. His was a very ashen face, with sunken eyes; blackened leaves smirched all with red stuck to him everywhere. The clear ball, swung by a backward motion, danced to where he leant with the weariness of death, and stood suspended in the air before him. He raised his eyes and looked at it for one second, then the lids fell again. It danced nearer, swung itself even till it grazed his hand. Stung to life by the touch he started quivering. The red light was reflected in his eyes. The ball rose in the air to the level of his head. With a sudden plunge forward he caught it in both hands. It burst and fell around him in crimson flames of blood. Over head, and face, and hands, and shoulders. Ugh! think of it. Hist! Ssh! The music is still. With both hands raised above his head in helpless agony, his face drawn back, he staggers sideways. Hark! ’Tis the bitter cry. Oh! but this is agony, exceeding agony, burning to the brain and heart. That bitter, bitter, bitter cry. To hear it sends the blood like icicles to the heart, and makes it run slower and colder for ever after. He doesn’t fall. His tattered coat has caught in the forked branch of a tree. He looks like a dancing puppet run down and left unstrung. His legs, and arms, and head hang limp and lifeless. He has gone. But there is something grotesque about him after all. Scarce has the last low wail died away before a roar of laughter rises. An excellent joke provided for the world, because the upnotes of his cry resembled somewhat the crowing of a cock.
Ah! There is another glimmering light—blue this time and purple. Another path—another figure. Only a woman now. Round! Round! in a giddy whirl the ball flies. Her feet are cut by briars and stones, and the red stream has dyed them.
Will-o’-the-wisp! Will-o’-the-wisp! What devil’s cruelty has put you there? Will you burst too and shower your death-pangs on her gentle head? Why, no. Suddenly, as by a puff of unfelt wind, the dancing flame goes out. The music stops. She stands still in the path that to her has turned to fatal blackness, her eyes wide open, staring into space. Then, terrified by the darkness and the hopeless failure, she gives one terrible scream. No soul could stay in a body after that; it would rend the very heart-strings. She falls down too; and because the road has been long and weary, and the rocks sharp, the scanty clothes have been badly torn, and in the fall they have slipped aside and show more of the human form than this world reckons decent. Very tender limbs, worn thin with pain and silent suffering. But again the Devil translates it. The Spirit’s robe has changed, and Deborah looks down on a different scene, one of the world’s own.
It is a company of women, dressed in the loveliest gossamer and jewels that money can provide. Arms and busts shine out in satiny smoothness, and the slight veiling discloses other charms. This is the lap of Luxury and Chastity—that ill-matched pair which the world pretends can grow abreast.