“And you think that improbable?” questioned the stranger calmly.
Her beautiful deep eyes were looking straight into the flushed excited face beside her. Mrs Ray Jefferson met their gaze, and was conscious of an odd little unaccountable thrill.
“Certainly I do,” she said. “Who could believe that anyone can jump in or out of their skin just as the fancy takes them?”
The stranger’s beautiful lips grew scornful. “Oh!” she said, “if you like to put the subject in that light, it may well look ridiculous and impossible. Ignorance is always more or less arrogant. It is man’s habit to fancy that all creation was made for him. There are few things of which he is so utterly ignorant, and of which he thinks so little, as that mystery of himself incarnated in the temporary prison-house of flesh and blood. Did he once realise what he might be—did he ever raise his eyes from the glow-worm light of earth to the stupendous glories of the sun of wisdom, he would know better than to cavil at what you call ‘improbable.’ For in nature all things are possible, but man has neither time nor patience to trace out their mysteries, or seek in their development the key to those mysteries.”
“Gracious sakes,” muttered Mrs Jefferson to herself in alarm. “I’m sure she’s a Rosicrucian or something of that sort. It’s interesting, but uncanny. I’m quite out of my depth. I don’t know what she means. Do you really mean to say,” she added aloud, “that this story might be true; that you have two bodies and can slip from one to the other?”
A dark frown crept over the beautiful face. “You talk as foolishly as a child,” she said with contempt. “You know nothing of the subject you are discussing, therefore anything I might say would sound incomprehensible. The grossness of the flesh stifles and kills the subtle workings of the spirit. To you life is only a pleasure ground, and the more your own personal satisfaction is obtainable, the more you cling to its spurious enjoyments. If you once cut yourself adrift from such follies, your eyes would be opened, your senses quickened, and you would recognise possibilities and marvels that now are no more to you than sunlight to the blind worm that burrows in the ground.” She stretched out her hand and took the book from the passive hand of her astounded companion, and glanced rapidly over its pages.
“‘Light in Darkness.’ Ah, truly it is needed,” she said, her eyes kindling, her face glowing, until her beauty seemed more than mortal. “But we shall never reach it till we learn to master the senses, to cut the chains of worldly prejudice and conventionalism. They are bold teachers, these,” and she tossed the magazine back to the still silent critic of its contents. “You would do well,” she said, “to make yourself acquainted with some of these subjects. I think you would find them more interesting than ball-rooms and Paris toilettes.”
Mrs Jefferson recovered her tongue at that slight to her beloved vanities.
“Tastes differ,” she said coolly. “I’m very well content with the world as it is and with myself as I am. I don’t believe any good ever comes of prying into subjects we’re not intended to know anything about.”
“I might ask you,” said the stranger, with visible contempt, “how you are so surely convinced of what we are intended to know, and what not? There is no hard and fast rule laid down for us that I am aware of.”