A woodland sorcery, innocent as the dawn, hovered about her. What was it? Did the mere love of these creatures make a bond between her soul and theirs, or was the ancient dream true and could she at times move in the same vibration? I thought of her as a wood-spirit sometimes, an expression herself of some passion of beauty in Nature, a thought of snows and starry nights and flowing rivers made visible in flesh. It is surely when seized with the urge of some primeval yearning which in man is merely sexual that Nature conceives her fair forms and manifests them, for there is a correspondence that runs through all creation.
Here I ask myself - Did I love her? In a sense, yes, deeply, but not in the common reading of the phrase. I have trembled with delight before the wild and terrible splendour of the Himalayan heights-; low golden moons have steeped my soul longing, but Idid not think of these things as mine in any narrow sense, nor so desire them. They were Angels of the Evangel of beauty. So too was she. She had none of the "silken nets and traps of adamant,"she was no sister of the "girls of mild silver or of furious gold"; - but fair, strong, and her own, a dweller in the House of Quiet. I did not covet her. I loved her.
Days passed. There came a night when the winds were loosed - no moon, the stars flickering like blown tapers through driven clouds, the trees swaying and lamenting.
"There will be rain tomorrow." Mrs. Ingmar said, as we parted for the night. I closed my door. Some great cat of the woods was crying harshly outside my window, the sound receding towards the bridle way. I slept in a dream of tossing seas and ships labouring among them.
With the sense of a summons I waked - I cannot tell when.
Unmistakable, as if I were called by name. I rose and dressed, and heard distinctly bare feet passing my door. I opened it noiselessly and looked out into the little passage way that made for the entry, and saw nothing but pools of darkness and a dim light from the square of the window at the end. But the wind had swept the sky clear with its flying bosom and was sleeping now in its high places and the air was filled with a mild moony radiance and a great stillness.
Now let me speak with restraint and exactness. I was not afraid but felt as I imagine a dog feels in the presence of his master, conscious of a purpose, a will entirely above his own and incomprehensible, yet to be obeyed without question. I followed my reading of the command, bewildered but docile, and understanding nothing but that I was called.
The lights were out. The house dead silent; the familiar veranda ghostly in the night. And now I saw a white figure at the head of the steps - Brynhild. She turned and looked over her shoulder, her face pale in the moon, and made the same gesture with which she summoned her birds. I knew her meaning, for now we were moving in the same rhythm, and followed as she took the lead. How shall I describe that strange night in the jungle. There were fire-flies or dancing points of light that recalled them. Perhaps she was only thinking them - only thinking the moon and the quiet, for we were in the world where thought is the one reality.
But they went with us in a cloud and faintly lighted our way.
There were exquisite wafts of perfume from hidden flowers breathing their dreams to the night. Here and there a drowsy bird stirred and chirped from the roof of darkness, a low note of content that greeted her passing. It was a path intricate and winding and how long we went, and where, I cannot tell. But at last she stooped and parting the boughs before her we stepped into an open space, and before us - I knew it - I knew it! - The House of Beauty.
She paused at the foot of the great marble steps and looked at me.
"We have met here already."
I did not wonder - I could not. In the Ninth vibration surprise had ceased to be. Why had I not recognized her before - O dull of heart! That was my only thought. We walk blindfold through the profound darkness of material nature, the blinder because we believe we see it. It is only when the doors of the material are closed that the world appears to man as it exists in the eternal truth.
"Did you know this?" I asked, trembling before mystery.
"I knew it, because I am awake. You forgot it in the dull sleep which we call daily life. But we were here and THEY began the story of the King who made this house. Tonight we shall hear it.
It he story of Beauty wandering through the world and the world received her not. We hear it in this place because here he agonized for what he knew too late.""Was that our only meeting?"
"We meet every night, but you forget when the day brings the sleep of the soul. - You do not sink deep enough into rest to remember. You float on the surface where the little bubbles of foolish dream are about you and I cannot reach you then.""How can I compel myself to the deeps?"
"You cannot. It will come. But when you have passed up the bridle way and beyond the Shipki, stop at Gyumur. There is the Monastery of Tashigong, and there one will meet you-"His name?"
"Stephen Clifden. He will tell you what you desire to know.
Continue on then with him to Yarkhand. There in the Ninth Vibration we shall meet again. It is a long journey but you will be content.""Do you certainly know that we shall meet again?""When you have learnt, we can meet when we will. He will teach you the Laya Yoga. You should not linger here in the woods any longer. You should go on. In three days it will be possible.""But how have you learnt - a girl and young?""Through a close union with Nature - that is one of the three roads. But I know little as yet. Now take my hand and come.
"One last question. Is this house ruined and abject as I have seen it in the daylight, or royal and the house of Gods as we see it now? Which is truth?""In the day you saw it in the empty illusion of blind thought.
