She can see you,and you shine,for her.You are better off than I.Would that her soul might shine for me,as your light shines for her!The light of my life has departed.O that the darkness were complete!I am dead,"his thoughts ran on,and when the privilege--bitter word!--that permits me to remain here has expired,I must doubtless return to Saturn,and there in purgatory work out my probation.But what comfort is it that a few centuries hence I may be able to revisit my native earth?--The flowers will bloom in the morning light,And the lark salute the sun,The earth will continue to roll through space,And I may be nearer my final grace,But Sylvia's life-thread will be spun.
"Even Sylvia's house will be a heap of ruins,or its place will be taken by something else.If I had Sylvia,I should care for nothing;as I have lost her,even this sight,though sweet,must always bring regret.I wish,at all events,I might see Sylvia,if only with these spirit-eyes,since,as a mortal,she may never gladden my sight again."To his surprise,he now perceived that he could see,notwithstanding the drawn shades.Sylvia was at her writing-desk,in a light-coloured wrapper.She sat there resting her head on her hand,looking thoughtful but worried.Though it was so late,she had not retired.The thrush that Ayrault had often in life admired,and that she had for some reason brought up-stairs,was silent and asleep.
"Happy bird!"he said,"you obtain rest and forgetfulness on covering your head;but what wing can cover my soul?I used to wish I might flutter towards heaven on natural wings like you,little thrush.Now I can,indeed,outfly you.But whatever I do I'm unhappy,and wherever I go I'm in hell.What is man in his helpless,first spiritual state?He is but a flower,and withers soon.Had I,like the bishop,been less blind,and obeyed my conscience clear,I might have returned to my native earth while Sylvia still sojourns here;and coming thus by virtue of development,I should be able to commune with her.
"What is life?"he continued."In the retrospect,nothing.It seems to me already as but an infinitesimal point.Things that engrossed me,and seemed of such moment,that overshadowed the duty of obeying my conscience--what were they,and where?Ah,where?They endured but a moment.Reality and evanescence--evanescence and reality."
The light in Sylvia's room was out now,and in the east he beheld the dawn.The ubiquitous grey which he saw at night was invaded by streams of glorious crimson and blue that reached far up into the sky.He gazed at the spectacle,and then once more at that house in which his love was centred.
"Would I might be her guardian angel,to guide 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 Ihave 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:
