As for myself, the self-analysis could lead to but one result--the
expression to myself of the reality and definiteness of an already-formed
though unconscious intention. I wished to do the woman good--to serve
her in some way--to secure her some benefit by any means, no matter how
difficult, which might be within my power. I knew that I loved
her--loved her most truly and fervently; there was no need for
self-analysis to tell me that. And, moreover, no self-analysis, or any
other mental process that I knew of, could help my one doubt: whether she
was an ordinary woman (or an extraordinary woman, for the matter of that)
in some sore and terrible straits; or else one who lay under some
dreadful condition, only partially alive, and not mistress of herself or
her acts. Whichever her condition might be, there was in my own feeling
a superfluity of affection for her. The self-analysis taught me one
thing, at any rate--that I had for her, to start with, an infinite pity
which had softened towards her my whole being, and had already mastered
merely selfish desire. Out of it I began to find excuses for her every
act. In the doing so I knew now, though perhaps I did not at the time
the process was going on, that my view in its true inwardness was of her
as a living woman--the woman I loved. In the forming of our ideas there are different methods of work, as
though the analogy with material life holds good. In the building of a
house, for instance, there are many persons employed; men of different
trades and occupations--architect, builder, masons, carpenters, plumbers,
and a host of others--and all these with the officials of each guild or
trade. So in the world of thought and feelings: knowledge and
understanding come through various agents, each competent to its task. How far pity reacted with love I knew not; I only knew that whatever her
state might be, were she living or dead, I could find in my heart no
blame for the Lady of the Shroud. It could not be that she was dead in
the real conventional way; for, after all, the Dead do not walk the earth
in corporal substance, even if there be spirits which take the corporal
form. This woman was of actual form and weight. How could I doubt that,
at all events--I, who had held her in my arms? Might it not be that she
was not quite dead, and that it had been given to me to restore her to
life again? Ah! that would be, indeed, a privilege well worth the giving
my life to accomplish. That such a thing may be is possible. Surely the
old myths were not absolute inventions; they must have had a basis
somewhere in fact. May not the world-old story of Orpheus and Eurydice
have been based on some deep-lying principle or power of human nature? There is not one of us but has wished at some time to bring back the
dead. Ay, and who has not felt that in himself or herself was power in
the deep love for our dead to make them quick again, did we but know the
secret of how it was to be done? For myself, I have seen such mysteries that I am open to conviction
regarding things not yet explained. These have been, of course, amongst
savages or those old-world people who have brought unchecked traditions
and beliefs--ay, and powers too--down the ages from the dim days when the
world was young; when forces were elemental, and Nature's handiwork was
experimental rather than completed. Some of these wonders may have been
older still than the accepted period of our own period of creation. May
we not have to-day other wonders, different only in method, but not more
susceptible of belief? Obi-ism and Fantee-ism have been exercised in my
own presence, and their results proved by the evidence of my own eyes and
other senses. So, too, have stranger rites, with the same object and the
same success, in the far Pacific Islands. So, too, in India and China,
in Thibet and in the Golden Chersonese. On all and each of these
occasions there was, on my own part, enough belief to set in motion the
powers of understanding; and there were no moral scruples to stand in the
way of realization. Those whose lives are so spent that they achieve the
reputation of not fearing man or God or devil are not deterred in their
doing or thwarted from a set purpose by things which might deter others
not so equipped for adventure. Whatever may be before them--pleasant or
painful, bitter or sweet, arduous or facile, enjoyable or terrible,
humorous or full of awe and horror--they must accept, taking them in the
onward course as a good athlete takes hurdles in his stride. And there
must be no hesitating, no looking back. If the explorer or the
adventurer has scruples, he had better give up that special branch of
effort and come himself to a more level walk in life. Neither must there
be regrets. There is no need for such; savage life has this advantage:
it begets a certain toleration not to be found in conventional existence. RUPERT'S JOURNAL--_Continued_. _May_ 2, 1907. I had heard long ago that Second Sight is a terrible gift, even to its
possessor. I am now inclined not only to believe, but to understand it. Aunt Janet has made such a practice of it of late that I go in constant
dread of discovery of my secret. She seems to parallel me all the time,
whatever I may do. It is like a sort of dual existence to her; for she
is her dear old self all the time, and yet some other person with a sort
of intellectual kit of telescope and notebook, which are eternally used
on me. I know they are _for_ me, too--for what she considers my good. But all the same it makes an embarrassment. Happily Second Sight cannot
speak as clearly as it sees, or, rather, as it understands. For the
translation of the vague beliefs which it inculcates is both nebulous and
uncertain--a sort of Delphic oracle which always says things which no one
can make out at the time, but which can be afterwards read in any one of
several ways. This is all right, for in my case it is a kind of safety;
but, then, Aunt Janet is a very clever woman, and some time she herself
may be able to understand. Then she may begin to put two and two
together. When she does that, it will not be long before she knows more
than I do of the facts of the whole affair. And her reading of them and
of the Lady of the Shroud, round whom they circle, may not be the same as
mine. Well, that will be all right too. Aunt Janet loves me--God knows
I have good reason to know that all through these years--and whatever
view she may take, her acts will be all I could wish. But I shall come
in for a good lot of scolding, I am sure. By the way, I ought to think
of that; if Aunt Janet scolds me, it is a pretty good proof that I ought
to be scolded. I wonder if I dare tell her all. No! It is too strange. She is only a woman, after all: and if she knew I loved . . . I wish I
knew her name, and thought--as I might myself do, only that I resist
it--that she is not alive at all. Well, what she would either think or
do beats me.