I knew we should
have to lower great weights; and as I did not wish to take too many
into my confidence, I arranged a tackle which I could work alone if
necessary.”

We set to work at once; and before nightfall had lowered, unhooked, and
placed in the positions designated for each by Trelawny, all the great
sarcophagi and all the curios and other matters which we had taken with
us. It was a strange and weird proceeding, the placing of those wonderful
monuments of a bygone age in that green cavern, which represented in
its cutting and purpose and up-to-date mechanism and electric lights
both the old world and the new. But as time went on I grew more and
more to recognise the wisdom and correctness of Mr. Trelawny’s choice. I was much disturbed when Silvio, who had been brought into the cave in
the arms of his mistress, and who was lying asleep on my coat which I
had taken off, sprang up when the cat mummy had been unpacked, and flew
at it with the same ferocity which he had previously exhibited. The
incident showed Margaret in a new phase, and one which gave my heart a
pang. She had been standing quite still at one side of the cave
leaning on a sarcophagus, in one of those fits of abstraction which had
of late come upon her; but on hearing the sound, and seeing Silvio’s
violent onslaught, she seemed to fall into a positive fury of passion. Her eyes blazed, and her mouth took a hard, cruel tension which was new
to me. Instinctively she stepped towards Silvio as if to interfere in
the attack. But I too had stepped forward; and as she caught my eye a
strange spasm came upon her, and she stopped. Its intensity made me
hold my breath; and I put up my hand to clear my eyes. When I had done
this, she had on the instant recovered her calm, and there was a look
of brief wonder on her face. With all her old grace and sweetness she
swept over and lifted Silvio, just as she had done on former occasions,
and held him in her arms, petting him and treating him as though he
were a little child who had erred. As I looked a strange fear came over me. The Margaret that I knew
seemed to be changing; and in my inmost heart I prayed that the
disturbing cause might soon come to an end. More than ever I longed at
that moment that our terrible Experiment should come to a prosperous
termination. When all had been arranged in the room as Mr. Trelawny wished he turned
to us, one after another, till he had concentrated the intelligence of
us all upon him. Then he said:

“All is now ready in this place. We must only await the proper time to
begin.”

We were silent for a while. Doctor Winchester was the first to speak:

“What is the proper time? Have you any approximation, even if you are
not satisfied as to the exact day?”  He answered at once:

“After the most anxious thought I have fixed on July 31!”

“May I ask why that date?”  He spoke his answer slowly:

“Queen Tera was ruled in great degree by mysticism, and there are so
many evidences that she looked for resurrection that naturally she
would choose a period ruled over by a God specialised to such a
purpose. Now, the fourth month of the season of Inundation was ruled
by Harmachis, this being the name for ‘Ra’, the Sun-God, at his rising
in the morning, and therefore typifying the awakening or arising. This
arising is manifestly to physical life, since it is of the mid-world of
human daily life. Now as this month begins on our 25th July, the
seventh day would be July 31st, for you may be sure that the mystic
Queen would not have chosen any day but the seventh or some power of
seven. “I dare say that some of you have wondered why our preparations have
been so deliberately undertaken. This is why! We must be ready in
every possible way when the time comes; but there was no use in having
to wait round for a needless number of days.”

And so we waited only for the 31st of July, the next day but one, when
the Great Experiment would be made. Chapter XVII

Doubts and Fears


We learn of great things by little experiences. The history of ages is
but an indefinite repetition of the history of hours. The record of a
soul is but a multiple of the story of a moment. The Recording Angel
writes in the Great Book in no rainbow tints; his pen is dipped in no
colours but light and darkness. For the eye of infinite wisdom there
is no need of shading. All things, all thoughts, all emotions, all
experiences, all doubts and hopes and fears, all intentions, all wishes
seen down to the lower strata of their concrete and multitudinous
elements, are finally resolved into direct opposites. Did any human being wish for the epitome of a life wherein were
gathered and grouped all the experiences that a child of Adam could
have, the history, fully and frankly written, of my own mind during the
next forty-eight hours would afford him all that could be wanted. And
the Recorder could have wrought as usual in sunlight and shadow, which
may be taken to represent the final expressions of Heaven and Hell. For in the highest Heaven is Faith; and Doubt hangs over the yawning
blackness of Hell. There were of course times of sunshine in those two days; moments when,
in the realisation of Margaret’s sweetness and her love for me, all
doubts were dissipated like morning mist before the sun. But the
balance of the time—and an overwhelming balance it was—gloom hung
over me like a pall. The hour, in whose coming I had acquiesced, was
approaching so quickly and was already so near that the sense of
finality was bearing upon me! The issue was perhaps life or death to
any of us; but for this we were all prepared. Margaret and I were one
as to the risk. The question of the moral aspect of the case, which
involved the religious belief in which I had been reared, was not one
to trouble me; for the issues, and the causes that lay behind them,
were not within my power even to comprehend. The doubt of the success
of the Great Experiment was such a doubt as exists in all enterprises
which have great possibilities. To me, whose life was passed in a
series of intellectual struggles, this form of doubt was a stimulus,
rather than deterrent. What then was it that made for me a trouble,
which became an anguish when my thoughts dwelt long on it? I was beginning to doubt Margaret! What it was that I doubted I knew not. It was not her love, or her
honour, or her truth, or her kindness, or her zeal. What then was it? It was herself! Margaret was changing! At times during the past few days I had hardly
known her as the same girl whom I had met at the picnic, and whose
vigils I had shared in the sick-room of her father. Then, even in her
moments of greatest sorrow or fright or anxiety, she was all life and
thought and keenness. Now she was generally distraite, and at times in
a sort of negative condition as though her mind—her very being—was
not present. At such moments she would have full possession of
observation and memory.