author - "Marie Corelli"
f Nero!" thought Walden, as his eyes wandered from the thrush on the almond tree, back to the volume in his hand,--"With all our teaching and preaching, we can hardly do better. I wonder---"
Here his mind became altogether distracted from classic lore, by the appearance of a very unclassic boy, clad in a suit of brown corduroys and wearing hob-nailed boots a couple of sizes too large for him, who, coming suddenly out from a box-tree alley behind the gabled corner of the rectory, shuffled to the extreme verge of the lawn and stopped there, pulling his cap off, and treading on his own toes from left to right, and from right to left in a state of sheepish hesitancy.
"Come along,--come along! Don't stand there, Bob Keeley!" And Walden rose, placing Epictetus on the seat he vacated--"What is it?"
Bob Keeley set his hob-nailed feet on the velvety lawn with gingerly precaution, and advancing cap in hand, produced a letter, slightly grimed by his thumb and finger.
"From Sir Morton, please
his need of head covering, and he seemed unconscious of, or else indifferent to, the hot glare of the summer sky which was hardly tempered by the long shadow of the floating cloud. At some moments he was absorbed in reading,--at others in writing. Close within his reach was a small note-book in which from time to time he jotted down certain numerals and made rapid calculations, frowning impatiently as though the very act of writing was too slow for the speed of his thought. There was a wonderful silence everywhere,--a silence such as can hardly be comprehended by anyone who has never visited wide-spreading country, over-canopied by large stretches of open sky, and barricaded from the further world by mountain ranges which are like huge walls built by a race of Titans. The dwellers in such regions are few--there is no traffic save the coming and going of occasional pack-mules across the hill tracks--no sign of modern civilisation. Among such deep and solemn solitudes the sight of a living human being is strang
ess worse than death.Recognizing, therefore, that in this cultivated age a wall ofscepticism and cynicism is gradually being built up by intellectualthinkers of every nation against all that treats of the Supernaturaland Unseen, I am aware that my narration of the events I haverecently experienced will be read with incredulity. At a time whenthe great empire of the Christian Religion is being assailed, orpolitely ignored by governments and public speakers and teachers, Irealize to the fullest extent how daring is any attempt to prove,even by a plain history of strange occurrences happening to one'sself, the actual existence of the Supernatural around us; and theabsolute certainty of a future state of being, after the passagethrough that brief soul-torpor in which the body perishes, known tous as Death.
In the present narration, which I have purposely called a "romance,"I do not expect to be believed, as I can only relate what I myselfhave experienced. I know that men and women of to-day must
n creed he so specially condemned,--for each one wore on his breast a massive golden crucifix, hung to a chain and fastened with a jewelled star.
"Cross and Star!" he mused, as he noticed this brilliant and singular decoration, "an emblem of the fraternity, I suppose, meaning ... what? Salvation and Immortality? Alas, they are poor, witless builders on shifting sand if they place any hope or reliance on those two empty words, signifying nothing! Do they, can they honestly believe in God, I wonder? or are they only acting the usual worn-out comedy of a feigned faith?"
And he eyed them somewhat wistfully as their white apparelled figures went by--ten had already left the chapel. Two more passed, then other two, and last of all came one alone--one who walked slowly, with a dreamy, meditative air, as though he were deeply absorbed in thought. The light from the open door streamed fully upon him as he advanced--it was the monk who had recited the Seven Glorias. The stranger no sooner beheld him than
f Nero!" thought Walden, as his eyes wandered from the thrush on the almond tree, back to the volume in his hand,--"With all our teaching and preaching, we can hardly do better. I wonder---"
Here his mind became altogether distracted from classic lore, by the appearance of a very unclassic boy, clad in a suit of brown corduroys and wearing hob-nailed boots a couple of sizes too large for him, who, coming suddenly out from a box-tree alley behind the gabled corner of the rectory, shuffled to the extreme verge of the lawn and stopped there, pulling his cap off, and treading on his own toes from left to right, and from right to left in a state of sheepish hesitancy.
"Come along,--come along! Don't stand there, Bob Keeley!" And Walden rose, placing Epictetus on the seat he vacated--"What is it?"
Bob Keeley set his hob-nailed feet on the velvety lawn with gingerly precaution, and advancing cap in hand, produced a letter, slightly grimed by his thumb and finger.
"From Sir Morton, please
his need of head covering, and he seemed unconscious of, or else indifferent to, the hot glare of the summer sky which was hardly tempered by the long shadow of the floating cloud. At some moments he was absorbed in reading,--at others in writing. Close within his reach was a small note-book in which from time to time he jotted down certain numerals and made rapid calculations, frowning impatiently as though the very act of writing was too slow for the speed of his thought. There was a wonderful silence everywhere,--a silence such as can hardly be comprehended by anyone who has never visited wide-spreading country, over-canopied by large stretches of open sky, and barricaded from the further world by mountain ranges which are like huge walls built by a race of Titans. The dwellers in such regions are few--there is no traffic save the coming and going of occasional pack-mules across the hill tracks--no sign of modern civilisation. Among such deep and solemn solitudes the sight of a living human being is strang
ess worse than death.Recognizing, therefore, that in this cultivated age a wall ofscepticism and cynicism is gradually being built up by intellectualthinkers of every nation against all that treats of the Supernaturaland Unseen, I am aware that my narration of the events I haverecently experienced will be read with incredulity. At a time whenthe great empire of the Christian Religion is being assailed, orpolitely ignored by governments and public speakers and teachers, Irealize to the fullest extent how daring is any attempt to prove,even by a plain history of strange occurrences happening to one'sself, the actual existence of the Supernatural around us; and theabsolute certainty of a future state of being, after the passagethrough that brief soul-torpor in which the body perishes, known tous as Death.
In the present narration, which I have purposely called a "romance,"I do not expect to be believed, as I can only relate what I myselfhave experienced. I know that men and women of to-day must
n creed he so specially condemned,--for each one wore on his breast a massive golden crucifix, hung to a chain and fastened with a jewelled star.
"Cross and Star!" he mused, as he noticed this brilliant and singular decoration, "an emblem of the fraternity, I suppose, meaning ... what? Salvation and Immortality? Alas, they are poor, witless builders on shifting sand if they place any hope or reliance on those two empty words, signifying nothing! Do they, can they honestly believe in God, I wonder? or are they only acting the usual worn-out comedy of a feigned faith?"
And he eyed them somewhat wistfully as their white apparelled figures went by--ten had already left the chapel. Two more passed, then other two, and last of all came one alone--one who walked slowly, with a dreamy, meditative air, as though he were deeply absorbed in thought. The light from the open door streamed fully upon him as he advanced--it was the monk who had recited the Seven Glorias. The stranger no sooner beheld him than