Read Ebook: The Death-Wake or Lunacy; a Necromaunt in Three Chimeras by Stoddart Thomas Tod Lang Andrew Commentator

Font size: 10 px 15 px 20 px 25 px 30 px 35 px

Background color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Text color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Apply/Save settings

Ebook has 244 lines and 28605 words, and 5 pages

Harris shook his head. "When Milton said 'divide the world into two parts,' he meant that literally. He is quite capable of devising some means of dividing the world astronomically."

Ingalls laughed. "Impossible!" he chuckled.

"Several years ago Professor Milton was in need of some dye for some obscure purpose. One of his assistants made a wisecrack to the effect that if Professor Milton was so smart, why couldn't he filter the dye out of ink and use that. Milton devised a filter capable of separating the dye from ink, and used it. So far the filter is useless for anything else but it will certainly remove the color from a bottle of ink, leaving the stuff in two useless quantities."

"Interesting, but--"

"Astronomically, the idea of separating the world into two hemispheres is disastrous."

"Why?" asked Ingalls. "I know little of astrology."

Edwards glared at him. "Not astrology; astronomy. Astrophysics or celestial mechanics. Your half-apple of a world is unstable astronomically. Gravity would set in unfavorably upon the instant of division and separation and the half-apple would collapse into two smaller spheres, gradually assuming true spherical shapes in thousands of years as the rocks cold-flowed. But for the moment, the shock and the immediate crack-up would leave no city standing; huge crevices would be formed, and no living thing to remain. Understand, I'm a doctor of medicine and not an astrophysicist. My description may err but I can guarantee that the results would be disastrous. I suggest that if you don't believe me, call one of the big brains at Mount Palomar; they'll tell you the details."

"It sounds impossible. But if the man is a maniac--"

"Not a maniac," objected Doctor Harris. "Just completely single-track, literal-minded. Genius without judgement. Cares nothing for any problem that has not caught his fancy but will pursue anything he likes to the bitter end. Trying to keep up with what he fancies is like predicting which way a bar of bath soap will squirt when you step on it inadvertently. He's--"

"Enough! Convinced or not, I'll aid you to re-collect the Professor. How shall we go about it?"

"You're the man-hunter," said Edwards with a smile. "How do you go about it?"

"Just what kind of thing will this mad genius use to divide the earth?" asked Ingalls.

"Lord knows," grunted Harris. "Why?"

"I was suggesting that we keep watch over the sale of certain materials."

"Fine," said Ingalls sourly. "So we have the job of locating one man in the earth who might be capable of ruining it, but we don't know how." He snorted. "Could one man do it?"

"We're here because we think so; he's done some mighty impossible things so far. Few of them are known for security reasons. Actually, though it is not admitted, Professor Milton is the man whose calculations made the original uranium pile practical. He took theory and reduced theoretical equations to practical calculations before they tried it out at the University of Chicago. It was some of his calculations that--stolen, of course--put the rocket experts on the track of developing the V-2. So--?"

"Um. I begin to see."

Professor Moreiko of the Moscow Academy of Science shook his head heavily. "Ridiculous," he said in a good grade of English into the telephone. "Ridiculous, my comrade. No earthquake fault-lines exist there."

Ingalls, on the other end of the telephone, said: "We know that; but that is where we anticipate trouble."

"What manner of trouble. You do not expect--?"

"I have called every seismographic station on earth," explained Ingalls. "Or I should say that I am calling every station. Professor Milton--"

"Ah, the great Professor Milton! He is--?"

"Loose again," grunted Ingalls.

"With what purpose?"

"Professor Milton has decided to divide the earth so that Russia can run her half while we--"

"Divide the earth!" exploded Professor Moreiko loudly, nearly damaging the telephone earphis grave the self-same song that it sings beside Sir Walter's tomb in Dryburgh Abbey. We leave his poem to the judgment of students of poetry, and to him we say his own farewell--

Sorrow, sorrow speed away To our angler's quiet mound, With the old pilgrim, twilight grey, Enter thou the holy ground.

There he sleeps, whose heart was twined With wild stream and wandering burn, Wooer of the western wind, Watcher of the April morn.

A.L.

THE DEATH-WAKE

OR LUNACY

CHIMERA I

An anthem of a sister choristry! And like a windward murmur of the sea, O'er silver shells, so solemnly it falls! A dying music shrouded in deep walls, That bury its wild breathings! And the moon, Of glow-worm hue, like virgin in sad swoon, Lies coldly on the bosom of a cloud, Until the elf-winds, that are wailing loud, Do minister unto her sickly trance, Fanning the life into her countenance; And there are pale stars sparkling, far and few In the deep chasms of everlasting blue, Unmarshall'd and ungather'd, one and one, Like outposts of the lunar garrison.

'Tis o'er, 'tis o'er,-- Her burial! and, under the arcades, Torch after torch into the moonlight fades; And there is heard the music, a brief while, Over the roofings of the imaged aisle, From the deep organ panting out its last, Like the slow dying of an autumn blast.

A lonely monk is loitering within The dusky area, at the altar seen, Like a pale spirit kneeling in the light Of the cold moon, that looketh wan and white Through the deviced oriel; and he lays His hands upon his bosom, with a gaze To the chill earth. He had the youthful look Which heartfelt woe had wasted, and he shook At every gust of the unholy breeze, That enter'd through the time-worn crevices.

He kiss'd a golden crucifix that hung Around his neck, and in a transport flung Himself upon the earth, and said, and said Wild, raving words, about the blessed dead: And then he rose, and in the moonshade stood, Gazing upon its light in solitude; And smote his brow, at some idea wild That came across: then, weeping like a child, He falter'd out the name of Agath?; And look'd unto the heaven inquiringly, And the pure stars.

And few they were that bade him to their board; His fortunes now were over, and the sword Of his proud ancestry dishonour'd--left To moulder in its sheath--a hated gift!

Ay! it was so; and Julio had fain Have been a warrior; but his very brain Grew fever'd at the sickly thought of death, And to be stricken with a want of breath!-- To be the food of worms--inanimate, And cold as winter,--and as desolate! And then to waste away, and be no more Than the dark dust!--The thought was like a sore That gather'd in his heart; and he would say,-- "A curse be on their laurels!" and decay Came over them; the deeds that they had done Had fallen with their fortunes; and anon Was Julio forgotten, and his line-- No wonder for this frenzied tale of mine!

Oh! he was wearied of this passing scene! But loved not death: his purpose was between Life and the grave; and it would vibrate there, Like a wild bird that floated far and fair Betwixt the sun and sea!

He went, and came, And thought, and slept, and still awoke the same,-- A strange, strange youth; and he would look all night Upon the moon and stars, and count the flight Of the sea waves, and let the evening wind Play with his raven tresses, or would bind Grottoes of birch, wherein to sit and sing: And peasant girls would find him sauntering, To gaze upon their features, as they met, In laughter, under some green arboret.

At last, he became monk, and, on his knees, Said holy prayers, and with wild penances Made sad atonement; and the solemn whim, That, like a shadow, loiter'd over him, Wore off, even like a shadow. He was cursed With none of the mad thoughts that were at first The poison of his quiet; but he grew To love the world and its wild laughter too, As he had known before; and wish'd again To join the very mirth he hated then!

He durst not break the vow--he durst not be The one he would--and his heart's harmony Became a tide of sorrow. Even so, He felt hope die,--in madness and in woe! But there came one--and a most lovely one As ever to the warm light of the sun Threw back her tresses,--a fair sister girl, With a brow changing between snow and pearl, And the blue eyes of sadness, fill'd with dew Of tears,--like Heaven's own melancholy blue,-- So beautiful, so tender; and her form Was graceful as a rainbow in a storm, Scattering gladness on the face of sorrow-- Oh! I had fancied of the hues that borrow Their brightness from the sun; but she was bright In her own self,--a mystery of light! With feelings tender as a star's own hue, Pure as the morning star! as true, as true; For it will glitter in each early sky, And her first love be love that lasteth aye!

And this was Agath?, young Agath?, A motherless, fair girl: and many a day She wept for her lost parent. It was sad To see her infant sorrow; how she bade The flow of her wild spirits fall away To grief, like bright clouds in a summer day Melting into a shower: and it was sad Almost to think she might again be glad, Her beauty was so chaste, amid the fall Of her bright tears. Yet, in her father's hall, She had lived almost sorrowless her days: But he felt no affection for the gaze Of his fair girl; and when she fondly smiled, He bade no father's welcome to the child, But even told his wish, and will'd it done, For her to be sad-hearted--and a nun!

And so it was. She took the dreary veil, A hopeless girl! and the bright flush grew pale Upon her cheek: she felt, as summer feels The winds of autumn and the winter chills, That darken his fair suns.--It was away, Feeding on dreams, the heart of Agath?!

The vesper prayers were said, and the last hymn Sung to the Holy Virgin. In the dim, Gray aisle was heard a solitary tread, As of one musing sadly on the dead-- 'Twas Julio; it was his wont to be Often alone within the sanctuary; But now, not so--another: it was she! Kneeling in all her beauty, like a saint Before a crucifix; but sad and faint The tone of her devotion, as the trill Of a moss-burden'd, melancholy rill.

And Julio stood before her;--'twas as yet The hour of the pale twilight--and they met Each other's gaze, till either seem'd the hue Of deepest crimson; but the ladye threw Her veil above her features, and stole by Like a bright cloud, with sadness and a sigh!

Yet Julio still stood gazing and alone, A dreamer!--"Is the sister ladye gone?" He started at the silence of the air That slumber'd over him--she is not there.

And either slept not through the live-long night, Or slept in fitful trances, with a bright, Fair dream upon their eyelids: but they rose In sorrow from the pallet of repose; For the dark thought of their sad destiny Came o'er them, like a chasm of the deep sea, That was to rend their fortunes; and at eve They met again, but, silent, took their leave, As they did yesterday: another night, And neither spake awhile--A pure delight Had chasten'd love's first blushes: silently Gazed Julio on the gentle Agath?-- At length, "Fair Nun!"--She started, and held fast Her bright hand on her lip--"the past, the past, And the pale future! There be some that lie Under those marble urns--I know not why, But I were better in that only calm, Than be as I have been, perhaps, and am. The past!--ay! it hath perish'd; never, never, Would I recall it to be blest for ever: The future it must come--I have a vow"-- And his cold hand rose trembling to his brow. "True, true, I have a vow. Is not the moon Abroad, fair Nun?"--"Indeed! so very soon?" Said Agath?, and "I must then away."-- "Stay, love! 'tis early yet; stay, angel, stay!" But she was gone:--yet they met many a time In the lone chapel, after vesper chime-- They met in love and fear.

One weary day, And Julio saw not his loved Agath?; She was not in the choir of sisterhood That sang the evening anthem, and he stood Like one that listen'd breathlessly awhile; But stranger voices chanted through the aisle. She was not there; and, after all were gone, He linger'd: the stars came--he linger'd on, Like a dark fun'ral image on the tomb Of a lost hope. He felt a world of gloom Upon his heart--a solitude--a chill. The pale morn rose, and still, he linger'd still. And the next vesper toll'd; nor yet, nor yet-- "Can Agath? be faithless, and forget?"

It was the third sad eve, he heard it said, "Poor Julio! thy Agath? is dead," And started. He had loiter'd in the train That bore her to the grave: he saw her lain In the cold earth, and heard a requiem Sung over her--To him it was a dream! A marble stone stood by the sepulchre; He look'd, and saw, and started--she was there! And Agath? had died; she that was bright-- She that was in her beauty! a cold blight Fell over the young blossom of her brow. And the life-blood grew chill--She is not, now.

She died, like zephyr falling amid flowers! Like to a star within the twilight hours Of morning--and she was not! Some have thought The Lady Abbess gave her a mad draught, That stole into her heart, and sadly rent The fine chords of that holy instrument, Until its music falter'd fast away, And she--she died,--the lovely Agath?!

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet