Beyond Cloudland

Front matter

BY S. M. CRAWLEY-BOEVEY Author of 'Dene Forest Sketches,' 'Topsv Turvy,' etc. In Utoff Uolnmes VOL. I. ALEXANDER GARDNER p«6lt»i)« to Sjrr fWaftatp tije ©.urm PAISLEY; AND PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON PEE FACE. Lovers of straight lines unvaried by curves of fancy — prosaic souls, who neither possess the wings of Imagination, nor sympathize with her flight — take warning by this preface, and go no further. The following pages are the result of no hasty thought, and in them the writer is not conscious of borrowing anyone's previously published ideas ; but Solomon's declaration that there is nothing new under the sun crushes all hope of originality, and humiliates budding conceit, on that score, to dust. Anything connected with our second after-life, to which this is but as the introduction to a sym phony, must be more or less fraught with interest, except to those who are content to live for to-day, like the hopelessly ignorant or hopelessly vulgar minded. Dante's immortal poem, the ' Dream of St. Gerontius,' the ' Little Pilgrim,' and many others have found from time to time ready readers ;

Preface

. 4 is it, then, too much to hope that ' BEYOND CLOUDLAND' may meet with some of the indul gence bestowed on other books that treat of the same subject — viz., life behind the veil, which no man may lift this side the grave. This little work is neither written for scoffers nor sceptics, and such as dislike all speculation on the spirit's existence after its parting from the body, will probably do well to leave ' BEYOND CLOUDLAND ' alone. Nevertheless, it is offered to the public, humbly hoping it may suggest comfort to some, and not be altogether spurned by others. It is dedicated to one who lived as it were for death, and often spoke with the writer on the possible details of her wondrous future. After a short pure existence she passed from sight, still, she being dead, yet speaketh, because example is better than precept, in that it seldom altogether dies.

S. M. C. B. Jleikatei) to the Icbcb Jttemors of Jl. Jl. Oh Love and Second Life, ye are so linked That none may part ye, not e'en grovelling souls Who drag the first to lust and strive to blind Their conscience and their instinct to the trulh Souls cannot die. And music's heavenly voice Heard only, recognized alone, by such As Heaven hath blest with the unearthly gift Of Harmony, doth stretch aloft between Those two : 'twixt Love, the purest, best of earth, And that great wondrous life which none may see This side the grave. StiU Charity divine, In pity to the yearning pain that strives To live content yet toils for better things — In pity to long sickness patient borne, In pity to the agony of souls That suffer secretly — hath deigned to send From time to time in silence of dark night A bright-winged messenger from other spheres With words of comfort, promises of peace, And cheering hope of happiness untold In other worlds.

Ah, say not then we know Nothing of what may be hereafter, save The scattered words throughout the Book of Life- Say not that fools and fancy speculate, Complacent in the pride of ignorance, On what philosophers have failed to know, Dogmatic men have hardly dared to preach, And sceptics banish from their minds in scorn. Fools may be wise in lore not of this world And Fancy's wings are given to make men rise DEDICATION. By the same Love that music's gift bestows. Then spurn them not, and ye who do not care To rise with Fancy, open not this book ; And ye to whom the language of sweet sounds Is unknown, go no further, or perchance Some words will fall like ravings on your ears, And others like to Folly's feeble cries. In truth I am not mad — thoughts guide my pen That were not born in madness ; and content With knowing this, I speak no more.

Farewell ! CONTENTS. CHAPTER pAGE I. — A Letter brings Trouble, - - 9 II. — A Visitor from another Sphere, - 23 III.— Mr. Rede, - - - - 36 IV. — A Country House, - - - 53 V. — Sorrow at Laxleigh, - - -66 VI. — The Summons, - - - 82 VII. — Festivity at the Beeches, - - - 95 VIII.— The Rector's Will, - - - 119 IX.— A Dead World, - - - - 135 X. — Shingleside, - - - - 148 XI. — Music at the Vicarage, - - 161 XII. — Star Lessons from a Spirit Teacher,- 175 XIII. — Miss Crompton gives some wholesome Advice, 190 XIV. — No. 8 Russell Square, - - 202 XV. — A Visit to Jupiter, • - -

Chapter I

Let love clasp grief lest both be drowned, Let darkness keep her raven gloss : Ah sweeter to be drunk with loss, To dance with death, and beat the ground, Than that the victor hours should scorn The long result of love, and boast, ' Behold the man that loved and lost But all he was is overworn.' — In Memoriam. Tennyson. ' f~\ H Mother, Mother, I wish I could die ! how v_y could he treat me so, — without a word of warning !' The speaker put her hands over the flushed face, and the eyes where tears were gathering, and shut out the world from her sight ; for the first stroke of a great grief is overpowering. What mockery it seemed just then that the June sun should be streaming in through the widely opened window of the breakfast-room, with the scent of honeysuckle and roses ; that thrushes and black birds were singing in the garden outside as if life were a thing of unmixed joy.

Yet so it was till rather less than ten minutes ago. Till the letter that fluttered to the floor from the girl's lap was read, Blanche Murray's heart had echoed the birds' songs and reflected the sunshine, but now all was changed. Changed too by a few words written in a man's hand, on a sheet, the surface of which was as smooth as the letters penned thereon, and the expression of the sentences. Perhaps it is the law of compensation (a law in which many flatly refuse to believe,) that places the healing hand of comfort close by the acutest sorrows, those of the young. So this young girl, shivering under the pain of a blow just given was not left to bear it alone, and turned at once to the sympathy never yet known to fail. Mrs. Murray picked up the offending letter in silence, and came quietly to the cane chair in the window where Blanche sat, not stunned, but in wardly writhing, as she rocked a little to and fro.

One glance at the widowed mother's face was enough to shew her life had been no smooth one, for time and trouble together had drawn deep lines round the sensitive mouth, painted dark shadows under the eyes, and mixed the brown hair with many silver threads. While she stood reading what had brought such grief to her daughter, the black folds of the woman's dress might have draped a statue, for all the movement they betrayed, and indignation waxed hot within her. With some natures this finds relief at once in words or im petuous action, with others it seems to petrify speech, and in Mrs. Murray's case words were slow to come. 1 My darling,' said she at last, and the voice trembled a little, ' you'd better think no more of him. He is unworthy of you, and of your love' ' I cannot take back what I have given, Mother.

It is no use saying that, and you know you do not really think so. But oh, how could he ! how could he go away like that, without coming to say good bye to us, or telling us he was going,' and the girl twisted a diamond ring on her finger, gazing at it through her tears, till the stones flashed into a rainbow of lovely tints. Mrs. Murray looked pensive and sad. Blanche, after the manner of youth, was absorbed in the present, while her mother, whose eyes were better accustomed to scan the horizon in search of signs of coming events, could look further into the future. She saw all too plainly that the letter signed 'Arthur Crompton' meant more than the actual words contained therein, and that the world might soon have occasion to say an ugly little word, too often bandied about, with reference to engaged couples.

To think that gentle, loving little Blanche, the one ewe lamb and consolation of a parent, who had suffered much, should be pitied, commented on, as having been jilted, was a sore thing for the mother to bear, the worse perhaps because she saw her child did not understand what was in store. Better, then, she should hear this now than be further awoke from a dream of happiness by the remarks of unconcerned outsiders. 'Blanche,' said Mrs. Murray, gently laying a hand on the girl's shoulder, ' listen to me. I know it is useless telling you at present to think no more of Arthur ; but for all that, I want you to try, because he on his side has certainly done so, though you may not have noticed this. For remember, dearest, they say love is blind, and that lookers on see most of the game,' continued the speaker smiling sadly — ' Try to judge calmly, to look at the meaning of your letter, and by and bye proper pride will come to your rescue.

You would not like the world to say you still hankered after a man who ceased to care for you, who ill-treated you, who jilted you, without perhaps summoning up courage to say so, in so many words ?' The listener looked up startled by the unwonted tones, and then, without answering at first, she mechanically smoothed back her hair, which the sunshine turned into a golden glory round the flushed face. ' But he has not done that, he would not do such a thing,' she murmured by and bye like one half awake. ' It is better you should know the worst at once Blanche. Colonel Crompton is a man of the world, years older than yourself, and I own to misgivings from the first day of your engagement. Still I could scarcely forbid it, seeing how your whole heart was in the affair ; and, knowingnothing definitely against the man of your choice, our dear old Rector advised me to let things alone, only stipulating for a six months' engagement, which you know I did, greatly against the wish of you both of course.

Arthur pleaded his empty house in the north, and his ample means. His brother too, our squire, added a word of persuasion, but I stood firm, and am thankful for it now. It was weak of me, foolishly weak to allow your engage ment to a man of whom we knew hardly anything, and a right instinct led me to consult Mr. Rede before going further. More than once lately Arthur Crompton has done little things which set me doubting as to the strength of his love for you, mere trifles for which you readily found excuse without shade of annoyance, still a straw shews which way the wind blows, and now this has come — after barely four months.' There was a long silence. Blanche looked abstractedly at the untasted breakfast on the little round table, at the gipsy kettle, the dainty flower glasses, the rolls and butter, things of every day life, from which the gazer's mind had strayed to a distance.

She could not bear to realize the hateful truth her mother drew so graphically, and set before her; she would not yet acknowledge it could be the truth, yet she was by no means deficient in common sense, and possessed absolute faith in the parent, whose devotion had never faltered. ' Unless he were to tell me with his own lips he no longer cared for me,' she murmured at last, ' unless Arthur were to say he wished the engagement at an end I could not believe it,' and as she toyed nervously with the diamond hoop that shone in solitary glory on her left hand, the ring suddenly slipped from her finger, rolling away into a shadowy corner behind the curtain. Mrs. Murray shook her head sadly, but she said no more, understanding her daughter too well to urge a point she knew would be gained by and bye. ' Come, the tea will be cold and I am hungry if you are not my dear,' said the widow with a faint attempt at playfulness, and she walked away to the table. ' Pick up your ring and try to eat some breakfast, for Nanny will be wondering what keeps us so long.' Blanche obeyed, as she generally did, and the mother's heart ached to see her toying with her buttered toast, indeed the sight took away all vestige of her own appetite.

The room in which the pair sat suggested small means and refine ment. A tiny piano stood across one corner of the pictured salmon-tinted wall, a table covered with work and painting materials softened another angle, a well-filled book case ran along the end of the room opposite the fire place, and a bowl of roses stood on the top of the book case. In the centre of all this sat the two women, each trying to cheat the other into the belief she was making a meal, though heavy hearts do not tend to fill mouths, and in the end both rose leaving every thing almost untasted. People talk much of the luxury of grief, and are as a rule kind to its indulgence, unmindful at first in their pity of its selfishness ; after all, the common little duties of daily life, are the best medicine, and Blanche Murray, thanks partly to her training, partly to a sweet sensible disposition, never shirked the taking of this medicine, distasteful though it was.

So she set to work in a dreamy fashion, and went about all that day, working, painting, writing much as usual, while the mother watched from time to time, brim full of a pity too wise to give vent to more words just yet. Blanche was feeding her white pigeons at sunset, the pretty things wheeled cooing round her head, or settled on her shoulder, when the click of the garden gate made the girl turn sharply to see who was coming, for visitors were rare at Laxleigh cottage. ' Hallo yellow locks ! Birds of a feather I see as usual. Where's Aunt Beatrice?' The new comer limped slowly up the cinder path as he spoke, and looked smilingly at the white figure before him, surrounded by her fantail flock. He was a complete contrast to the other occupant of the garden, for the slight stooping man was pale faced, and the high forehead had so often contracted with pain that two dark lines between the eyebrows were always there.

The eyes beneath were full of spirit and intelligence, for Herbert Graham was one of those whose soul seems to rise above adversity in proportion as this is sent to try the body ; he had moreover a gift that proved an unending source of joy, and in music found a second life ready to supply whatever was lacking in the other. ' She's gone to the rectory,' answered Blanche, her lips parting into a ready smile of greeting, ' but she must be back soon for she has been away some time. Of course you have come to spend the even ing with us, but where's the fiddle ? ' Herbert took the two outstretched hands, and looked searchingly into the wild rose face before him, which drooped abashed under the scrutiny, though any other day perhaps the girl might only have saucily enquired the reason. For the pair knew each other well, and the natural result was that each was sensitive to the slightest changes in the other.

Something impossible to define struck Herbert in the tone of Blanche's words, and instead of answering her question he asked another. ' What is the matter. Something has happened, for I feel it in the atmosphere ? ' ' Nonsense, Herbert,' cried the other, snatching away her hands with deepening colour, ' you are nearly as wonderful as dear old Mr. Rede about fancying you know things, only he really does know, and I always think it is because he is so good. You never can deceive him or tell him what he has not found out already.' ' What would Laxleigh do without Mr. Rede,' said the young fellow sighing, ' and yet I'm afraid it will have to before long. I wanted partly to talk to Aunt Beatrice about that very thing, and here we've just missed each other, though I came straight from the rectory.' 'Ah!

Mother must have gone across the meadow to avoid the village, she cannot bear meeting people when she has anything on her mind. But what of Mr. Rede, Herbert, surely he is not ill ? ' ' 111, no, not exactly, that's just where it is. Let us sit down a bit for I've been on the tramp most of the afternoon, and that does not suit a fellow like me,' he added, laying one hand significantly on his hip. Unselfishness was second nature to Blanche Murray, and a look of self reproach came into her face for failing to notice the more than usually haggard expression on that of her cousin. So she sauntered with him along the cinder path till they came to an arbour buried in white-starred fragrant clematis, which made a kind of boundary between the flower and vegetable gardens at the cottage. Within was a plank just wide enough for two, and a tree stump that did duty for a table, both nearly hidden from prying eyes outside by the masses of creeper now in full blossom.

The sun had nearly set, and the two in the arbour looked westward at a sky no painter could reproduce in its glorious colouring, since the light of heaven shone through those tints, revealing for a little while to upturned eyes, the unearthly beauty of another world. Herbert Graham pointed to the liquid sea of pink and rose, shaded softly with amber and pale gold, while the reflection made his white cheeks glow. ' See there. My dear old tutor sat for nearly an hour at sunset yesterday, looking like one in a trance, neither speaking nor moving. You know how he stays out in his garden half the night, poring over that telescope of his, when a man of his age ought to be in bed. Well, the night before last something made me feel uneasy about him. I could not sleep, the moon was very bright, perhaps by the bye that was the reason of my restlessness, for nothing could shut it out, and at last I got up to look out of the window, wondering if Mr. Rede were still to be seen.

The observatory door stood wide open, and not far outside on the gravel walk lay something dark. You may be sure I did not wait to think who or what it was, but ran down at once into the garden, and there sure enough was the rector, grasping some charts in one hand, with a face as white as the paper he held. He was quite unconscious, some kind of faint I suppose, and though his eyes were wide open they saw nothing.' ' Oh Herbert ! ' exclaimed the girl, who had hitherto listened open-mouthed in wrapt attention, her own troubles for the time forgotten in those of another, ' how frightened you must have been ! Why did you not tell me yesterday, Mother might have been some help, some comfort, and she is such a good nurse in illness of every kind you know.' ' The touch of my hand seemed to restore him in a few minutes, I supported him to the study, gave him some wine, and then, not till then he spoke, seeing no doubt what a fright I was in.

The first words he said were to forbid my sending for a doctor, or telling a single soul what had happened. ' It was only my summons,' he said — those were his very words Blanche, ' the summons that must come some day, and I will not have any one alarmed.' It was easy enough for him to say that, but I'd have given my right hand to get in proper advice, and I hardly left his side all next day, for though he seemed much as usual, he said little, and his movements struck me as feeble' 'Perhaps he will tell Mother,' suggested Blanche, ' now she has gone to see him. We cannot wonder at anything when a man is over eighty, but what made you tell me now; has he had another attack? We wondered why you did not come to us all yesterday, and this quite explains it.' Herbert's face grew very gloomy, and he con tinued to look fixedly at the sky while he answered : ' Last evening again he sat in his arm-chair by the study window after supper, he went quietly off into another of these trances.

I did not notice it at first, for he had asked me to play that movement from the Lobegesang he loves so much, and you know when I am playing I can think of nothing else. He woke up when the music stopped and I spoke, but I determined from that moment to con sult Aunt Beatrice, for such a state of things ought not to be allowed.' Blanche shivered and sat silent. The doves had ceased to wheel about their mistress for roosting time had come, and only a sleepy coo every now and then told of their presence in the garden. The great white August lilies shimmered like touches of snow against a background of laurels close to the house, and a couple of blackbirds sat singing their sweetest, each answering the other in bird language of unruly melody. The whole scene was one of profound peace, only the two young people in the arbour were uneasy, unpeaceful. ' You are cold,' cried Herbert suddenly. ' How thoughtless of me to be sitting on here after sun down, so afraid as aunt always is of your catching chills.

Let us come in, she must be here soon.' ' Yes she must be here soon,' echoed Blanche mechanically, 'she has been gone a long while now,' and slowly rising she left the arbour catching at a spray of clematis as she went, that straggled across her straw hat into her face. Neither spoke again till they had walked through the open French window of the little drawing room, and then Herbert sat down at once to the piano, looking over his shoulder with a smile as he did so, saying : ' Well, what shall it be to-night, Beethoven's " Moonlight," a Lieder, or Mr. Rede's 'Lobegesang,' he never tires of it, and we neither of us want to talk.' ' Whatever you like,' said Blanche listlessly, ' it is sure to be right, and I will sit here in the window to watch for mother.' Then gently, firmly in the fading light rose and fell the opening chords of the last movement in Mendelssohn's Hymn of Praise, comforting him who played them as music can do only to those on whom the gift is bestowed.

The exquisite melody closed in softness, giving place to a subdued sob bing of wordless grief, that went on despite the consoling treble notes till towards the end, when once again the melody rose overcoming the sobs, subduing the restless play of the bass, and pre paring for the happy final close. The listener in the cane chair played with her clematis spray, and heard admiring, but not absorbed, for her lame cousin's talent was some thing, truth to tell, rather above her comprehension. EEYOND CLOUDLAND. 22 In the midst of the music Mrs. Murray came in sight, walking quickly across the garden, and Blanche, catching sight of her, laid a warning finger on her lips. The widow nodded and stood leaning against the window frame watching the unconscious musician till the last note had died away into silence.

Then she spoke, and Herbert turned with a start, a question on his lips, to which he had no answer, for his aunt was a true woman who knew how to keep a secret as long as it suited her pur pose.

Chapter II

The great good angels of a thousand prayers, The prayers still rising morn and eve for her, Sped downward at commandment of their King, And tended her with constant service ; filled Her mind with holy thoughts, and pure desires, And glorious hopes.— Knight of Intercession. Stone. HERBERT Graham's story was a somewhat sad one, and since he has stepped abruptly on the stage with neither herald nor description to announce his coming, it may be as well to say something about him before going further. Beatrice Murray had a half-sister many years older than herself, who married late in life, and badly, according to the verdict of the world, which after all is apt to be shrewdly right in its judgments up to a certain point. Sure it is that Austace Graham's one year of marriage was nothing more than a prolonged honeymoon of wedded bliss ; and when she died at Herbert's birth, her husband was almost distracted with grief.

Unfortunately, he looked upon his baby son as the cause of his sorrow, and took in consequence such a dislike to the child that his early years were passed entirely alone or with his nurse, left to the tender mercies of servants. By and bye Mr. Graham married again, this time a wife as much younger as the first had been older than himself, and the result of that step proved a disastrous one to poor Herbert. Brothers and sisters multiplied fast to claim a mother's, and share a father's love, big healthy children, whose loud voices and active limbs were dreaded by the eldest son ; for he was a sickly child, to whom noise was a misery and romps a terror. Moreover, his quiet ways met with scant sympathy from either parent. So till close upon Herbert's tenth year life was a thing of few, if any charms, and then better days dawned for the boy, thanks to a proposal that he should pay his aunt, Beatrice Murray, a visit of indefinite length.

Beatrice had been married for several years, and communication with her brother-in-law had gradually ceased, as it is apt to do between people who lack sympathy, however much one or the other may try to keep it up from a sense of duty towards those bound by ties of blood or marriage. A mutual friend drew a vivid word picture of Herbert's loneliness, which awoke at once the aunt's pity, and she wrote forthwith, asking that he might come southward for the summer and stay at Laxleigh. Consent was readily given, and then a new existence began for Herbert Graham, who found himself a centre of love, sympathy, and all that makes life most beautiful to an ailing, sensitive mortal. From that time the visit to Mrs. Murray's cottage became an annual one, and as the boy grew up, many were the anxious consultations held about his future between him, his aunt, and the good Rector, who had ruled supreme for more than fifty years at Laxleigh.

Narrow means closed many an opening sought eagerly by those who hope in time to win fame or fortune, health seemed to shut the way against others, yet Herbert fretted sorely at the thought of inaction. Of what avail, he argued, were brains if he might not put them to use in helping to procure his independence ; but then his lameness — due partly, the doctor's said, to a fall from his nurse's arms in infancy — and his uncertain health, brought an answer that could not be gain said. Gradually the young fellow's thoughts turned to the Church, and Mr. Rede, fearful of encouraging a fancy that might fade naturally, or because it was out of the question, said nothing except to advise patience. Mr. Graham consented gladly to Mr. Rede's plan that he should become Herbert's tutor for a merely nominal payment, which smoothed away the only obstacle likely to be put in the way of this proposal.

The rector was interested in the gifted lad, whose sensitiveness turned the little thorns of daily life into daggers ; besides, he lived all alone in the gabled, ivy-mantled house under the hill, what more natural, then, than that he should not dislike a companion in his advancing years ? B Mrs. Murray rejoiced heartily in this arrangement. It left her free to lavish on Blanche the care and devotion hitherto often shared by the cousin, and at the same time the latter was not withdrawn altogether from her ken. Little, then, can it be wondered at that when Herbert's uneasiness was aroused about the tutor, who had grown into his best earthly friend, the pupil should feel alarmed and sad. Alarmed, for there seemed nothing in prospect except a return to an uncongenial home away from all he had learned to love best, a home from which he shrank doubly after a few years of absence.