m, and then added,
"No, do not search, but wait." Wait! How could he wait? "At your death
I will be with you." Why he might live another fifty years! That book of
her recorded thoughts had aroused in him such a desire for the sight, or
at least the actual knowledge of her continued being, that his blood was
aflame as with a madness. And yet how should he search?

"Stella," he whispered, "come to me, Stella!" But no Stella came; no
wings rustled, no breath stirred; the empty room was as the room had
been. Its silence seemed to mock him. Those who slept beneath its marble
floor were not more silent.

Was he mad that he should claim the power to work this miracle--to charm
the dead back through the Gates of Death as Orpheus charmed Eurydice?
Yet Stella did this thing--but how? He turned to the volume and page
of her diary which dealt with the drawing down of Gudrun. Yes, here
she spoke of continual efforts and of "that long, long preparation"--of
prayer and fasting also. Here, too, was the whole secret summed up in a
dozen words: "To see a spirit one must grow akin to spirits." Well, it
could be done, and he would do it. But look further on where she said:
"I shall call her back no more, lest the thing should get the mastery of
me, and I become unfitted for my work on earth. . . . I will stop while
there is yet time, while I am still mistress of my mind, and have the
strength to deny myself this awful joy."

Was there not a warning in these words, and in those other words: "No,
do not search, but wait." Surely they told of risk to him who, being yet
on earth, dared to lift a corner of the veil which separates flesh and
spirit. "Should get the mastery of me." If he saw her once would he be
able to do as Stella did, and by an effort of his will separate himself
from a communion so fearful yet so sweet? "Unfitted for my work."
Supposing that it did get the mastery of him, would he not also be
unfitted for his work on earth?

His work? What work had he now? It seemed to be done; for attending
scientific meetings, receiving dividends, playing the country squire's
only son and the wealthy host whilst awaiting the title which Mary
wished for--these things are not work, and somehow his days were so
arranged that he was never allowed to go beyond them. All further
researches and experiments were discouraged. What did it matter if
he were unfitted for that which he could no longer do? His work was
finished. There it stood before