Time is Now

The course of this narrative describes the return of a disembodied
spirit to earth, and the reader on new and strange ground. Not
in the obscurity of midnight, but in the searching light of day, did
the supernatural influence assert itself. Neither revealed by a vision, nor
announced bya voice, it reached mortal knowledge through the sense
which is least easily self-deceived: the sense that feels. The record
of this event will of necessity produce conflicting impressions.
It will raise, in some minds, the doubt which reason asserts; it
will invigorate, in other minds, the hope which faith justifies;
and it will leave the terrible question of the destinies of man,
where centuries of vain investigation have left it -- in the dark.
Having only undertaken in the present narrative to lead the way along
a succession of events, the writer declines to follow modern examples by
thrusting himself and his opinions on the public view.He returns to the
shadow from which he has emerged, and leaves the opposing forces of
incredulity and belief to fight the old battle over
again, on the old ground. The events happened soon after the first thirty
years of the present century had come to an end.On a fine morning,
early in the month of April, a gentleman of middle age (named Rayburn)
took his little daughter Lucy out for a walk in the woodland pleasure-ground
of Western London, called Kensington Gardens. The few friends whom he possessed
reported of Mr. Rayburn (not unkindly) that he was a reserved and solitary man.
He might have been more accurately described as
a widower devoted to his only surviving child. Although he was not
more than forty years of age, the one pleasure which made life enjoyable to
Lucy's father was offered by Lucy herself.Playing with her ball, the child ran
on to the southern limit of the Gardens, at that part of it which still remains
nearest to the old Palace of Kensington. Observing
close at hand one of those spacious covered seats, called in England "alcoves,"
Mr. Rayburn was reminded that he had the morning's newspaper in his pocket, and
that he might do well to rest and read. At that early hour the place was a solitude.
"Go on playing, my dear," he said; "but take care to keep where I can see you.
"Lucy tossed up her ball; and Lucy's father opened his newspaper. He had not
been reading for more than ten minutes, when he felt a familiar little hand laid
on his knee. "Tired of playing?" he inquired-- with his eyes still on the
newspaper."I'm frightened, papa." He looked up directly. The child's pale
face startled him. He took her on his knee and kissed her. "You oughtn't to
be frightened, Lucy, when I am with you," he said, gently."What is it?"
He looked out of the alcove as he spoke, and saw a little dog among the
trees. "Is it the dog?" he asked.Lucy answered: "It's not the dog -- it's
the lady." The lady was not visible from the alcove. "Has she said
anything to you?" Mr. Rayburn inquired. "No." "What has she done to
frighten you?" The child put her arms round her father's neck."Whisper,
papa," she said; "I'm afraid of her hearing us. I think she's mad."
"Why do you think so, Lucy?" "She came near to me. I thought she was
going to say something. She seemed to be ill." "Well? And what then?"
"She looked at me." There, Lucy found herself at a loss how to express
what she had to say next -- and took refuge in silence."Nothing very
wonderful, so far," her father suggested. "Yes, papa -- but she didn't
seem to see me when she looked." "Well, and what happened then?" "The
lady was frightened -- and that frightened me. I think," the child
repeated positively, "she's mad." It occurred to Mr. Rayburn that the
lady might be blind. He rose atonce to set the doubt at rest.
"Wait here," he said, "and I'll come back to you."But Lucy clung
to him with both hands; Lucy declared that she was afraid to be by
herself. They left the alcove together. The new point of view at once
revealed the stranger, leaning against the trunk of a tree. She was
dressed in the deep mourning of a widow. The pallor of her face, the
glassy stare in her eyes, more than accounted for the child's terror --
it excused the alarming conclusion at which shehad arrived. "Go nearer to
her," Lucy whispered. They advanced a few steps. It was now easy to see that
the lady was young,and wasted by illness -- but (arriving at a doubtful conclusion
perhaps under the present circumstances) apparently possessed of rare personal
attractions in happier days. As the father and daughter advanced a little,
she discovered them. After some hesitation,she left the tree; approached
with an evident intention of speaking; and suddenly paused. A change to
astonishment and fear animated her vacant eyes. If it had not been plain
before, it was now beyond all doubt that she was not a poor blind creature,
deserted and helpless. At the same time, the expression of her face was not
easy to understand. She could hardly have looked more amazed and bewildered,
if the two strangers who were observing her had suddenly vanished from the place
been reading for more than ten minutes, when he felt a familiar little hand laid
on his knee. "Tired of playing?" he inquired-- with his eyes still on the
newspaper."I'm frightened, papa." He looked up directly. The child's pale
face startled him. He took her on his knee and kissed her. "You oughtn't to
be frightened, Lucy, when I am with you," he said, gently."What is it?"
He looked out of the alcove as he spoke, and saw a little dog among the
trees. "Is it the dog?" he asked.Lucy answered: "It's not the dog -- it's
the lady." The lady was not visible from the alcove. "Has she said
anything to you?" Mr. Rayburn inquired. "No." "What has she done to
frighten you?" The child put her arms round her father's neck."Whisper,
papa," she said; "I'm afraid of her hearing us. I think she's mad."
"Why do you think so, Lucy?" "She came near to me. I thought she was
going to say something. She seemed to be ill." "Well? And what then?"
"She looked at me." There, Lucy found herself at a loss how to express
what she had to say next -- and took refuge in silence."Nothing very
wonderful, so far," her father suggested. "Yes, papa -- but she didn't
seem to see me when she looked." "Well, and what happened then?" "The
lady was frightened -- and that frightened me. I think," the child
repeated positively, "she's mad." It occurred to Mr. Rayburn that the
lady might be blind. He rose atonce to set the doubt at rest.
"Wait here," he said, "and I'll come back to you."But Lucy clung
to him with both hands; Lucy declared that she was afraid to be by
herself. They left the alcove together. The new point of view at once
revealed the stranger, leaning against the trunk of a tree. She was
dressed in the deep mourning of a widow. The pallor of her face, the
glassy stare in her eyes, more than accounted for the child's terror --
it excused the alarming conclusion at which shehad arrived. "Go nearer to
her," Lucy whispered. They advanced a few steps. It was now easy to see that
the lady was young,and wasted by illness -- but (arriving at a doubtful conclusion
perhaps under the present circumstances) apparently possessed of rare personal
attractions in happier days. As the father and daughter advanced a little,
she discovered them. After some hesitation,she left the tree; approached
with an evident intention of speaking; and suddenly paused. A change to
astonishment and fear animated her vacant eyes. If it had not been plain
before, it was now beyond all doubt that she was not a poor blind creature,
deserted and helpless. At the same time, the expression of her face was not
easy to understand. She could hardly have looked more amazed and bewildered,
if the two strangers who were observing her had suddenly vanished from the place
in which they stand.