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The Universe A Mistake!







From: The Crack Of Doom

"The Universe is a mistake!"

Thus spake Herbert Brande, a passenger on the Majestic, making for
Queenstown Harbour, one evening early in the past year. Foolish as the
words may seem, they were partly influential in leading to my terrible
association with him, and all that is described in this book.

Brande was standing beside me on the starboard side of the vessel. We
had been discussing a current astronomical essay, as we watched the hazy
blue line of the Irish coast rise on the horizon. This conversation was
interrupted by Brande, who said, impatiently:

"Why tell us of stars distant so far from this insignificant little
world of ours--so insignificant that even its own inhabitants speak
disrespectfully of it--that it would take hundreds of years to telegraph
to some of them, thousands to others, and millions to the rest? Why
limit oneself to a mere million of years for a dramatic illustration,
when there is a star in space distant so far from us that if a telegram
left the earth for it this very night, and maintained for ever its
initial velocity, it would never reach that star?"

He said this without any apparent effort after rhetorical effect; but
the suddenness with which he had presented a very obvious truism in a
fresh light to me made the conception of the vastness of space
absolutely oppressive. In the hope of changing the subject I replied:

"Nothing is gained by dwelling on these scientific speculations. The
mind is only bewildered. The Universe is inexplicable."

"The Universe!" he exclaimed. "That is easily explained. The Universe is
a mistake!"

"The greatest mistake of the century, I suppose," I added, somewhat
annoyed, for I thought Brande was laughing at me.

"Say, of Time, and I agree with you," he replied, careless of my
astonishment.

I did not answer him for some moments.

This man Brande was young in years, but middle-aged in the expression of
his pale, intellectual face, and old--if age be synonymous with
knowledge--in his ideas. His knowledge, indeed, was so exhaustive that
the scientific pleasantries to which he was prone could always be
justified, dialectically at least, by him when he was contradicted.
Those who knew him well did not argue with him. I was always stumbling
into intellectual pitfalls, for I had only known him since the steamer
left New York.

As to myself, there is little to be told. My history prior to my
acquaintance with Brande was commonplace. I was merely an active,
athletic Englishman, Arthur Marcel by name. I had studied medicine, and
was a doctor in all but the degree. This certificate had been dispensed
with owing to an unexpected legacy, on receipt of which I determined to
devote it to the furtherance of my own amusement. In the pursuit of this
object, I had visited many lands and had become familiar with most of
the beaten tracks of travel. I was returning to England after an absence
of three years spent in aimless roaming. My age was thirty-one years,
and my salient characteristic at the time was to hold fast by anything
that interested me, until my humour changed. Brande's conversational
vagaries had amused me on the voyage. His extraordinary comment on the
Universe decided me to cement our shipboard acquaintance before reaching
port.

"That explanation of yours," I said, lighting a fresh cigar, and
returning to a subject which I had so recently tried to shelve, "isn't
it rather vague?"

"For the present it must serve," he answered absently.

To force him into admitting that his phrase was only a thoughtless
exclamation, or induce him to defend it, I said:

"It does not serve any reasonable purpose. It adds nothing to knowledge.
As it stands, it is neither academic nor practical."

Brande looked at me earnestly for a moment, and then said gravely:

"The academic value of the explanation will be shown to you if you will
join a society I have founded; and its practicalness will soon be made
plain whether you join or not."

"What do you call this club of yours?" I asked.

"We do not call it a club. We call it a Society--the Cui Bono
Society," he answered coldly.

"I like the name," I returned. "It is suggestive. It may mean
anything--or nothing."

"You will learn later that the Society means something; a good deal, in
fact."

This was said in the dry, unemotional tone which I afterwards found was
the only sign of displeasure Brande ever permitted himself to show. His
arrangements for going on shore at Queenstown had been made early in the
day, but he left me to look for his sister, of whom I had seen very
little on the voyage. The weather had been rough, and as she was not a
good sailor, I had only had a rare glimpse of a very dark and handsome
girl, whose society possessed for me a strange attraction, although we

were then almost strangers. Indeed, I regretted keenly, as the time of
our separation approached, having registered my luggage (consisting
largely of curios and mementoes of my travels, of which I was very
careful) for Liverpool. My own time was valueless, and it would have
been more agreeable to me to continue the journey with the Brandes, no
matter where they went.

There was a choppy sea on when we reached the entrance to the harbour,
so the Majestic steamed in between the Carlisle and Camden forts, and
on to the man-of-war roads, where the tender met us. By this time,
Brande and his sister were ready to go on shore; but as there was a
heavy mail to be transhipped, we had still an hour at our disposal. For
some time we paced the deck, exchanging commonplaces on the voyage and
confidences as to our future plans. It was almost dark, but not dark
enough to prevent us from seeing those wonderfully green hills which
landlock the harbour. To me the verdant woods and hills were delightful
after the brown plains and interminable prairies on which I had spent
many months. As the lights of Queenstown began to speck the slowly
gathering gloom, Miss Brande asked me to point out Rostellan Castle. It
could not be seen from the vessel, but the familiar legend was easily
recalled, and this led us to talk about Irish tradition with its weird
romance and never failing pathos. This interested her. Freed now from
the lassitude of sea-sickness, the girl became more fascinating to me
every moment. Everything she said was worth listening to, apart from the
charming manner in which it was said.

To declare that she was an extremely pretty girl would not convey the
strange, almost unearthly, beauty of her face--as intellectual as her
brother's--and of the charm of her slight but exquisitely moulded
figure. In her dark eyes there was a sympathy, a compassion, that was
new to me. It thrilled me with an emotion different from anything that
my frankly happy, but hitherto wholly selfish life had known. There was
only one note in her conversation which jarred upon me. She was apt to
drift into the extraordinary views of life and death which were
interesting when formulated by her eccentric brother, but pained me
coming from her lips. In spite of this, the purpose I had contemplated
of joining Brande's Society--evoked as it had been by his own whimsical
observation--now took definite form. I would join that Society. It would
be the best way of keeping near to Natalie Brande.

Her brother returned to us to say that the tender was about to leave the
ship. He had left us for half an hour. I did not notice his absence
until he himself announced it. As we shook hands, I said to him:

"I have been thinking about that Society of yours. I mean to join it."

"I am very glad," he replied. "You will find it a new sensation, quite
outside the beaten track, which you know so well."

There was a shade of half-kindly contempt in his voice, which missed me
at the moment. I answered gaily, knowing that he would not be offended
by what was said in jest:

"I am sure I shall. If all the members are as mad as yourself, it will
be the most interesting experience outside Bedlam that any man could
wish for."

I had a foretaste of that interest soon.

As Miss Brande was walking to the gangway, a lamp shone full upon her
gypsy face. The blue-black hair, the dark eyes, and a deep red rose she
wore in her bonnet, seemed to me an exquisite arrangement of harmonious
colour. And the thought flashed into my mind very vividly, however
trivial it may seem here, when written down in cold words: "The queen of
women, and the queen of flowers." That is not precisely how my thought
ran, but I cannot describe it better. The finer subtleties of the brain
do not bear well the daylight of language.

Brande drew her back and whispered to her. Then the sweet face, now
slightly flushed, was turned to me again.

"Oh, thank you for that pretty thought," she said with a pleasant smile.
"You are too flattering. The 'queen of flowers' is very true, but the
'queen of women!' Oh, no!" She made a graceful gesture of dissent, and
passed down the gangway.

As the tender disappeared into the darkness, a tiny scrap of lace waved,
and I knew vaguely that she was thinking of me. But how she read my
thought so exactly I could not tell.

That knowledge it has been my fate to gain.





Next: A Strange Experiment

Previous: A Choice Of Miracles



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