held me dear and true?  And he, the strongest and truest friend of all, whose confidence I had shaken by my Socialism—­must he suffer the pang of seeing his co-worker, his co-fighter, of whom he had been so proud, to whom he had been so generous, go over to the opposing hosts, and leave the ranks of Materialism?  What would be the look in Charles Bradlaugh’s eyes when I told him that I had become a Theosophist?  The struggle was sharp and keen, but with none of the anguish of old days in it, for the soldier had now fought many fights and was hardened by many wounds.  And so it came to pass that I went again to Lansdowne Road to ask about the Theosophical Society.  H.P.  Blavatsky looked at me piercingly for a moment.  “Have you read the report about me of the Society for Psychical Research?” “No; I never heard of it, so far as I know.”  “Go and read it, and if, after reading it, you come back—­well.”  And nothing more would she say on the subject, but branched off to her experiences in many lands.

I borrowed a copy of the Report, read and re-read it.  Quickly I saw how slender was the foundation on which the imposing structure was built.  The continual assumptions on which conclusions were based; the incredible character of the allegations; and—­most damning fact of all—­the foul source from which the evidence was derived.  Everything turned on the veracity of the Coulombs, and they were self-stamped as partners in the alleged frauds.  Could I put such against the frank, fearless nature that I had caught a glimpse of, against the proud fiery truthfulness that shone at me from the clear, blue eyes, honest and fearless as those of a noble child?  Was the writer of “The Secret Doctrine” this miserable impostor, this accomplice of tricksters, this foul and loathsome deceiver, this conjuror with trap-doors and sliding panels?  I laughed aloud at the absurdity and flung the Report aside with the righteous scorn of an honest nature that knew its own kin when it met them, and shrank from the foulness and baseness of a lie.  The next day saw me at the Theosophical Publishing Company’s office at 7, Duke Street, Adelphi, where Countess Wachtmeister—­one of the lealest of H.P.B.’s friends—­was at work, and I signed an application to be admitted as fellow of the Theosophical Society.

On receiving my diploma I betook myself to Lansdowne Road, where I found H.P.B. alone.  I went over to her, bent down and kissed her, but said no word.  “You have joined the Society?” “Yes.”  “You have read the report?” “Yes.”  “Well?” I knelt down before her and clasped her hands in mine, looking straight into her eyes.  “My answer is, will you accept me as your pupil, and give me the honour of proclaiming you my teacher in the face of the world?” Her stern, set face softened, the unwonted gleam of tears sprang to her eyes; then, with a dignity more than regal, she placed her hand upon my head.  “You are a noble woman.  May Master bless you.”