IV

The ladies went to bed early at Stantons. At ten o'clock precisely a

clinking of bedroom candlesticks was heard in the hall, followed by

the sound of locking doors. This was the signal. Mrs. Baxter laid

aside her embroidery with the punctuality of a religious at the sound

of a bell, and said two words--

"My dears."

There were occasionally exclamatory expostulations from the two at the

piquet-table, but in nine cases out of ten the game had been designed

with an eye upon the clock, and hardly any delay followed. Mrs. Baxter

kissed her son, and passed her arm through Maggie's. Laurie followed;

gave them candles, and generally took one himself.

But this evening there was no piquet. Laurie had stayed later than

usual in the dining-room, and had wandered rather restlessly about

when he had joined the others. He looked at a London evening paper for

a little, paced about, vanished again, and only returned as the ladies

were making ready to depart. Then he gave them their candlesticks, and

himself came back to the drawing room.

He was, in fact, in a far more perturbed and excited mood than even

Maggie had had any idea of. She had interrupted him half-way through

the book, but he had read again steadily until five minutes before

dinner, and had, indeed, gone back again to finish it afterwards. He

had now finished it; and he wanted to think.

It had had a surprising effect on him, coming as it did upon a state

of mind intensely stirred to its depths by his sorrow. Crossness, as I

have said, had been the natural psychological result of his emotions;

but his emotions were none the less real. The froth of whipped cream

is real cream, after all.

Now Laurie had seen perfectly well the extreme unconvincingness of

Mrs. Stapleton, and had been genuine enough in his little shrug of

disapproval in answer to Maggie's, after lunch; yet that lady's

remarks had been sufficient just to ignite the train of thought. This

train had smoldered in the afternoon, had been fanned ever so slightly

by two breezes--the sense of Maggie's superiority and the faint

rebellious reaction which had come upon him with regard to his

personal religion. Certainly he had had Mass said for Amy this

morning; but it had been by almost a superstitious rather than a

religious instinct. He was, in fact, in that state of religious

unreality which occasionally comes upon converts within a year or two

of the change of their faith. The impetus of old association is

absent, and the force of novelty has died.

Underneath all this then, it must be remembered that the one thing

that was intensely real to him was his sense of loss of the one soul

in whom his own had been wrapped up. Even this afternoon as yesterday,

even this morning as he lay awake, he had been conscious of an

irresistible impulse to demand some sign, to catch some glimpse of

that which was now denied to him.

It was in this mood that he had read the book; and it is not to be

wondered at that he had been excited by it.

For it opened up to him, beneath all its sham mysticism, its

intolerable affectations, its grotesque parody of spirituality--of all

of which he was largely aware--a glimmering avenue of a faintly

possible hope of which he had never dreamed--a hope, at least, of that

half self-deception which is so tempting to certain characters.

Here, in this book, written by a living man, whose name and address

were given, were stories so startling, and theories so apparently

consonant with themselves and with other partly known facts--stories

and theories, too, which met so precisely his own overmastering

desire, that it is little wonder that he was affected by them.

Naturally, even during his reading, a thousand answers and adverse

comments had sprung to his mind--suggestions of fraud, of lying, of

hallucination--but yet, here the possibility remained. Here were

living men and women who, with the usual complement of senses and

reason, declared categorically and in detail, that on this and that

date, in this place and the other, after having taken all possible

precautions against fraud, they had received messages from the

dead--messages of which the purport was understood by none but

themselves--that they had seen with their eyes, in sufficient light,

the actual features of the dead whom they loved, that they had even

clasped their hands, and held for an instant the bodies of those whom

they had seen die with their own eyes, and buried.

* * * * *

When the ladies' footsteps had ceased to sound overhead, Laurie went

to the French window, opened it, and passed on to the lawn.

He was astonished at the warmth of the September night. The little

wind that had been chilly this afternoon had dropped with the coming

of the dark, and high overhead he could see the great masses of the

leaves motionless against the sky. He passed round the house, and

beneath the yews, and sat down on the garden bench.

It was darker here than outside on the lawn. Beneath his feet were the

soft needles from the trees, and above him, as he looked out, still

sunk in his thought, he could see the glimmer of a star or two between

the branches.

It was a fragrant, kindly night. From the hamlet of half a dozen

houses beyond the garden came no sound; and the house, too, was still

behind him. An illuminated window somewhere on the first floor went

out as he looked at it, like a soul leaving a body; once a sleepy bird

somewhere in the shrubbery chirped to its mate and was silent again.

Then as he still labored in argument, putting this against that, and

weighing that against the other, his emotion rose up in an

irresistible torrent, and all consideration ceased. One thing

remained: he must have Amy, or he must die.

* * * * *

It was five or six minutes before he moved again from that attitude of

clenched hands and tensely strung muscles into which his sudden

passion had cast him.

During those minutes he had willed with his whole power that she

should come to him now and here, down in this warm and fragrant

darkness, hidden from all eyes--in this sweet silence, round which

sleep kept its guard. Such things had happened before; such things

must have happened, for the will and the love of man are the mightiest

forces in creation. Surely again and again it had happened; there must

be somewhere in the world man after man who had so called back the

dead--a husband sobbing silently in the dark, a child wailing for his

mother; surely that force had before, in the world's history, willed

back again from the mysterious dark of space the dear personality that

was all that even heaven could give, had even compelled into a

semblance of life some sort of body to clothe it in. These things must

have happened--only secrets had been well kept.

So this boy had willed it; yet the dark had remained empty; and no

shadow, no faintly outlined face, had even for an instant blotted out

the star on which he stared; no touch on his shoulder, no whisper in

his ear. It had seemed as he strove there, in the silence, that it

must be done; that there was no limit to power concentrated and

intense. Yet it had not happened....

Once he had shuddered a little; and the very shudder of fear had had

in it a touch of delicious, trembling expectation. Yet it had not

happened.

Laurie relaxed his muscles therefore, let his breath exhale in a long

sigh, and once more remembered the book he had read and Mrs.

Stapleton's feverish, self-conscious thought.

Half an hour later his mother, listening in her bed, heard his

footsteps pass her room.

_Chapter III_

I

Lady Laura Bethell, spinster, had just returned to her house in

Queen's Gate, with her dearest friend, Mrs. Stapleton, for a few days

of psychical orgy. It was in her house, as much as in any in London,

that the modern prophets were to be met with--severe-looking women in

shapeless dresses, little men and big, with long hair and cloaks; and

it was in her drawing-room that tea and Queen cakes were dispensed to

inquirers, and papers read and discussed when the revels were over.

Lady Laura herself was not yet completely emancipated from what her

friends sometimes called the grave-clothes of so-called Revelation.

To her it seemed a profound truth that things could be true and untrue

simultaneously--that what might be facts on This Side, as she would

have expressed it, might be falsehoods on the Other. She was

accustomed, therefore, to attend All Saints', Carlton Gardens, in the

morning, and psychical drawing-rooms or halls in the evening, and to

declare to her friends how beautifully the one aspect illuminated and

interpreted the other.

For the rest, she was a small, fair-haired woman, with penciled dark

eyebrows, a small aquiline nose, gold pince-nez, and an exquisite

taste in dress.

The two were seated this Tuesday evening, a week after

Mrs. Stapleton's visit to the Stantons, in the drawing-room of the

Queen's Gate house, over the remnants of what corresponded to

five-o'clock tea. I say "corresponded," since both of them were

sufficiently advanced to have renounced actual tea altogether. Mrs.

Stapleton partook of a little hot water out of a copper-jacketed jug;

her hostess of boiled milk. They shared their Plasmon biscuits

together. These things were considered important for those who would

successfully find the Higher Light.

At this instant they were discussing Mr. Vincent.

"Dearest, he seems to me so different from the others," mewed Lady

Laura. "He is such a man, you know. So often those others are not

quite like men at all; they wear such funny clothes, and their hair

always is so queer, somehow."

"Darling, I know what you mean. Yes, there's a great deal of that

about James Vincent. Even dear Tom was almost polite to him: he

couldn't bear the others: he said that he always thought they were

going to paw him."

"And then his powers," continued Lady Laura--"his powers always seem

to me so much greater. The magnetism is so much more evident."

Mrs. Stapleton finished her hot water.

"We are going on Sunday?" she said questioningly.

"Yes; just a small party. And he comes here tomorrow, you remember,

just for a talk. I have asked a clergyman I know in to meet him. It

seems to me such a pity that our religious teachers should know so

little of what is going on."

"Who is he?"

"Oh, Mr. Jamieson ... just a young clergyman I met in the summer. I

promised to let him know the next time Mr. Vincent came to me."

Mrs. Stapleton murmured her gratification.

These two had really a great deal in common besides their faith. It is

true that Mrs. Stapleton was forty, and her friend but thirty-one; but

the former did all that was possible to compensate for this by adroit

toilette tactics. Both, too, were accustomed to dress in soft

materials, with long chains bearing various emblems; they did their

hair in the same way; they cultivated the same kinds of tones in their

voices--a purring, mewing manner--suggestive of intuitive kittens.

Both alike had a passion for proselytism. But after that the

differences began. There was a deal more in Mrs. Stapleton besides the

kittenish qualities. She was perfectly capable of delivering a speech

in public; she had written some really well-expressed articles in

various Higher periodicals; and she had a will-power beyond the

ordinary. At the point where Lady Laura began to deprecate and soothe,

Mrs. Stapleton began to clear decks for action, so to speak, to be

incisive, to be fervent, even to be rather eloquent. She kept "dear

Tom," the Colonel, not crushed or beaten, for that was beyond the

power of man to do, but at least silently acquiescent in her program:

he allowed her even to entertain her prophetical friends at his

expense, now and then; and, even when among men, refrained from too

bitter speech. It was said by the Colonel's friends that Mrs. Colonel

had a tongue of her own. Certainly, she ruled her house well and did

her duty; and it was only because of her husband's absence in Scotland

that during this time she was permitting herself the refreshment of a

week or two among the Illuminated.

At about six o'clock Lady Laura announced her intention of retiring

for her evening meditation. Opening out of her bedroom was a small

dressing-room that she had fitted up for this purpose with all the

broad suggestiveness that marks the Higher Thought: decked with

ornaments emblematical of at least three religions, and provided with

a faldstool and an exceedingly easy chair. It was here that she was

accustomed to spend an hour before dinner, with closed eyes,

emancipating herself from the fetters of sense; and rising to a due

appreciation of that Nothingness that was All, from which All came and

to which it retired.

"I must go, dearest; it is time."

A ring at the bell below made her pause.

"Do you think that can be Mr. Vincent?" she said, pleasantly

apprehensive. "It's not the right day, but one never knows."

A footman's figure entered.

"Mr. Baxter, my lady.... Is your ladyship at home?"

"Mr. Baxter--"

Mrs. Stapleton rose.

"Let me see him instead, dearest.... You remember ... from Stantons."

"I wonder what he wants?" murmured the hostess. "Yes, do see him,

Maud; you can always fetch me if it's anything."

Then she was gone. Mrs. Stapleton sank into a chair again; and in a

minute Laurie was shaking hands with her.

Mrs. Stapleton was accustomed to deal with young men, and through long

habit had learned how to flatter them without appearing to do so.

Laurie's type, however, was less familiar to her. She preferred the

kind that grow their hair rather long and wear turn-down collars, and

have just found out the hopeless banality of all orthodoxy whatever.

She even bore with them when they called themselves unmoral. But she

remembered Laurie, the silent boy at lunch last week, she had even

mentioned him to Lady Laura, and received information about the

village girl, more or less correct. She was also aware that he was a

Catholic.

She gave him her hand without rising.

"Lady Laura asked me to excuse her absence to you, Mr. Baxter. To be

quite truthful, she is at home, but had just gone upstairs for her

meditation."

"Indeed!"

"Yes, you know; we think that so important, just as you do. Do sit

down, Mr. Baxter. You have had tea?"

"Yes, thanks."

"I hope she will be down before you go. I don't think she'll be very

long this evening. Can I give her any message, Mr. Baxter, in case you

don't see her?"

Laurie put his hat and stick down carefully, and crossed his legs.

"No; I don't think so, thanks," he said. "The fact is, I came partly

to find out your address, if I might."

Mrs. Stapleton rustled and rearranged herself.

"Oh! but that's charming of you," she said. "Is there anything

particular?"

"Yes," said Laurie slowly; "at least it seems rather particular to me.

It's what you were talking about the other day."

"Now how nice of you to say that! Do you know, I was wondering as we

talked. Now do tell me exactly what is in your mind, Mr. Baxter."

Mrs. Stapleton was conscious of a considerable sense of pleasure.

Usually she found this kind of man very imperceptive and gross. Laurie

seemed perfectly at his ease, dressed quite in the proper way, and had

an air of presentableness that usually only went with Philistinism.

She determined to do her best.

"May I speak quite freely, please?" he asked, looking straight at her.

"Please, please," she said, with that touch of childish intensity that

her friends thought so innocent and beautiful.

"Well, it's like this," said Laurie. "I've always rather disliked all

that kind of thing, more than I can say. It did seem to me

so--well--so feeble, don't you know; and then I'm a Catholic, you see,

and so--"

"Yes; yes?"

"Well, I've been reading Mr. Stainton Moses, and one or two other

books; and I must say that an awful lot of it seems to me still great

rubbish; and then there are any amount of frauds, aren't there, Mrs.

Stapleton, in that line?"

"Alas! Ah, yes!"

"But then I don't know what to make of some of the evidence that

remains. It seems to me that if evidence is worth anything at all,

there must be something real at the back of it all. And then, if that

is so, if it really is true that it is possible to get into actual

touch with people who are dead--I mean really and truly, so that

there's no kind of doubt about it--well, that does seem to me about

the most important thing in the world. Do you see?"

She kept her eyes on his face for an instant or two. Plainly he was

really moved; his face had gone a little white in the lamplight and

his hands were clasped tightly enough over his knee to whiten the

knuckles. She remembered Lady Laura's remarks about the village girl,

and understood. But she perceived that she must not attempt intimacy

just yet with this young man: he would resent it. Besides, she was

shrewd enough to see by his manner that he did not altogether like

her.

She nodded pensively once or twice. Then she turned to him with a

bright smile. "I understand entirely," she said. "May I too speak

quite freely? Yes? Well, I am so glad you have spoken out. Of course,

we are quite accustomed to being distrusted and feared. After all, it

is the privilege of all truth-seekers to suffer, is it not? Well, I

will say what is in my heart.

"First, you are quite right about some of our workers being dishonest

sometimes. They are, Mr. Baxter, I have seen more than one, myself,

exposed. But that is natural, is it not? Why, there have been bad

Catholics, too, have there not? And, after all, we are only human; and

there is a great temptation sometimes not to send people away

disappointed. You have heard those stories, I expect, Mr. Baxter?"

"I have heard of Mr. Eglinton."

"Ah! Poor Willie.... Yes. But he had great powers, for all that....

Well, but the point you want to get at is this, is it not? Is it

really true, underneath it all? Is that it?"

Laurie nodded, looking at her steadily. She leaned forward.

"Mr. Baxter, by all that I hold most sacred, I assure you that it is,

that I myself have seen and touched ... _touched_ ... my own father,

who crossed over twenty years ago. I have received messages from his

own lips ... and communications in other ways too, concerning matters

only known to him and to myself. Is that sufficient? No"; (she held up

a delicate silencing hand) "... no, I will not ask you to take my

word. I will ask you to test it for yourself."

Laurie too leaned forward now in his low chair, his hands clasped

between his knees.

"You will--you will let me test it?" he said in a low voice.

She sat back easily, pushing her draperies straight. She was in some

fine silk that fell straight from her high slender waist to her

copper-colored shoes.

"Listen, Mr. Baxter. Tomorrow there is coming to this house certainly

the greatest medium in London, if not in Europe. (Of course we cannot

compete with the East. We are only children beside them.) Well, this

man, Mr. Vincent--I think I spoke of him to you last week--he is

coming here just for a talk to one or two friends. There shall be no

difficulty if you wish it. I will speak to Lady Laura before you go."

Laurie looked at her without moving.

"I shall be very much obliged," he said. "You will remember that I am

not yet in the least convinced? I only want to know."

"That is exactly the right attitude. That is all we have any right to

ask. We do not ask for blind faith, Mr. Baxter--only for believing

after having seen."

Laurie nodded slowly.

"That seems to me reasonable," he said.

There was silence for a moment. Then she determined on a bold stroke.

"There is someone in particular--Mr. Baxter--forgive me for

asking--someone who has passed over--?"

She sank her voice to what she had been informed was a sympathetic

tone, and was scarcely prepared for the sudden tightening of that

face.

"That is my affair, Mrs. Stapleton."

Ah well, she had been premature. She would fetch Lady Laura, she said;

she thought she might venture for such a purpose. No, she would not be

away three minutes. Then she rustled out.

Laurie went to the fire to wait, and stood there, mechanically warming

his hands and staring down at that sleeping core of red coal.

He had taken his courage in both hands in coming at all. In spite of

his brave words to Maggie, he had been conscious of a curious

repulsion with regard to the whole matter--a repulsion not only of

contempt towards the elaborate affectations of the woman he had

determined to consult. Yet he had come.

What he had said just now had been perfectly true. He was not yet in

the least convinced, but he was anxious, intensely and passionately

anxious, goaded too by desire.

Ah! surely it was absurd and fantastic--here in London, in this

century. He turned and faced the lamp-lit room, letting his eyes

wander round the picture-hung walls, the blue stamped paper, the

Empire furniture, the general appearance of beautiful comfort and sane

modern life. It was absurd and fantastic; he would be disappointed

again, as he had been disappointed in everything else. These things

did not happen--the dead did not return. Step by step those things

that for centuries had been deemed evidence of the supernatural, one

by one had been explained and discounted. Hypnotism, water divining,

witchcraft, and the rest. All these had once been believed to be

indisputable proofs of a life beyond the grave, of strange supernormal

personalities, and these, one by one, had been either accounted for or

discredited. It was mad of him to be alarmed or excited. No, he would

go through with it, expecting nothing, hoping nothing. But he would

just go through with it to satisfy himself....

The door opened, and the two ladies came in.

"I am delighted that you called, Mr. Baxter; and on such an errand!"

Lady Laura put out a hand, tremulous with pleasure at welcoming a

possible disciple.

"Mrs. Stapleton has explained--" began Laurie.

"I understand everything. You come as a skeptic--no, not as a skeptic,

but as an inquirer, that is all that we wish.... Then tomorrow, at

about half-past four."

_Chapter IV_

I

It was a mellow October afternoon, glowing towards sunset, as Laurie

came across the south end of the park to his appointment next day; and

the effect of it upon his mind was singularly unsuggestive of

supernatural mystery. Instead, the warm sky, the lights beginning to

peep here and there, though an hour before sunset, turned him rather

in the direction of the natural and the domestic.

He wondered what his mother and Maggie would say if they knew his

errand, for he had sufficient self-control not to have told them of

his intentions. As regards his mother he did not care very much. Of

course she would deprecate it and feebly dissuade; but he recognized

that there was no particular principle behind, beyond a sense of

discomfort at the unknown. But it was necessary for him to argue with

himself about Maggie. The angry kind of contempt that he knew she

would feel needed an answer; and he gave it by reminding himself that

she had been brought up in a convent-school, that she knew nothing of

the world, and that, lastly, he himself did not take the matter

seriously. He was aware, too, that the instinctive repulsion that she

felt so keenly found a certain echo in his own feelings; but he

explained this by the novelty of the thing.

In fact, the attitude of mind in which he more or less succeeded in

arraying himself was that of one who goes to see a serious conjurer.

It would be rather fun, he thought, to see a table dancing. But there

was not wholly wanting that inexplicable tendency of some natures

deliberately to deceive themselves on what lies nearest to their

hearts.

Mr. Vincent had not yet arrived when he was shown upstairs, even

though Laurie himself was late. (This was partly deliberate. He

thought it best to show a little nonchalance.) There was only a young

clergyman in the room with the ladies; and the two were introduced.

"Mr. Baxter--Mr. Jamieson."

He seemed a harmless young man, thought Laurie, and plainly a little

nervous at the situation in which he found himself, as might a

greyhound carry himself in a kennel of well-bred foxhounds. He was

very correctly dressed, with Roman collar and stock, and obviously had

not long left a theological college. He had an engaging kind of

courtesy, ecclesiastically cut features, and curly black hair. He sat

balancing a delicate cup adroitly on his knee.

"Mr. Jamieson is so anxious to know all that is going on," explained

Lady Laura, with a voluble frankness. "He thinks it so necessary to be

abreast of the times, as he said to me the other day."

Laurie assented, grimly pitying the young man for his indiscreet

confidences. The clergyman looked priggish in his efforts not to do

so.

"He has a class of young men on Sundays," continued the

hostess--"(Another biscuit, Maud darling?)--whom he tries to interest

in all modern movements. He thinks it so important."

Mr. Jamieson cleared his throat in a virile manner.

"Just so," he said; "exactly so."

"And so I told him he must really come and meet Mr. Vincent.... I

can't think why he is so late; but he has so many calls upon his time,

that I am sure I wonder--"

"Mr. Vincent," announced the footman.

A rather fine figure of a man came forward into the room, dressed in

much better taste than Laurie somehow had expected, and not at all

like the type of an insane dissenting minister in broadcloth which he

had feared. Instead, it was a big man that he saw, stooping a little,

inclined to stoutness, with a full curly beard tinged with grey,

rather overhung brows, and a high forehead, from which the same kind

of curly greyish hair was beginning to retreat. He was in a well-cut

frock-coat and dark trousers, with the collar of the period and a dark

tie.

Lady Laura was in a flutter of welcome, pouring out little sentences,

leading him to a seat, introducing him, and finally pressing

refreshments into his hands.

"It is too good of you," she said; "too good of you, with all your

engagements.... These gentlemen are most anxious.... Mrs. Stapleton of

course you know.... And you will just sit and talk to us ... like

friends ... won't you.... No, no! no formal speech at all ... just a

few words ... and you will allow us to ask you questions...."

And so on.

Meanwhile Laurie observed the high-priest carefully and narrowly, and

was quite unable to see any of the unpleasant qualities he had

expected. He sat easily, without self-consciousness or arrogance or

unpleasant humility. He had a pair of pleasant, shrewd, and rather

kind eyes; and his voice, when he said a word or two in answer to Lady

Laura's volubility, was of that resonant softness that is always a

delight to hear. In fact, his whole bearing and personality was that

of a rather exceptional average man--a publisher, it might be, or a

retired lawyer--a family man with a sober round of life and ordinary

duties, who brought to their fulfillment a wholesome, kindly, but

distinctly strong character of his own. Laurie hardly knew whether he

was pleased or disappointed. He would almost have preferred a wild

creature with rolling eyes, in a cloak; yet he would have been

secretly amused and contemptuous at such a man.

"The sitting is off for Sunday, by the way, Lady Laura," said the

new-comer.

"Indeed! How is that?"

"Oh! there was some mistake about the rooms; it's the secretary's

fault; you mustn't blame me."

Lady Laura cried out her dismay and disappointment, and Mrs.

Stapleton played chorus. It was _too_ tiresome, they said, _too_

provoking, particularly just now, when "Annie" was so complacent.

(Mrs. Stapleton explained kindly to the two young gentlemen that

"Annie" was a spirit who had lately made various very interesting

revelations.) What was to be done? Were there no other rooms?

Mr. Vincent shook his head. It was too late, he said, to make

arrangements now.

While the ladies continued to buzz, and Mr. Jamieson to listen from

the extreme edge of his chair, Laurie continued to make mental

comments. He felt distinctly puzzled by the marked difference between

the prophet and his disciples. These were so shallow; this so

impressive by the most ordinary of all methods, and the most difficult

of imitation, that is, by sheer human personality. He could not grasp

the least common multiple of the two sides. Yet this man tolerated

these women, and, indeed, seemed very kind and friendly towards them.

He seemed to possess that sort of competence which rises from the fact

of having well-arranged ideas and complete certitude about them.

And at last a pause came. Mr. Vincent set down his cup for the second

time, refused buttered bun, and waited.

"Yes, do smoke, Mr. Vincent."

The man drew out his cigarette-case, smiling, offering it to the two

men. Laurie took one; the clergyman refused.

"And now, Mr. Vincent."

Again he smiled, in a half-embarrassed way.

"But no speeches, I think you said," he remarked.

"Oh! well, you know what I mean; just like friends, you know. Treat

us all like that."

Mrs. Stapleton rose, came nearer the circle, rustled down again, and

sank into an elaborate silence.

"Well, what is it these gentlemen wish to hear?"

"Everything--everything," cried Lady Laura. "They claim to know

nothing at all."

Laurie thought it time to explain himself a little. He felt he would

not like to take this man at an unfair advantage.

"I should just like to say this," he said. "I have told Mrs. Stapleton

already. It is this. I must confess that so far as I am concerned I am

not a believer. But neither am I a skeptic. I am just a real agnostic

in this matter. I have read several books; and I have been impressed.

But there's a great deal in them that seems to me nonsense; perhaps I

had better say which I don't understand. This materializing business,

for instance.... I can understand that the minds of the dead can

affect ours; but I don't see how they can affect matter--in

table-rapping, for instance, and still more in appearing, and our

being able to touch and see them.... I think that's my position," he

ended rather lamely.

The fact was that he was a little disconcerted by the other's eyes.

They were, as I have said, kind and shrewd eyes, but they had a good

deal of power as well. Mr. Vincent sat motionless during this little

speech, just looking at him, not at all offensively, yet with the

effect of making the young man feel rather like a defiant and naughty

little boy who is trying to explain.

Laurie sat back and drew on his cigarette rather hard.

"I understand perfectly," said the steady voice. "You are in a very

reasonable position. I wish all were as open-minded. May I say a word

or two?"

"Please."

"Well, it is materialization that puzzles you, is it?"

"Exactly," said Laurie. "Our theologians tell us--by the way, I am a

Catholic." (The other bowed a little.) "Our theologians, I believe,

tell us that such a thing cannot be, except under peculiar

circumstances, as in the lives of the saints, and so on."

"Are you bound to believe all that your theologians say?" asked the

other quietly.

"Well, it would be very rash indeed--" began Laurie.

"Exactly, I see. But what if you approach it from the other side, and

try to find out instead whether these things actually do happen. I do

not wish to be rude, Mr. Baxter; but you remember that your

theologians--I am not so foolish as to say the Church, for I know that

that was not so--but your theologians, you know, made a mistake about

Galileo."

Laurie winced a little. Mr. Jamieson cleared his throat in gentle

approval.

"Now I don't ask you to accept anything contrary to your faith," went

on the other gently; "but if you really wish to look into this matter,

you must set aside for the present all other presuppositions. You must

not begin by assuming that the theologians are always right, nor even

in asking how or why these things should happen. The one point is, _Do

they happen?_"

His last words had a curious little effect as of a sudden flame. He

had spoken smoothly and quietly; then he had suddenly put an

unexpected emphasis into the little sentence at the end. Laurie

jumped, internally. Yes, that was the point, he assented internally.

"Now," went on the other, again in that slow, reassuring voice,

flicking off the ash of his cigarette, "is it possible for you to

doubt that these things happen? May I ask you what books you have

read?"

Laurie named three or four.

"And they have not convinced you?"

"Not altogether."

"Yet you accept human evidence for a great many much more remarkable

things than these--as a Catholic."

"That is Divine Revelation," said Laurie, sure of his ground.

"Pardon me," said the other. "I do not in the least say it is not

Divine Revelation--that is another question--but you receive the

statement that it is so, on the word of man. Is that not true?"

Laurie was silent. He did not quite know what to say; and he almost

feared the next words. But he was astonished that the other did not

press home the point.

"Think over that, Mr. Baxter. That is all I ask. And now for the real

thing. You sincerely wish to be convinced?"

"I am ready to be convinced."

The medium paused an instant, looking intently at the fire. Then he

tossed the stump of his cigarette away and lighted another. The two

ladies sat motionless.

"You seem fond of _a priori_ arguments, Mr. Baxter," he began, with a

kindly smile. "Let us have one or two, then.

"Consider first the relation of your soul to your body. That is

infinitely mysterious, is it not? An emotion rises in your soul, and a

flush of blood marks it. That is the subconscious mechanism of your

body. But to say that, does not explain it. It is only a label. You

follow me? Yes? Or still more mysterious is your conscious power. You

will to raise your hand, and it obeys. Muscular action? Oh yes; but

that is but another label." He turned his eyes, suddenly somber, upon

the staring, listening young man, and his voice rose a little. "Go

right behind all that, Mr. Baxter, down to the mysteries. What is that

link between soul and body? You do not know! Nor does the wisest

scientist in the world. Nor ever will. Yet there the link is!"

Again he paused.

Laurie was aware of a rising half-excited interest far beyond the

power of the words he heard. Yet the manner of these too was striking.

It was not the sham mysticism he had expected. There was a certain

reverence in them, an admitting of mysteries, that seemed hard to

reconcile with the ideas he had formed of the dogmatism of these folk.

"Now begin again," continued the quiet, virile voice. "You believe, as

a Christian, in the immortality of the soul, in the survival of

personality after death. Thank God for that! All do not, in these

days. Then I need not labor at that.

"Now, Mr. Baxter, imagine to yourself some soul that you have loved

passionately, who has crossed over to the other side." Laurie drew a

long, noiseless breath, steadying himself with clenched hands. "She

has come to the unimaginable glories, according to her measure; she is

at an end of doubts and fears and suspicions. She knows because she

sees.... But do you think that she is absorbed in these things? You

know nothing of human love, Mr. Baxter" (the voice trembled with

genuine emotion) ... "if you can think that...! If you can think that

her thought turns only to herself and her joys. Why, her life has been

lived in your love by our hypothesis--you were at her bedside when she

died, perhaps; and she clung to you as to God Himself, when the shadow

deepened. Do you think that her first thought, or at least her second,

will not be of you...? In all that she sees, she will desire you to

see it also. She will strive, crave, hunger for you--not that she may

possess you, but that you may be one with her in her own possession;

she will send out vibration after vibration of sympathy and longing;

and you, on this side, will be tuned to her as none other can be--you,

on this side, will be empty for her love, for the sight and sound of

her.... Is death then so strong?--stronger than love? Can a Christian

believe that?"

The change in the man was extraordinary. His heavy beard and brows hid

half his face, but his whole being glowed passionately in his voice,

even in his little trembling gestures, and Laurie sat astonished.

Every word uttered seemed to fit his own case, to express by an almost

perfect vehicle the vague thoughts that had struggled in his own heart

during this last week. It was Amy of whom the man spoke, Amy with her

eyes and hair, peering from the glorious gloom to catch some glimpse

of her lover in his meaningless light of earthly day.

Mr. Vincent cleared his throat a little, and at the sound the two

motionless women stirred and rustled a little. The sound of a hansom,

the spanking trot and wintry jingle of bells swelled out of the

distance, passed, and went into silence before he spoke again. Then it

was in his usual slow voice that he continued.

"Conceive such a soul as that, Mr. Baxter. She desires to communicate

with one she loves on earth, with you or me, and it is a human and

innocent desire. Yet she has lost that connection, that machinery of

which we have spoken--that connection of which we know nothing,

between matter and spirit, except that it exists. What is she to do?

Well, at least she will do this, she will bend every power that she

possesses upon that medium--I mean matter--through which alone the

communication can be made; as a man on an island, beyond the power of

a human voice, will use any instrument, however grotesque, to signal

to a passing ship. Would any decent man, Mr. Baxter, mock at the

pathos and effort of that, even if it were some grotesque thing, like

a flannel shirt on the end of an oar? Yet men mock at the tapping of a

table...!

"Well, then, this longing soul uses every means at her disposal,

concentrates every power she possesses. Is it so very unreasonable, so

very unchristian, so very dishonoring to the love of God, to think

that she sometimes succeeds...? that she is able, under comparatively

exceptional circumstances, to re-establish that connection with

material things, that was perfectly normal and natural to her during

her earthly life.... Tell me, Mr. Baxter."

Laurie shifted a little in his chair.

"I cannot say that it is," he said, in a voice that seemed strange in

his own ears. The medium smiled a little.

"So much for _a priori_ reasoning," he said. "There remains only the

fact whether such things do happen or not. There I must leave you to

yourself, Mr. Baxter."

Laurie sat forward suddenly.

"But that is exactly where I need your help, sir," he said.

A murmur broke from the ladies' lips simultaneously, resembling

applause. Mr. Jamieson sat back and swallowed perceptibly in his

throat.

"You have said so much, sir," went on Laurie deliberately, "that you

have, so to speak, put yourself in my debt. I must ask you to take me

further."

Mr. Vincent smiled full at him.

"You must take your place with others," he said. "These ladies--"

"Mr. Vincent, Mr. Vincent," cried Lady Laura. "He is quite right, you

must help him. You must help us all."

"Well, Sunday week," he began deprecatingly.

Mrs. Stapleton broke in.

"No, no; now, Mr. Vincent, now. Do something now. Surely the

circumstances are favorable."

"I must be gone again at six-thirty," said the man hesitatingly.

Laurie broke in. He felt desperate.

"If you can show me anything of this, sir, you can surely show it now.

If you do not show it now--"

"Well, Mr. Baxter?" put in the voice, sharp and incisive, as if

expecting an insult and challenging it.

Laurie broke down.

"I can only say," he cried, "that I beg and entreat of you to do what

you can--now and here."

There was a silence.

"And you, Mr. Jamieson?"

The young clergyman started, as if from a daze. Then he rose abruptly.

"I--I must be going, Lady Laura," he said. "I had no idea it was so

late. I--I have a confirmation class."

An instant later he was gone.

"That is as well," observed the medium. "And you are sure, Mr. Baxter,

that you wish me to try? You must remember that I promise nothing."

"I wish you to try."

"And if nothing happens?"

"If nothing happens, I will promise to--to continue my search. I shall

know then that--that it is at least sincere."

Mr. Vincent rose to his feet.

"A little table just here, Lady Laura, if you please, and a pencil and

paper.... Will you kindly take your seats...? Yes, Mr. Baxter, draw up

your chair ... here. Now, please, we must have complete silence, and,

so far as possible, silence of thought."