"The 'guides,'" I answered.
"The 'guides'!" she exclaimed. "Do you believe in the guides?"
"I believe in the _belief_ of the guides," was my cryptic rejoinder.
"Sing again, please."
I really had no faith in the conditions of the circle, but for the joke
of it I kept my sitters in place for nearly an hour by dint of
pretending to hear creakings and to feel throbbings, until at last
little Miss Brush became very deeply concerned. "I feel them, too," she
declared. "Did some one blow on my hands? I felt a cold wave."
Harris got up abruptly. "I'll join the doubters," said he. "This
tomfoolery is too idiotic for me."
Cameron followed, and Mrs. Quigg also rose. "I'll go with you," she
said, decidedly. I was willing to quit, too, but Mrs. Harris and Miss
Brush pleaded with me to continue.
"Close up the circle, then. Probably Harris was the hoodoo. Things will
happen now," I said, briskly, though still without any faith in the
experiment.
Hardly had Harris left the table when a shudder passed over Mrs. Harris,
her head lifted, and her eyes closed.
"What's the matter, Dolly?" whispered Mrs. Cameron. "Do you feel faint?"
"Don't be alarmed! Mrs. Harris is only passing into a sleep. Not a word,
Harris!" I said, warningly. "Please move farther away."
In the dusky light the faces of all the women looked suddenly blanched
and strange as the entranced woman seized upon the table with her hands,
shaking it hard from side to side. The table seemed to wake to diabolic
energy under her palms. This was an unexpected development, and I was
almost as much surprised as the others were.
"Sing again," I commanded, softly.
As they sang, Mrs. Harris withdrew her hands from the table and sat
rigidly erect, yet with a peaceful look upon her face. "She does it
well," I thought. "I didn't think it in the quiet little lady." At
length one hand lifted and dropped limply upon the table. "It wants to
write," said I. "Where is the pad? I have a pencil."
As I put a pencil under the hand, it was seized in a very singular way,
and almost instantly Mrs. Cameron gasped, "That's very strange!"
"Hush!" said I. "Wait!"
Holding the pencil clumsily as a crippled person might do, the hand
crept over the paper, and at last, after writing several lines, stopped
and lay laxly open. I passed the pad to Brierly. "Read it aloud," I
said.
He took it to the light and read:
"Sara, be not sceptical. Believe and you will be happier. Life is
only the minutest segment of the great circle.
MARTIN."
"My father!" exclaimed Mrs. Cameron. "Let me see the writing." Brierly
handed the pad to her. She stared upon it in awe and wonder. "It is his
exact signature--and Dolly held the pen just as he did--he was
paralyzed toward the last--and could only write by holding his pen that
way."
"Look! it's moving again," I exclaimed.
The hand caught up the pencil, and, holding it between the thumb and
forefinger in a peculiar way, began moving it in the air. Brierly, who
sat opposite, translated these movements. "She is drawing, free-hand, in
the air. She is sketching the outline of a boat. See how she measures
and plumbs her lines! Are you addressing me?" he asked of Mrs. Harris.
The sleeper nodded.
"Can't you write?" I asked. "Can't you speak?"
A low gurgle in the throat was the only answer at the moment, but after
a few trials a husky whisper began to be heard. "I will try," she said,
and suddenly began to chuckle, rolling upon one hip and throwing one
foot over the other like a man taking an easy attitude. She now held the
pencil as if it were a cigarette, laughing again with such generous tone
that the other women recoiled. Then she spoke, huskily. "You know--San
Remo--Sands," came brokenly from her lips.
"Sands?" queried the painter; "who is Sands?"
"Sands--San Remo--boats."
The painter was puzzled. "I don't remember any Sands at San Remo. It
must be some student I knew in Paris. Is that what you mean?"
Mrs. Harris violently nodded. As abruptly as it came, this action left
her, and then slowly, imperceptibly, her expression changed, a look of
ineffable maternal sweetness came into her face; she seemed to cradle a
tiny babe upon her arm. At last she sighed, "Oh, the pity of it, the
pity of it!"
For a minute we sat in silence, so compelling were her gestures and her
tone. At last I asked, "Has any one here lost a little child?"
Mrs. Cameron spoke, hesitatingly, "Yes--I lost a little baby--years
ago."
"She is addressing you--perhaps."
Mrs. Harris did not respond to this suggestion, but changed into an
impersonation of a rollicking girl of rather common fibre. "Hello,
Sally!" she cried out, and Mrs. Cameron stared at her in blank dismay as
she asked, "Are you talking to me?"
"You bet I am, you old bag o' wool. Remember Geny? Remember the night on
the door-step? Ooo! but it was cold! _You_ were to blame."
"What is she talking about?" I asked, seeing that Mrs. Cameron was
reluctant to answer this challenge.
"She seems to be impersonating an old class-mate of mine at college--"
"That's what!" broke in the voice.