Mrs. Joyce was quick on the trail of his intent. "You refuse to eat my
bread! You _are_ rigorous. Very well. Let it be so. Come, Lucy, let us
go."
Mrs. Ollnee seemed to listen a moment, then rose. "You'll surely come
after dinner, Victor?"
"Yes, I'll come about nine," he replied, in a tone that was hard and
cold. And she went away deeply hurt.
Left alone, he walked about the "ghost-room" with bitterness deepening
into fury. What were these invisible, intangible barriers which confined
him? He stood beside the old brown table which he had hated and feared
in his boyhood. What silliness it represented. The pile of slates, some
of them still bearing messages in pencil or colored crayon, offered
themselves to his hand. He took up one of these and read its oracular
statement: "_He will come to see the glory of the faith. His neck will
bow. It is discipline. Do not worry. FATHER._" Here was the source of
his troubles!
He dashed the slate to the floor and ground it under his heel. Catching
the table by the side and up-ending it, he wrenched its legs off as he
would have wrung the neck of a vulture. He breathed upon it a blast of
contempt and hate, and, gathering it up in fragments, was starting to
throw it into the alley when the door burst open and his mother
reappeared, white, breathless, appalled.
"_Victor_; what are you doing?" she called, with piercing intonation.
He was shaken by her tone, her manner, but he answered, "I'm going to
throw this accursed thing into the alley."
She put herself before him with one hand pressed upon her bosom, her
breath weak and fluttering.
"You--shall--not! You are killing me. Don't you see that is a part of
me. Don't you know--Put it down instantly! _My very life and soul are in
it._"
He dropped the broken thing in a disordered pile at her feet. Her
anguish, which seemed both physical and mental, stunned him. As they
stood thus confronting each other Mrs. Joyce returned. She seemed to
comprehend the situation instantly, and, putting her arm about the
little psychic's waist, gently said, "You'd better lie down, Lucy, you
are hurt."
Mrs. Ollnee permitted herself to be led to the little couch silently
sobbing.
It was growing dusky in the room, and the youth, though still
rebellious, was profoundly affected by this action. His hot anger died
away and a swift repentance softened him. "Don't cry, mother," he said,
clumsily kneeling beside her. "I didn't think you cared so much about
the old thing."
Mrs. Joyce broke forth in scorn: "What a crude young barbarian you are!
That table is something more than a piece of wood to her. It is a
sacred altar. It is the place where the quick and the dead meet. It is
sentient with the touch of spirit hands--and you have desecrated it. You
have laid violent hands upon your mother's innermost heart. You will
destroy her if you keep on in this way."
At these words the youth for the first time caught a glimpse of the
vital faith which lay behind and beneath these foolish and ridiculous
practices. No matter what that worn table was to him, it stood for his
mother's faith--that he now saw--and he was sorry.
"I can rebuild it again," he said. "It is not hopelessly smashed. I will
repair it to-morrow."
The symbolism which could be read in his words seemed to comfort his
mother and she grew quieter, but her face remained ghastly pale and her
breathing troubled.
Mrs. Joyce turned to him again. "You can't deceive her. She knew the
instant you laid your destroying hands on that slate."
He did not doubt this. In some hidden way his action had reached and
acted upon his mother as she was speeding down the avenue. Her sudden
return proved this--and his hair rose at the thought of her
clairvoyancy, and in answer to Mrs. Joyce's question, "Why did you do
it?" he replied, sullenly, but not bitterly:
"I did it because I detest the thing and all that goes with it. I have
hated that table all my life."
"What did you think your mother would do?"
"I didn't stop to think. I only wanted to get the brute out of sight. I
wanted to end the whole trade at once."
"You've got to be careful or you'll end your mother's earth-life. Let me
tell you, boy, if you want to keep her on this plane with you you must
be gentle with her. Any shock, especially when she is in trance, is very
dangerous to her."
Victor began to feel his helplessness in the midst of the intangible
entangling threads of his mother's faith. He now saw the folly of his
action, and took an unexpected way of showing his contrition.
"If you'll forgive me, mother, I'll go with you to Mrs. Joyce's dinner.
Come, let's get away from here for a little while; I feel stifled."
This pleased and comforted her amazingly. She rose and placed one frail,
cold hand about his neck. "Dear boy! I forgive you. You didn't realize
what you were doing."
Releasing himself he gathered up the fragments of the table and tenderly
examined them. "It can be mended," he reported. "I'll do it the first
thing in the morning."
A faint smile came back to his mother's face. "I don't mind, Victor. I
feel already that this has brought us closer together. Your father is
here--he is smiling--and I am happier than I've been for weeks."
Victor dressed for his party with trembling limbs. It seemed as if he
had passed through a tremendous battle wherein he had been defeated--and
yet his heart was strangely light.
V