Again the cold breeze set in, with a strong, steady swell, and with it
was borne a low, humming note, which grew in volume and depth till it
resembled the roaring rush of a November blast through the branches of
an oak. It became awesome at last, with its majesty of moaning song, and
saddening with its somber suggestion of autumn and of death. It opened
the shabby little room upon an empty and limitless space, upon an
infinite and vacant and obscure desert wherein night and storms
contended. It died away at last, leaving the air chill and pulseless,
and the chamber darker than before.
Before any comment could be made upon this astounding phenomenon, Victor
perceived a faint glow of phosphorus upon the table. It increased in
brilliancy till it presented a clear-cut square of some greenish
glowing substance, and then a large hand in a ruffled sleeve appeared
above it as if in the act of writing.
"It is Watts," whispered Leo. "He is writing for us."
Bending forward, Victor was able to read this message outlined in dark
script on the glowing surface of what seemed to be the slate: "_The
dreams of to-day are the realities of to-morrow._" These words faded and
again the shadowy hand swept over the table, and this companion sentence
followed: "_The realities of to-day will be but the half-truths or the
gross errors of the future._
"_WATTS._"
Victor was strongly tempted to clutch this hand, but fear of something
unpleasant prevented him from doing so. He was sick with apprehension,
with dread of what might happen next. A feeling of guilt, of remorse,
came upon him. "I am to blame for this!" he thought, and was on the
point of rising and calling for the lights, when something happened
which changed not merely his feeling at the moment, but the whole course
of his life, so incredible, so destructive of all physical laws, of all
his scientific training was the phenomenon. A hand, large and shapely,
took up the glowing slate and held it like a lamp to his mother's face,
so that all might see her. She sat with hands outspread upon the table,
her head thrown back, her eyes closed. Her arms extended in rigid lines.
It seemed that the invisible ones desired to prove to Victor that his
mother could not and was not holding the slate.
Swift as light the glowing mirror disappeared, and then, as if through a
window opened in the air before his eyes, Victor perceived a strange
face confronting him, the face of a girl with deep and tender eyes,
incredibly beautiful. Her eyes were in shadow, but the pure oval of her
cheeks, the dainty grace of her chin, the broad, full brow and something
ineffably pure in the faintly happy smile, stopped his breath with awe.
He forgot his mother, his problems, his doubts, in study of the
unearthly beauty of this vision.