"Belief," says the wise man, "is not a matter of evidence; it is a habit
of mind." And notwithstanding his confession of inward transformation,
Victor found doubt still hidden deep in his brain when he woke the
following morning. His conviction had been temporary.
In his musing upon Altair he began to remember some very curious
details. He recalled that at first glance he had inwardly exclaimed,
"How much she looks like Leo!" The lips and chin were similar, only
sadder, sweeter--and the poise of the head was like hers also. But the
brow and the eyes were more like his mother's. It was as though Altair
were at once the heavenly sister of Leonora and the spirit daughter of
his mother, and the love which lay on the tremulous lips, the deep,
serious eyes, moved him still with almost undiminished power. He was
eager to see the celestial face again.
He was less clear about his own physical condition at the time. He
remembered feeling weak and chilled, as though some of his own vitality
had gone out of his blood in the attempt to warm that unaccountable
being into life. He recalled his parting with his mother as if it were
the incident in a painful dream. It was all impossible, incredible, and
yet--it happened!
His morning mood was eager and searching. He was quite ready to see Leo,
ready to talk with her of all that had taken place. Hitherto he had
avoided any detailed story of his mother's evocations, but now he was
violently curious to know whether or no she had ever performed these
particular rites before. He wished to hear all that Leo had to say, and
he was deeply disappointed when neither she nor his hostess appeared at
the breakfast table.
He finished his meal hurriedly (as soon as it became evident that he was
to be alone), and instead of going down-town returned to the library to
re-read the famous story of Sir William Crookes and "Katie King"--every
word of which had acquired new meaning to him. He thrilled now to the
calm, bald narrative, reading between the lines the inner story of the
great scientist's bewildered love for the stainless vision which he had
evoked but could not endow with lasting life.
The boy dwelt upon the scene of their parting with peculiar pain,
perceiving in it new pathos. A throb of sorrow came into his throat. Was
Altair but a transitory flower of the dark--aloof, intangible, and sad?
What meant the wistful sweetness of her smile? Was she unhappy in the
icy realms from which she came? Did she long for human companionship?
Would she come again? He found himself longing for the night and another
sitting with his mother. He felt vaguely the disappointment which comes
to those who listen to the messages of these celestial apparitions, so
commonplace, so vaporous, so inane. "Katie King," surpassing all earthly
women in her physical loveliness, brought no sentence of intellectual
distinction from the mysterious void which was her home.
In the midst of this astounding narrative he heard Leo's voice in the
hall, and with a guilty start put his book away and rose to meet her,
remembering that he had not treated her very well after the sitting,
though he could not recall the precise reason for it. Gradually her
step, the sound of her voice, reasserted their charm, and he returned to
the breakfast-room like a boy who has been sullen and knows it, but
hopes to be forgiven.
His shamefaced entrance disarmed her resentment, and in her merry smile
of greeting the dream face faded away. The marvelous vision of the night
lost its dominion over him, and he became again the son of the morning.
The girl openly mocked him. "You look pale and sheepish. What have you
been doing?"
"I've been reading about 'Katie King.' Do you believe that story?"
"We must believe it when a man like Sir William Crookes tells it. Do you
believe what you saw and heard last night?"
"No, I don't. How can I?"
"You seemed to believe in the vision of Altair," she persisted, eying
him archly. "You were carried away by her wonderful beauty. I don't
blame you. Her loveliness is beyond anything on this earth. A vision
like that of sublimated womanhood, purified of all its dross, is very
hard on us mortals. Altair doesn't find it necessary to eat eggs and
toast, as I am doing this minute. I'm a horribly vulgar and common
creature I know, and I ought to apologize, but I won't. I like being a
normal human being, and if you don't like to see me eat you may go
away."
"I like nothing better than to see you eat, and I've just had a couple
of eggs myself. I was hoping all the time you would come down and join
me, but you didn't."
"I didn't get to sleep as usual last night," she confessed, with a
change of tone. "Altair came to me and kept me stirred up till nearly
two o'clock."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean she hung about my bed, tapping and sighing incessantly for what
seemed like hours."
"Could you see her?"
"Part of the time. Finally I turned up the light and got rid of her."
He sat in silence for a few moments, then burst out wildly: "Are we all
going crazy together? When I hear you talk like that it makes me angry,
and it makes me sad. I never met such people before. What does it all
mean? Seems like everybody around my mother is bitten by this
ghost-bug."
"You, too," she accused. "You caught a little of the madness last
night."
"I did, I admit it; but I'm going to throw it off. I won't have any more
of it."
"Is your curiosity satisfied?"
"No, it is not; but I'm not going to desert the good old sunny world I
know for the kind of windy graveyard we faced last night. Even the eyes
of Altair were sad. Did you notice it?"
"Yes, I did," she admitted. "And that's one of the things I can't
understand. The spirits all _say_ they are happy, but they _look_
wistful, and their voices indicate that they are filled with longing to
return."
"I'm going to break out of this circle of my mother's converts," he
passionately declared. "I've got to do it, or 'll get all twisted out of
shape like the rest of you. I'm going to try again to-day to reach some
man who has never heard of a psychic. I'm going to some big mill and
apply for manual labor. There's something uncanny in the way I'm kept
circling around mother's cranky patrons. I'll get batty in the steeple
if I don't get help. Let's go out for a walk in the park. Let's forget
we're immortal souls for an hour or two. I want to see a tree. Let's go
to the ball game--and to the theater to-night--that'll take all the
money I have left, and leave me just square with the world, so I can
jump into the lake to-morrow without anybody else's money in my pocket.
Come, what do you say?"
She perceived something more than humor in his noisy declamation, and
accepted his challenge. "I'll go you," she slangily replied; "just wait
till I get my walking-togs on."
"You've got to hurry," he warned. "I'm going to get out of this house
before anything crazy happens to me. Meet me down at the corner of the
boulevard."
He left the room with intent to avoid both his mother and Mrs. Joyce. At
the moment he wished to remove himself from any further argument, and
his longing for the trees and the park was a genuine reaction from his
long stress of the supernatural. "My search for a job can go over till
to-morrow," he decided.
He was sufficiently recovered from his bewilderment, his pain of the
night before, to glow with pleasure as he saw Leonora swinging along
toward him. "She carries herself well," he said.
She was dressed in a light-gray skirt and jacket, and her white hat had
a long, gray quill which waved back over the rim, giving her the jaunty
air of a yacht under reefed sail. Her face was brilliant with color,
and her eyes were alight with humor. "Aunt Louise wanted to know where
we were going, and I said 'St. Joe, Michigan.'"