Bartol obeyed the command of the invisible powers. He gladly blazoned
the triumphant death of the psychic to the world. Lucy Ollnee became at
once a glorious martyr for her faith, a victim of science. Liberal
journals and religious journals alike lamented that it was necessary for
the sake of proof as regards immortality "that an innocent woman should
be caged and tortured to death with electric batteries," and even the
_Star_, leader in the war against the mediums, permitted itself an
editorial word of regret, and published in full Bartol's letter, and
also a long interview with Stinchfield, wherein he admitted the
genuineness of the dead woman's claims to supra-normal power.
But all this was, at the moment, of small comfort to Victor. For a long
time he refused to believe in the reality of his mother's death,
insisting that she was in deep trance (as she had been before); but at
last, when the body was to be removed to Mrs. Joyce's home and Doctor
Steele and Doctor Eberly had both examined it and found no signs of
life, he gave up all hope of her return.
Accompanied by Mrs. Joyce, he visited the California Avenue flat for the
last time to pack up the few things of value which his mother had been
permitted to acquire. His attitude toward the chairs, the slates, the
old table, had utterly changed. They were now instinct with his mother's
power, permeated with some part of her subtler material self, and he was
minded to preserve them. They were no longer the tools of a conjuror;
they were the sacred relics of a priestess.
Mrs. Joyce asked permission to house them for him till he had secured a
home of his own, and to this he consented, for with his present feeling
concerning them he was troubled by the thought of their being stored in
dark vaults among masses of commonplace furniture.
"I shall keep the table in my own room," said Mrs. Joyce. "It may be
that Lucy will be able to manifest herself to me through it. I have been
promised such power."
To this Victor made no reply, for while he now believed absolutely in
all that his mother claimed to do, he had not been brought to a belief
in the return of the dead, and it was this fundamental doubt which made
his grief so bitter. "If only she could know that I believe in her," he
said to Leo, on the morning of the day when his mother's body was to be
taken away. "Think of it! She died a thousand times for the curious and
the selfish, only to be called an impostor and a cheat--and I, her only
son, was afraid the charge was true. If only I could have told her that
I believed in her!"
"She knows," the girl gently assured him. They were seated at the moment
in the library and the morning was very warm and silent. The birds
seemed to be resting in preparation for their evensong. "Your mother is
near us--she may be listening to us this minute."
"I can't believe that," he declared, sadly. "I'm not sure that I want to
believe it. I can't endure the thought of my mother's destruction, and
yet the notion of her floating about somewhere like a wreath of mist is
sorrowful to me."
Leo confessed to somewhat the same feeling. "Heaven--any kind of
heaven--has always been incomprehensible to me, and yet we must believe
there is some sort of system of rewards and punishments. Anyhow, your
mother's death was glorious. She died as she would have wished to
die--in proving her faith."
"She gave too much," he protested. "All her life she was set apart to do
a martyr's work. I understand now why my father couldn't stand it. I
know how he must have resented these Voices, and I cannot blame him for
going away. Would you marry a man like Stainton Moses or David Home?"