"We see but dimly through the mists and vapors;
Amid these earthly damps,
What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers
May be heaven's distant lamps."
Though Loyd Morton had proved himself to be an ideal lover, he was at
heart an eminently practical man. It is true he had not yet quite
outlived that heyday of impressions that occurs somewhere in the first
two score years of all lives. His eager mind grasped, with avidity,
the various tenets of his day, and strove to fathom them; if he failed
in any instance, he chose that happy mean between scepticism and
positive unbelief, and waited for more light. He felt that he had been
born into an epoch of rare progress, and that it behooved him to
reject nothing worthy of intelligent consideration. There can be no
doubt that the abundant sentiment in his nature lent itself to the
higher phases of intellectual inquiry; yet, in justice, he could not
be called a visionary person--at least, prior to this particular April
evening. It was but natural that, in the wide circle of his
professional and social acquaintanceship he should have fallen in with
more than one disciple of the advanced theory of modern spiritualism.
To converse with all such, he lent a courteous, even interested, ear.
He found himself not infrequently listening in amazement to certain
thrilling experiences related by the initiated, and, as a result, he
promised himself the satisfaction of investigating the matter for
himself some day; but into his busy existence that day had not as yet
found its way. Consequently, he had formed no opinion whatever as
regarded the so-called communion between the living and the dead. As
has been said, his interest in the question had been excited--more,
possibly, than comported with the distinction of his professional
position; but it is doubtful if he would have rejected the
investigation simply on this account.
Here, however, was an instance fairly thrust upon him, which startled,
amazed, and mystified him. That the woman, Margaret Revaleon, was in a
state of complete coma, he had satisfied himself beyond peradventure.
Accomplished physicians are not apt to be deceived regarding the
results of infallible tests; and yet here was a subject, absolutely
unconscious, speaking not only intelligently, but with a degree of
appositeness that, considering the circumstances, was appalling.
Thoroughly alive to the situation, not to say excited, yet
sufficiently master of himself to keep well within the pale of
scepticism, Morton resumed his seat, which he had quitted in some
agitation when informed that he was face to face with the invisibility
of his wife, and disposed himself to probe the mystery.
Mrs. Revaleon had ceased to breathe stertorously; a complacent, almost
smiling expression had taken possession of her features, and she had
leaned forward in her chair, with outstretched hands, though her eyes
remained closed.
"Give me your hands, Loyd," she said in the same murmurous tone, that
retained not a vestige of her normal voice, "will you not welcome me
back?"
Morton relinquished his hands into the keeping of that cold clasp, in
silence.
"O Loyd, my husband," the voice resumed, "can you not believe that it
is I, Paula, your wife?"
"What would be the consequence of my saying that I cannot believe?" he
responded with constraint.
"It would make it all the more difficult for me to convince you that I
am indeed with you."
"Then I will _say_ that I believe."
"I am clairvoyant. You cannot mislead a spirit capable of reading your
mind as though it were an open book. Ah, what can I do to conquer your
incredulity? What can I say to convince you that I am as truly with
you at _this_ moment as I was at any moment while in the flesh? It is
your sacred love for me that has attracted my spirit to this
fortuitous reunion. Oh, do not doubt me!--rather assist me, if ever
you loved me, Lolo!"
He started then, and his dark eyes shone like twin stars. "How came
_you_ by that name?" he demanded unsteadily--"a name never uttered in
the presence of any living being, save myself?"
"How came I by that endearing epithet!" the voice answered. "Did not
my absorbing fondness for you suggest it? Was it not the coinage of my
affectionate fancy? I beseech you, separate this medium, through whom
I speak, from my personality. Understand that this woman is
practically dead, while it is I, Paula Morton, who actuate her brain,
her voice, her very being."
"My God!" exclaimed Morton, "this is beyond my comprehension!"
"Let perfect faith control you while this brief communion lasts; then
take refuge in scepticism--if you can. You are so unhappy, so
wretched, without me, that I should think you would be glad to meet me
more than half way."
"I cannot see you, if it is you."
"Another question of faith! But it matters not; you will believe in
time. So you miss me?"
"My life is a void without my wife," he replied.
"What divine love! Loyd, you and I constitute an affinity. I know
_now_ how rare are earthly affinities; that is, unions of souls that
are destined to endure through all eternity. Every soul born into
existence is allotted an affinity, which sooner or later it will meet,
in accordance with divine ordinance. These unions of kindred souls,
attuned, as they are, to surpassing harmony, are rare upon earth,
though they may occur, as in our case; but, generally, years--even
ages--may transpire ere these ineffable coalitions are consummated.
_Our_ souls are affined; we have no need to search. We are simply
undergoing a temporary separation. You are coming to me; I am waiting
for you. I rejoice in the thought, and the knowledge gives me strength
to control this medium, who brings me into such intimate communion
with you."
At this juncture in the extraordinary interview, a bell rang
violently, and a moment later a light rap sounded upon the door, a
preconcerted signal between the doctor and his servant, announcing the
fact that another visitor demanded admittance.
It is not surprising that Morton was too deeply absorbed to notice the
threatening intrusion.
"If--if I thought," he said, his hesitation marking the intensity of
his emotion, "if I suspected that I was being made the dupe of some
plausible imposture, the butt of some sort of nameless sorcery, I--"
"Loyd, Loyd," wailed the voice, "you wrong me, wrong me grievously!
Your incredulity dooms me to such unhappiness as I have never known."
"You imply that you have known some degree of unhappiness! You were
never unhappy upon earth; are you so now--wherever you may be?"
"Oh, no! I am supremely happy."
"Supremely happy," he echoed, jealously; "supremely happy, though
separated from me! and yet you term your love for me divine!"
"It is divine, divine as all things heavenly are. For the perfecting
of such love as mine the evidence of the senses is not requisite;
indeed, it would prove antagonistic. Your earthly eyes are blind; but
from my vision have fallen away the scales, which fact renders my
spiritual sight clairvoyant. I can see you at all times, and can be
with you with the celerity of the birth of thought. Where then, in
what resides the separation for me?"
"For _you_!" he cried, passionately; "ay, but for _me_! I am blind;
these mortal scales are upon my eyes, I am not clairvoyant. The wings
of thought refuse to raise me above this present slough of despond
into which I have fallen; they flutter with me back among the memories
of the dead past, but that is all! I am still living in the flesh, and
heaven knows that this bitter separation is a reality to me!"
Thereupon ensued a momentary silence, which was ere long ruptured by
the low, gentle voice.
"Loyd," it whispered, "you bind me to earth; your love fetters my
spirit!"
"If your love were unchanged," he murmured, disconsolately, "there
would be no bondage in such magnetism!"
"My love, having been spiritualized, is far more absorbing than ever
it was."
"Then why should you complain that the attraction of my love binds you
to earth? If it is the spirit of my wife that addresses me at this
moment, as you pretend, if your love for me is greater and purer than
it was upon earth--which, as God is my judge, I can scarcely
credit--why should you not be happier in this sphere, where I am, than
in the realm of heaven?"
"Simply because it is not heaven here."
"But _I_ am here!"
"For a time only, for a little space; and there is no reckoning of
time in eternity. Soon you will be with me--forever."
"Paula! Would I were with you now!"
"Hush! That wish is impious."
"Ah, but think! I have the means at my command to send my soul into
eternity, within the twinkling of an eye!"
"Into eternity, but not to me. Oh, my husband, there is no sin
accounted so heinous as the taking of a God-given life. You must live
on until your appointed hour, then come into the courts of heaven with
hands unstained, with soul unsullied."
Raised to a pinnacle of exaltation which, in his normal condition, he
would have deemed unattainable to one of his stanch rationality,
Morton exclaimed:
"I _cannot_ live without you! After what I have just heard, which
renders my dreary existence tenfold more dreary, I will not hold
myself responsible for what I may do. Oh, Paula, my wife, my wife! if
you would not have me commit a crime against myself which may separate
us for all eternity, come back to me!"
"I will come back to you," responded the voice.
"Oh, I do not mean enveloped in this ghostly invisibility!" he cried.
"No, Loyd, I will return to you in the flesh."
Supreme as had been the moment of his supplication, he had retained
sufficient reason not to expect a concession; consequently he felt
that he was taking leave of his wits as he gasped,
"You will return to me--_in the flesh_!"
"In the flesh. Before the dawn of another day you shall take a living
body in your arms and know that it is animated by my soul."
His clasp tightened upon the hands he held.
"Am I mad? Do I hear aright?" he faltered, his utterance thick with
wonder; "in God's name, _how_ will you effect such reincarnation?"
There was a momentary pause; and then the voice replied with some note
of omen in its firmness:
"Mark the test I am about to give to you! You will be called to attend
a dying woman--you _are_ called; already is the messenger here; a
woman's soul is trembling upon the threshold of eternity. If you are
alone with her when that soul takes wing, my spirit will instantly
take its place, and your skill will do the rest, accomplish the
resurrection of that body and secure our further communion. But there
may be consequences over which _I_ shall have no control; those
consequences _you_ will have to confront. Are you willing to accept
the chances?"
"Willing! All I ask is the opportunity to meet them!"
"Very well. You have conjured me back to earth. With you rests the
responsibility!"
The voice expired in a sigh, and the hitherto quiescent figure of
Margaret Revaleon shuddered, while her hands trembled convulsively.
Thereupon followed the stertorous breathing again, and the painful
gnashing of the teeth. An instant later her great hazel eyes flashed
open, and rested with a sightless stare upon the flickering candle.
"Oh, where am I?" she moaned languidly, her voice having retaken its
normal tone; then came a flash of intelligence like the nascent tremor
of dawn; at last full consciousness of her surroundings.
"Oh, is it you, Doctor Morton?" she faltered, smiling faintly; "really
I had forgotten you. Where have I been? What do you think of my case?
Is it hopeless? By your grave look I infer it must be."
At this moment the signal at the door was repeated more peremptorily.
Morton gathered his energies with an effort.
"Excuse me for a moment, Mrs. Revaleon," he stammered, with difficulty
commanding himself, "I will return to you presently."
With a nervous step, quite at variance with his wonted calm demeanor,
he hastened into the ante-chamber, closing the door behind him.
The gas burned brightly, and its flare dazzled his sight accustomed to
the twilight that reigned within the study; but he was well able to
recognize the young gentleman who hastened forward at his approach.
"Oh, Loyd!" exclaimed the visitor, with an accent of mingled agony and
reproach, "what an eternity you have kept me waiting! In heaven's
name, come to us at once! Romaine is dying!"
"Romaine--dying!" echoed Morton.
"We fear so; God grant that we may be mistaken! But will you come at
once?"
"At once of course, Hubert."
"Then follow me; the carriage is waiting."
The young man had reached the door even as he spoke.
Morton paused in the midst of the brilliantly lighted room, every
vestige of color fled even from his lips.
"Merciful Powers!" he murmured, "am I waking from some hallowed dream
or from some infernal nightmare? No, no! this is the test _she_ bid me
mark! It is no fantasy! it is reality!"
Even in his haste he was mindful of his waiting client, and flung open
the door of his study. A sharp draught of air from the open casement
extinguished the candle that burned within, leaving in its stead the
lance of a pale young moon.
Bathed in the aqueous light stood Margaret Revaleon, regarding him
with wistful eyes.
"Well, doctor," she began, "you have returned to pass sentence upon
me?"
"By no means, Mrs. Revaleon," he answered, hastily; "I have only to
say that your case is a singular one. While I have no reason to
believe that any real danger will ever result from the 'condition' of
which you complain, I am forced to admit that I know of no treatment
for you at this time. I beg you to excuse me now, as I am called to
attend a critical case. My servant will wait upon you."
And with these hasty words, Morton took his departure.