feed him. I guess you'll find something left over. If not, you will
have to scratch up something."
Viola thereupon led the way into the kitchen, greeting each man she
met, cooks and waiters alike, with impartial, clear-eyed joyousness
and trust, and when the food came on she ate without grimace or
hesitation. The cook, a big, self-contained Chinaman, came in with a
china cup.
"Use this klup--tin klup no good for lady." His voice was gruff and
his manner that of one who compels a child to use a napkin; but it
was plain he adored her. As she thanked him he shuffled away with an
irrepressible grin.
All this produced in Serviss an uneasiness. To him she was a lamb
venturing among wolves. "She should not expose herself to the coarse
comment, the seeking eyes of these fellows," he indignantly commented,
blaming the acquiescent mother and the absent-minded step-father.
"This childlike trust is charming, but it is not war."
Her essential weakness of defence, her innocence, began to move him
deeply, dangerously. He began to understand how she had turned to
Clarke for companionship, not merely because he was a clergyman, but
because he was a young man of more than usual culture and attainment,
whose sympathy and counsel promised aid and comfort in her loneliness.
"She does not love him; she merely admires certain sides of his
character; she fears to marry him, and quite properly. His morbid
faith would destroy her."
As they were returning to the office they met the young driver of the
mule-train, and Viola introduced him as "Mr. Ward, of Boston."
He was tall and spare, with a fine, sensitive, boyish face--a face of
refinement which his rough, gray shirt, faded leggings, and badly
battered hat belied.
"Mr. Ward is out here for his health, also," Viola explained. "All the
really nice people are 'one-lungers.'"
"Isn't it sad?" said Ward, gravely. "However, Miss Lambert is only
partly right. I made my health an excuse. I'm here because I like it."
Serviss bent a keen look upon him. "You don't look as if you had ever
been sick."
"I'm not. I came out here to escape college--and my father's
business." He laughed. "But don't betray me. I'm supposed to be
'slowly improving.'"
There was something fine and hawklike in the young fellow's profile as
he stood negligently leaning on the door-frame, his eyes on the
flushed face of the girl; and Serviss experienced another pang of
jealous pain--they were so young, so comely, so full of the fire and
imagination of youth. At the moment his own fame and special tasks
were of small account.
Upon their return to the office Lambert met them in the same
absent-minded, apologetic way. "I'm just getting some new machinery
into place and haven't a minute, but you must make yourself as much at
home as you can. Viola will show you around."
Serviss protested that he needed no entertainment, that he was not
tired, and that he was well content to sit in the door and smoke and
watch the changing glory of the peaks, and this he did while Viola
moved about among the workmen in earnest conversation with her
step-father.
"She is explaining me," Serviss reasoned. "I wish I could hear what
she says. It would be amusing to know myself as she sees me. I hope
she doesn't think me middle-aged as well as wise."
Lambert listened to his daughter's words with attention, for a
professor in a college was an exalted person in his eyes, and one of
his chief regrets at the moment was that he was unable to say to
Serviss, "I am a college man myself"; but this he could not do for the
reason that the death of his father had taken him out of his class at
the beginning of his third year, and put him at the head of a large
family as its breadwinner.
"He looks like a very young man, almost a boy--too young to be a
professor; but then"--here his eyes twinkled--"when I was at Jefferson
all professors seemed old to me. What's he doing here?"
"Just riding through the mountains on his vacation."
"What does your mother think of him?"
"She likes him very much."
"Well, I won't make any objection, then."
Viola stared--then blushed furiously. "What do you mean?"
"Why, didn't you bring him up here to see how I liked him?"
She pounded him with her little brown fist while tears of
mortification filled her eyes. "Now, you stop that! You're teasing me.
Why, I've only known him three days."
He laughed silently, shaking his head. "Well, these things move
quickly sometimes--and how was I to know but you'd known him in the
East--you seemed so chummy-like--"
"You've spoiled everything," she wailed, deeply disturbed and
painfully self-conscious. "You're mean to me."
He became instantly contrite. "There, now, don't you mind my joking.
Of course I was fooling. It's all safe between us, anyway."
But the mischief was done. She forgave him, but never again would she
be the same to him, to her mother, or to the imperturbable young man
smoking his pipe beneath the firs. He _was_ young--that was only too
plain to her now; not so young as Clinton, but not the middle-aged
person she had been fancying him to be.
As they were about to start on their homeward trail, Serviss sought
opportunity to say: "Mr. Lambert, I met this man Clarke at your house
last night, and I want to say that I don't think his influence on your
family is particularly wholesome. He's morbid and given to fads."
Lambert replied: "I know what you mean, professor, and I believe
you're right. I don't believe in him myself, and I don't take any
stock in any of his notions, but my wife does. She thinks he's of the
Covenant, somehow. I wish you'd talk with her and try to have her let
up on Viola. I don't think they're doin' right by her. If she was my
own girl I'd stop it--I would so." Then he added, in a curious tone,
this vague defence: "As for Viola, she would be all right if they
would leave her alone. She's gifted in a way I don't understand; but
if she isn't twisted by Clarke's foolishness she's going to make some
man a good wife. She's a good girl, and, as I say, if she was my own
child I'd serve notice that this circle business should stop. I wish
you'd talk to 'em. I don't count--but they'll listen to you. I'm glad
to have met you. I hope you'll come up again. I'd like to mill that
business over with you; it's all very curious, but I'm just plumb
distracted with work now."
"I beg you not to apologize--it's time to start back, anyhow."
As they rode away down the valley, the girl silent and constrained,
Serviss pondered Lambert's words, which were plainly directed against
Clarke. His sense of responsibility was increased by Lambert's trust
in him. "This won't do," he decided; "I must pull out or I will find
myself laden with the woes of the entire family, and Clarke's
distresses besides."
The girl was invested now with compelling pathos. Each mile they
descended seemed to deepen the returning shadow on her face. The
gayety, the buoyancy of the upward trail was gone. She was silent,
constrained, and sad; and he set to work to restore her to the simple
and girlish candor of the morning. He called attention to the wonders
of the western sky. He shouted to induce echoes, and challenged her to
a race, and at the last descent dared her to ride down in one of the
ore-buckets, seeking to bring the smiles back to her lips.
She responded to his cheer, but not as before. Something clouded her
clear glance--her smiles died quickly, and the poise of her head was
less alert.
When they had reached the wagon-road and he could ride by her side,
he, too, became serious. "I hope I haven't given offence in any way,
Miss Lambert? If I have, I assure you it was entirely unintentional,
and I beg your pardon."
She looked away. "You have done nothing," she said, slowly.
"But you seem distinctly less friendly to me. I hope you didn't take
anything I said concerning your mother's faith to heart. I had no
intention of attacking her beliefs, but I must be honest with you--I
don't like Mr. Clarke. There's something unwholesome about him, and
what you've told me to-day is not reassuring. Evidently he took the
death of his wife very hard, and it has added to his natural tendency
towards a sort of spiritual monomania. As a matter of fact, he's more
Spiritualist than Calvinist at present. Isn't that so?"
The girl's face grew sullen and weary. "Oh, I don't know, I'm tired of
it all."
"He endlessly talks his grind, I suppose. How foolish, how sickly it
all seems--here in the presence of uncontaminated nature! In such
sunlight as this it seems insanity to sit in a book-walled room and
grow bloodless with dreaming over insoluble problems. And yet a friend
of mine told me that these towns, and especially California towns,
were filled with seers and prophets. The occult flourishes in the
high, dry atmosphere, those of the faith say. Don't you permit Clarke
to destroy your love of nature, Miss Lambert; you belong to the sane
and sunny world, and he has no right to bring his gloomy conceptions
home to you. You are too young and too naturally joyous to be
concerned with the problems of disease and death. You were made to be
happy."
He ended with greater earnestness than he had intended to use, and the
effect of his words on the girl was very great. She could not speak;
tears were in her eyes, and her bosom heaved most piteously. His sense
of her helplessness deepened, and he added, "Will you permit me to
talk to Mr. Clarke about you and your plans?"
This seemed to alarm her. "No, no!" she cried out, distressfully.
"Please don't say anything to him about me. It will do no good. You
don't understand, and I can't tell you," she added, breathlessly.
"Very well," he said, soothingly; "but, remember, your case interests
me exceedingly, and you may call on me at any time and I will gladly
help."
She turned a pale and tearful face towards him and extended her hand.
"I thank you very, very much. You _have_ helped me more than I can
say."
During the remainder of the ride he discussed the springs, the source
of the streams, the caverns, and other natural features of the scene,
and had the satisfaction of seeing her face in a smile before he left
her.
He went back to his hotel with a feeling of having spent six days in
her company rather than six hours. She absorbed his entire thought,
and so keen was his sense of her beleaguerment that he resolved to
call upon Clarke in order to define his character and to understand
his motives. "His passions or his doubt overshadow the girl's sky, and
I'm going to find out whether his designs are those of friend or
fiend." At the moment he had a feeling that they were those of a
devouring fiend.
VII
THE FORCES OF LIGHT AND DARKNESS
Clarke's church typified the decaying faith of its pastor. Grass was
serenely pushing up through the rotting planks of the walk which led
from the street to the basement "study" just as the natural goodness
and cheer of man returns to dominion through the barriers of custom.
The paint was blistering and peeling from the clap-boarding on the
sunny side of the main building, and in one of the windows a piece of
shingle had been set to repair a broken pane. It had the appearance of
neglected age.
"The preacher was right--the creed of his church, as of all others, in
a lesser degree perhaps, is too crass, too mechanical, too childish to
tally the ideals of a generation which is each day awakening to some
new potency of matter, some wider conception of the universe."
On the study door, checked by the sun and worn by the rain, the
tourist applied his knuckle, and a voice, formal and sonorous, called
out, "Come in!"
Opening the door, which led directly into a dark little den with only
one window, Serviss confronted Clarke reading by a green-shaded lamp,
in whose light he appeared as pallid, as remote from the sun, as a
monk of the Middle Ages.
He rose quickly upon recognizing his visitor. "I'm glad to see you,
professor; I beg your pardon for not rising. I thought the knock came
from my janitor. Take a seat, please." He gathered a handful of books
from a yellow arm-chair and pushed it forward with his foot. "Your
visit is most opportune. I was meditating a call at your hotel
to-night. I wanted to get your idea concerning two or three scientific
discoveries which seem to me to have a most important bearing on the
welfare of the race."
Serviss became each moment more keenly aware of being face to face
with a task which required all his tact, his self-possession, and his
wit, for the man before him was immured in self-conceit, accustomed to
carrying his point by a rush of words, and was, withal, a student
possessed of unusual intellectual resource. He made a very handsome
figure as he took his seat amid his books. His face, freshly shaven,
gleamed like blue-white marble, and his abundant dark hair, drawn away
from his brow by careless fingers, lay in a tumbled mass above his
ear, adding a noticeably sculptural finish to his shapely head. His
hands, thin, long, and restless, alone betrayed the excitement which
the coming of this Master of the Germ engendered in him. He was eager
to question, but he waited for his visitor to begin, which he did with
manly directness.
"I have called to talk with you about Miss Lambert. She and her mother
having honored me by asking my advice as to her study in New York, I
would like to know whether you, as their pastor, counsel this movement
on her part?"
The clergyman's sentient fingers sought, found, and closed tightly
upon a ruler. "That I cannot answer directly," he said, slowly. "Miss
Lambert's case is not simple. She is a very remarkable musician, that
you know, and yet her talent is fitful. She sometimes plays very
badly. I am not at all sure she has the temperament which will succeed
on the music-stage."
"I made a somewhat similar remark to the mother myself."
"Moreover, her interests are not the only factors in the problem. Mrs.
Lambert's life is bound up in her daughter, and without her she would
suffer. The well-being of the family as a whole is against her going."
"You have your own interests, too, I dare say."
Clarke's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"
"It would be difficult to replace her here in your church-work, would
it not?"
The clergyman returned to his candid manner. "It would, indeed. She is
the only organist in the village, and is invaluable to me, especially
in the Sunday-school."
"I am disposed to consider her interests, and not those of the mother
and father, or even the church," pursued Serviss. "I am of those who
recognize the rights of the young as of chief importance to the race."
Clarke seized upon this as a gage of battle. "The race! Oh, you
inexorable men of science! What do we care for the race? We would save
individuals. The race can take care of itself. The race is only an
abstraction--it cannot suffer. Of what avail to the individual to know
that the race is to be perfected a thousand years hence?"
"We wander," interposed Serviss, with decision. "The question is
really quite simple. Shall we advise the Lamberts to send their
daughter to New York to study music, or shall we counsel her to remain
here, and in marriage to some good, honest young miner resign herself
to the common lot of women. Her talent should determine."
A dull flush rose to the cheek of the preacher, his eyes fell and his
voice unconsciously softened. "Marriage is still a long way off for
Viola Lambert; she is but a child, and, besides--" He paused.
Serviss smiled. "They marry young in the West, I believe. Besides, she
must be twenty, and quite robust."
"She seems but a child to me," repeated Clarke, returning to his
clerical manner, and something in the hypocritical tone of his speech
angered and disgusted Serviss, and to himself he said: "He is a fraud.
He does not intend to let the girl pass out of his control." Then
aloud he reopened the discussion: "It all comes back to a question of
the girl's talent. If it is sufficient to enable her to earn a living
in some larger community, she has a right to go; if not, she should
certainly stay here. I believe in the largest possible life for every
human being, and Miss Lambert's ambition is a perfectly legitimate
craving. Furthermore, she seems eager to escape from this life. She
hints at some sort of mysterious persecution. She has not defined her
troubles in detail, but I inferred that some undesirable suitor made
life miserable for her." With these words he bent a keen glance at
Clarke.
"You are quite mistaken, sir. Miss Lambert has many admirers but no
suitors. I have cautioned her against entanglements of that kind. I
have shown how they would interfere with her work."
"You mean her work in your church?"
Clarke's eyes again took on the narrowed glance of suspicion. "Partly
that, but more on account of other and higher work which I hope to see
her do."
"To what do you refer?"
"Pardon me, of that I cannot at present speak; I can only say that it
is a work whose preliminary stages can be passed as well here as in
New York City--better, in fact."
"You arouse my curiosity--"
Clarke suddenly awoke from his musing and became aggressive. He
resolutely changed the subject. "Before you go I want to ask you--do
you, as a chemist, deny the immortality of the soul?"
"Chemistry does not concern itself with the soul."
"Do you, as a _man_, deny the immortality of the soul?"
"I neither deny nor affirm. I have never concerned myself with the
question."
Clarke was a little daunted. "You leave the most vital question in all
this world uninvestigated!"
"Yes, because I was long ago convinced that the problem of death, like
the origin of life, is insoluble, and why waste time on the insoluble?
To pore upon the constitution of matter is a species of mediævalism. I
am concerned with what bacteria do--not what they are."
"I deny that the question of immortality _is_ insoluble!" replied
Clarke, his eyes glowing with the fire of his faith. "It is because
you scientists ignore the phenomena of spiritism that you remain
ignorant of the messages which come from the other side."
"What other side?"
"The realm of those you call 'the dead.'" He caught up a book. "There
is the word of a German scientist, a hundred times more eminent than
you, and here are the conclusions of two great Englishmen, members of
the Royal Academy, who have investigated and have been convinced of
the return of the dead."
"I know those men," replied Serviss, coldly. "The common opinion is
that they ceased to be scientists when they wrote these volumes. All
were past their prime and bereaved, and one was nearly blind. Their
true balance of judgment was lost before they set to work on what you
call their investigations. The German was considered insane on the
'Fourth Dimension.' But what has this girl to do with your 'realm of
the dead' or my study of cancerous tissue? She belongs to the realm
of music and flowers. I beg you to remember that. You have no right to
throw over her the shadow of your religious perplexities any more than
I would have the right to lay before her my knowledge of parasitic
growths. Youth, and especially young womanhood, has its rights, and
one of them is to be blithe. You admit that you are losing faith; why
destroy hers? Your doubts and despairs should not touch her. But they
have. She is troubled and sad by reason of your attitude towards life,
and especially by your insistence upon the presence of death in the
world."
This was not precisely what Serviss had started out to say, but as he
went on a sense of being misled, a suspicion that he was playing into
the hands of the enemy, kept him from putting into words the strong
conviction which had seized him.
The preacher put his interlocked fingers behind his head, and, looking
at his visitor beneath lowered, contemptuous lids, replied: "My dear
sir, you don't know a thing of what you're talking about."
The note of patronization, the tone of superior wisdom, stung the
scientist. He felt in the clergyman's reply not merely opposition, but
insult. His very pose was an affront.
"I don't know your motives, that is perfectly true, but I can infer
them. It is due me to say that I am not in the habit of mixing in
where I am not wanted; but as Mr. and Mrs. Lambert have both asked my
advice, I shall give it. The girl is morbid and unhappy here, and I
shall tell them to send her away for a time. She has musical talent. I
shall advise them to allow her to go East to study."
The preacher's smile deepened into a sneer. "I think I understand
_your_ motives, and I shall oppose her going. What is there to
restrain a man who recognizes neither spirit nor God?"
Serviss was at first astounded, then hot at the grossness of this
insinuation, and his strong, brown hands clinched in the instinct to
punish--to retaliate--but his anger cooled to the level of words, and
he said: "This interview has more than convinced me of the justice of
Lambert's distrust of you. I shall see him again and repeat the
warning I have already given." And with these words he turned and went
out.
It was with a sense of astonishment and relief that he re-entered the
daylight, for the sunset glow was not yet out of the sky. A moment
before the world had seemed enveloped in midnight darkness, and lo!
here now were the splendid peaks, the singing river, all aglow with
golden light. The encounter of the moment before receded swiftly,
became incredible, but the preacher remained squat in his den like a
vampire in his cave.
As he went slowly up the street he acknowledged a feeling of growing
weight, of uncertainty. Having given his word in such wise, he had
become the defender, the protector of one of whom he knew nothing that
was reassuring. His youth seemed to have suddenly taken on care. His
vacation had ended in a cloud of distrust. From the detachment of the
scientist he had descended to the level of a moralist and meddler,
and, most significant of all, a meddler in the affairs of a young and
attractive girl.
VIII
DR. BRITT EXPLAINS
Serviss had just written and sealed a letter to his sister, wherein he
said, "I shall remain a few days longer here in the mountains--they
interest me greatly," when a knock on the door announced the bell-boy
bearing a card.
"Dr. Britt!" exclaimed Serviss, with pleasure. "Bring him up, please,"
and to himself added, "Now we will learn something definite about this
amazing group of people."
The manner in which Britt entered the room proclaimed a distinctive
character. He edged himself through the door, not stealthily, but
carelessly, casually. He, too, was tall, with a wide, dark beard
curling over very pink and rather plump cheeks, and in his bright
black eyes a sardonic sheen played as he loosely shook his host's
hand. His expression was that of a man perpetually amused, as if
anticipating a joke or recollecting a mockery. His voice was as
languid as his limbs, but his words were precise and to their mark.
Serviss greeted him heartily. "I am glad to meet you, Dr. Britt; take
a seat. I have heard of you through Miss Lambert."
"I saw you on the street," replied Britt, without change of
expression, "so I looked over the register to find out who you were.
I'm mighty glad to meet up with you. I know you very well by
reputation, and Weissmann is an old acquaintance of our family's. What
are you doing out here? Visiting the Lamberts?"
For some reason this directness disturbed Serviss a little. "No--oh
no! I just drifted in over the divide from the desert, and met Miss
Lambert by accident, quite by accident. I dropped into Colorow to rest
and rinse the desert dust away, before returning East. Turn about is
fair play--what are you doing here?"
Britt struck his left breast with his thumb. "Same old story--busted
lung. Whenever you strike a suspicious character out here he's either
a 'one-lunger' or a 'remittance man.'"
"That's what makes your country worth while."
"I don't know about that, but you'll find a good many of us waiting.
When you fellows develop an anti-toxin for the consumption 'bug,'
we're all going back to God's country."
"We're hot on its trail," replied Serviss, jocularly.
"I know you are. I 'read after you,' as they say out here. In fact,
I've got a little 'farm,' and take a shy at breeding the beasts
myself. I'd like you to come in and give me a hint or two."
"With pleasure," Serviss heartily responded. "So you know Weissmann?"
"I used to. My father was an attaché of the embassy at Berlin at one
time, and was a factor in getting old 'Hair and Goggles' to come
over; he was a conceited ass at that time, with more wool than brains,
the governor always said; but the governor wanted to do something for
the college."
Serviss studied the card. "Do I know your father?--is he still in
public life?"
"He is not." Britt's glance veered. "The governor, I'm sorry to say,
has a weakness for toddy, and I've retired him. He boards in White
Plains with Patsy Cline summers, and relapses winters."
Serviss changed the subject. "By-the-way, I want to ask you about this
man Clarke. What kind of a chap is he?"
Britt's answer was languid but adequate. "Three parts fakir and the
rest fanatic."
"I was afraid so--and the Lamberts, what of them?"
"Mrs. Lambert is a dear old ninny. Viola is a mighty bright girl
suffering from a well-developed case of hysteria and auto-hypnosis."
"What do you mean?" asked Serviss, sharply.
Britt checked himself. "I ought not to speak of it, I suppose, but, as
you are a stranger and can keep a professional secret, I will explain.
The mother is a spiritualist--has been for years--and, being on the
lookout for it, naturally discovered what she calls 'mediumship' in
Viola when a child. By carefully nursing the delusion in herself and
in her subject, she has been able to develop a rare 'up-rush of the
subliminal,' as Myers would say. When I came here to take Dr.
Randall's practice, I found among his papers elaborate notes on the
girl's development."
"You amaze me!" exclaimed Serviss. "She seems so normal and so
charming."
"In reality she's the most extraordinary puzzle I have ever undertaken
to solve. It seems, according to Randall, that this power came upon
her soon after the death of her little brother--a couple of years
younger than herself. I'll let you see these notes if you like.
They're very curious; in fact, I brought the book along--I wanted your
opinion of them and your advice as to the girl's treatment."
Serviss leaned forward in growing interest. "By all means let me see
the notes. You begin to throw light on something that puzzled me."
Britt drew a small brown book from his pocket and said: "Your first
thought will be to relate this business to hysteria, and one of
Randall's first entries is a reflection along these lines: 'There is
much inconclusive literature on the shelves of medical libraries on
the subject of hysteria, and many diverse ailments are thrown into
that box of explanations.'" Britt looked up. "He's right there, but he
goes on to slate the medical profession thus: 'The mind of a child,
like any other expanding, growing thing, tends to depart from the
norm--loves apparently to surprise its progenitors. Holding in its
grasp latent tendencies of all ages, of all the race, it may at any
time astound by its sudden expansion in unexpected directions, as well
as by its inexplicable failure to follow ordained grooves.'" Here
Britt paused again. "You can see the old chap was hard hit. He now
gets evolutionary. 'We are all goats, satyrs, and serpents
potentially--even from the neurologist's point of view our minds are
infinitely complex.'"
Serviss said, "All this is wise, but is it pertinent?"
"He's coming at it. 'Now, what we men of medicine call hysteria seems
to be a violent and, in a sense, unaccountable departure from the
norm, induced by the removal of some check--by some deep change in the
nervous constitution. Thus a girl suddenly refuses to eat, has
visions, shouts, and sings uncontrollably, perhaps speaks in an
unknown tongue--she is said to be hysterical. A mother, hearing of the
death of her child, begins to laugh, passes at length into a
cataleptic state, during which a child's voice sounds from her throat;
this, too, is hysteria. A man of forty-five becomes melancholy,
professes to hear music inaudible to others, develops automatic
writing, and trances in which he is able to hear distant voices, and
to read sealed letters; this, too, is hysteria. In reality, nothing is
explained.'"
"What of it?" interrupted Serviss. "Let's have the application."
"He makes his point in the next paragraph: 'In conformity with this
habit, when called in by Mrs. Lambert to study her daughter, who had
passed suddenly into deep sleep and was speaking with the voice of her
grandfather, I, with owlish gravity, pronounced her attack a case of
hysteria. "Take her on a little trip," said I. "Keep her well
nourished and out-of-doors, and she will outgrow it."'"
"Very good advice."
"So it was, but mark the sequel: '_She did not outgrow it._' He puts
this in italics. 'The power within her gained in mastery, and, what is
most singular and baffling to me, she continues to be a hearty,
healthy child in all other ways, and yet at times she seems the calm
centre of a whirlwind of invisible forces. Chairs, books, thimbles,
even the piano, move to and fro without visible pushing. Electric
snapping is heard in the carpet under her little feet, and loud
knocking comes upon the walls--'"
"Ah!" exclaimed Serviss, and recalled the knocking at his first visit,
while the girl was at the piano.
"Here he drops into italics again. '_One by one all the familiar
manifestations of the spiritualistic medium are being reproduced by
this pretty maiden here in this mountain home._'"
"Good Lord, what a pity!" exclaimed Serviss.
Britt read on: "'The mother, aggrieved and alarmed by the rude way in
which the girl is buffeted, has been put to her paces to conceal the
topsy-turvy doings of her household. Stones are hurled through the
windows, cabinets are opened by invisible and silent locksmiths, _and
I have seen these things and can offer no explanation_.'" Britt closed
the book. "Right here the old doctor lost his nerve, up to this time
he was a fairly acute observer. His next entry is evidently some weeks
or, possibly, months later. He says: 'Slowly we have learned to
understand the phenomena, but we cannot control them, and the child is
still cruelly embarrassed by intrusive tappings and cracklings as she
visits her friends or as she sits in her seat in school. She has
become afraid to sleep alone, and calls piteously for a light whenever
the noises begin.'"
"The poor child--"
"You may well say that," replied Britt. "She has told me that her time
of greatest trial comes just after the family have had their evening
meal, and while she is seated at her book; but Randall grows eloquent
in his description of what took place: 'Almost every night at seven
o'clock the obscure powers begin their uncanny and invisible riot,
ending by seizing upon the child as if to destroy her, compelling her
in the end to sleep. Then her voice, her limbs, seem at the disposal
of some invisible intelligence.' You see, the old man is weakening. He
says no more of hysteria, and nothing about taking the girl away."
"Do you mean to tell me he joined in fostering this delusion?"
"Mark his change of tone. He goes on: 'The mother, convinced by her
reading, as well as by messages in writing, believes that the spirits
of her dead are trying to communicate with her, and so sits night
after night terrified yet hoping, waiting for further instructions
from the imponderable ones.'" Britt turned a few pages rapidly.
"Listen to this. Here is the key to the old man's change of heart:
'To-night the child began to speak to me in the voice of a man.
Hoarse words rose from deep in her throat, a voice and words
impossible to her in her normal condition. The voice purported to be
my father's. It is all very singular. I do not understand how she
could know the things this voice uttered to me.' You see," said Britt,
"he has ceased to be the medical adviser." He turned a number of pages
slowly. "Well, the girl passed rapidly through these various phases,
according to Randall. She wrote messages with her left hand, wherein
her grandfather McLeod detailed the method of treating her, and
Randall was so far gone that he acquiesced. From her eleventh to her
fifteenth year she lived under this 'control.' The manifestations
increased in power and definiteness. The 'controls' at last were
three--her grandfather, her brother, and her own father. At sixteen
the most violent of the manifestations ceased, and the girl went away
to school. At this point Joe Lambert enters--he married the mother."
"How did he take these doings?"
"He seems to have been a silent and reluctant witness; the doctor only
mentions him incidentally. There are one or two pitiful letters from
the girl written while at school, detailing several embarrassing
returns of the 'spirits,' but, on the whole, she was happy. According
to the record, her vacations must have been a torment, for 'Waltie,'
that's no _Polter-geist_, seemed determined to make up for lost time.
He came every night, making life a hell for his sister. She could go
nowhere, and it was with the greatest difficulty that the mother kept
her dreadful secret."
Serviss, with darkened brow, writhed uneasily in his chair. "I have
heard of these things before now, but this is a new view of a medium's
development. I don't understand the mother's attitude."
"Randall notes that the mother was resigned and content as soon as she
was convinced of the return of her dead father and husband and son,
and at present will not think of giving up her fancied communion,
especially as the 'guides' constantly assure her that 'they' will
protect the girl. But observe the senility of this note in Randall's
diary: 'Martha comes regularly to me now, and I am happy in a renewed
sense of her companionship. Indeed, I fancy at times that I can see
her. She showed me her hands last night; I could see them plainly
against the window. I had quite a controversy with Lambert after the
sitting. "It's all bad business," he said. "I am scared when I think
of what's going to become of Viola. Here she is growing to be a big
girl, and a pretty girl, and she ought to be out in company--she ought
to be singing and dancing like other girls. She ought to marry like
other girls and be happy, and she can't be so long as these things are
going on. It isn't right."'"
"No more was it," said Serviss. "It was villainous."
"Randall was too far gone to even agree. 'But it hasn't hurt her,' I
replied; 'and, indeed, this marvellous fact resigns me to the
practice. I can't endure now the thought of being cut off from Martha
and Paul, our precious boy. It would be like shutting the door in
their faces. Besides, they are in control; we could not stop their
use of the girl if we were to try. As for me, it is now my life. I am
old. My friends, my dear ones, are all on that side. I have only a few
more days to live, and then--' Right here the old man stopped. He
lived a month or two after that, but he made no more notes, and when I
came on the scene Clarke was in control of the situation. I had no
acquaintance with the family and no personal knowledge of the case
till Lambert called one day and told me of the sittings going on in
the little cottage. He had a notion that I might be able to cure the
girl."
Serviss had listened to Britt with growing pain and indignation--pain
at thought of Viola's undoing, indignation that the mother and her
physician could so complacently join in the dark proceedings. "Of
course, you took hold of the case."
"I tried to, but Mrs. Lambert and Clarke would not admit that the girl
was in need of my care. They invited me to join the circle as a
spectator, which I did. I am still the onlooker--merely."
"You don't mean to say they are still experimenting with her?"
"You may call it that. They sit regularly two or three nights each
week. Clarke is preparing to renounce his pulpit and startle the world
by a book on 'spiritism,' as he calls his faith. The girl is his
source of thunder."
Serviss sank back into his chair and darkly pondered. "That explains a
number of very strange words and actions on the girl's part. What is
her attitude? She seemed to me extremely discontented and unhappy."
"She _is_ unhappy. She understands her situation and has moments of
rebellion. She knows that she is cut off from her rightful share in
the world of young people, and feels accursed."
"I can understand that, and several things she said to me corroborate
your analysis of her feeling. But tell me--you have attended these
sittings--what takes place--what does the girl profess to do?"
"I don't know. I can't determine Clarke's share in the hocus-pocus. It
all takes place in the dark."
"It always does. It belongs there."
"Many of the good old 'stunts' of the professional medium are
reproduced. Lights dance about, guitars are played, chairs nose about
your knees, hands are laid on your cheek, and so on."
"You don't think she is wilfully tricking?" Serviss asked this with
manifest anxiety.
"There's every inducement--darkness, deeply anxious friends. It would
not be strange if she did 'help on' now and then."
"What a deplorable thing!"
"And yet I'm not so sure that she wilfully deceives, though I have
detected her in fraud. Probably the whole thing began in some childish
disorder which threw her system out of balance. There are hundreds of
such cases in medical literature. She was 'possessed,' as of old, with
a sort of devilish 'secondary personality.' She probably wrote
treatises left-handed and upside-down. They often begin that way. The
mother, lately bereaved, was convinced of her daughter's occult
powers. She nursed the delusion, formed a circle, sat in the darkness,
petting the girl when things happened, mourning when the walls were
silent--and there you are! 'Sludge the Medium' all over again, in a
small way. Probably the girl didn't intend to deceive anybody at
first, but she was tolled along from one fakery to another, till at
last she found herself powerless in the grasp of her self-induced
coma. She is anxious to escape her slavery; she revolts, and is most
unhappy, but sees no way out. That's my present understanding of the
case. Now, what is your advice? What can I do? I am deeply interested
in the girl, but I have no authority to act."
"You shock and disgust me," said Serviss, profoundly moved. "The girl
seems too fine for such chicanery. Who is this man Clarke?"
"He was a sensational preacher in Brooklyn a few years ago, but a
hemorrhage in the pulpit cut short his career in the East. He came out
here and got better, but his wife, who had a weak heart, couldn't
stand the altitude. She died--a sacrifice to her husband. He's the
kind of a man who demands sacrifice. After his wife's death, he fairly
lived at the Lambert cottage, and is now in full control. The girl's
will is so weakened that she is but a puppet in the grasp of his
powerful personality."
Serviss was now absorbed in reconstructing his conception of Viola.
Her situation appealed to him with the greatest poignancy, but his
ability to help her seemed gone. Fair as she looked, she was to be
avoided, as one tainted with leprosy. His impression that first
afternoon had been true--she was beleaguered, if not lost.
Britt was saying: "If the girl were under age I'd appeal to the health
authorities of the state--I really would, much as I like Mrs.
Lambert--but she is of age, and, what is more to the point, Clarke has
won her love and confidence, and what can you do? He fills her
horizon, and the mother favors him. He talks to her of her daughter's
'mission to the world,' and such-like vapor, and has the girl herself
half convinced that her cataleptic states are of divine origin. I
confess I haven't felt free to make any real tests--you can't treat
her like a professional, you know--but she seems to have induced by
long practice a genuine coma, and until some clamp is applied I can't
say whether she or Clarke is the chief offender. Now what would you
do?"
Serviss burned with the heat of his anger. "Don't reveal to me any
more of this wretched business. I can't advise. If you, her physician,
and Lambert, her step-father, can't put a stop to it, what can I, a
passing stranger, do? I don't want to know anything more about it.
Why, man, it's diabolical! To warp and imprison a girl like that! To
think of that bewitching creature as a common trickster--appalls me.
And to think that good people, millions of them, believe in such
mummery! It is incredible!"
"You'd be surprised at the number of somewhat similar cases we find
among our patients. Since coming here I've gone in for a little
library of books on the subject. Every physician during his practice
comes upon one or more of these abnormal cases which, as Randall says,
we label, for convenience, '_hysteria_,' and I'm free to say that I
don't think we're at the bottom of the matter. Let's be just to this
girl. There are points in her favor."
Serviss protested. "Not another word. It's too painful."
Britt persisted. "I was merely going to say that I think there is some
basis for all this humbuggery. These mediums don't start from nothing.
They nearly all begin with some abnormality. Some submerged power
rises to the surface of their minds like a sea-serpent, and that
distinguishes them as seers. Curious friends crowd around, then the
lying begins. It's going to be worth while to take the subject up,
by-and-by. I'd do it myself if I could live in New York City." He
rose. "Well, I don't blame you for not going into this case--I wish I
were clear of it myself--but I was hoping you'd had some experience
that would help me." Thereupon the conversation shifted to other
grounds.
After Britt went out Serviss sat in brooding uneasiness over his
visitor's sad revelations. He had known Viola Lambert but three days,
and yet these revelations concerning her affected him most painfully,
quite vitally. His pleasure in her and in the mother and their pretty
home was utterly gone, and the breaking-off of this acquaintance left
an ache in his heart.
Of course he put all this on very general grounds. "I hate to lose
faith in any one. It is a shock to know that I can be so wholly
deceived by appearance. Clarke is really the one to blame in the
deception. I can't believe the girl wilfully deceives, and yet Britt
was explicit, and he seems to be a keen, dispassionate observer."
Thereupon he began to pack in order to take the early morning train
for the East. He decided not to see her again, and posted a polite
note saying he had been obliged to return to New York, and that he
regretted his inability to call.
As he stood on the rear platform of his train next day, looking back
up the cañon towards the shining crest of Colorow, he had a craven
sense of having deserted a helpless young girl in the hour of her
greatest trial.
IX
ANTHONY CLARKE, EVANGEL
Mr. Britt was right. Mrs. Lambert was very fond of Clarke--had,
indeed, quite taken him into her heart. He was at once son and
spiritual adviser, and his wishes had the force of commands. His
bereavement could not have anguished her much more keenly had Adele
been her own daughter, and this affliction still lay like a mist
between them, preventing even a foreboding of his impending confession
of desire. Her remembrance of the beauty and high character of his
wife made Viola seem doubly the child; and so when, from time to time,
some busybody hinted at the minister's marked intimacy with her
daughter, she put the covert insinuation away with a frank word--"You
mustn't even think such a thing."
Viola, too, from the very beginning of their acquaintance, had admired
the young minister quite as deeply as Serviss imagined, and had
humbled herself before Adele as to a very wonderful lady of the
mysterious outer world, whose deportment, dress, and speech had been
sources of enlightenment; and when she passed away, the land of the
shadow became just that much richer, more complete in its dominion
over her. Almost at once Adele spoke through the vale, saying, "I am
here to help and guide."
Thus all powers of earth and heaven had combined to make Clarke the
ruler of Viola Lambert's little world. He stood between her and young
Clinton Ward and all other suitors--he absorbed her thought. She
admired his gifts, and trembled beneath the power of his dark eyes,
his magnetic hands, and especially responded to the music of his deep
voice, which was very enthralling when it took on the pleading melody
of the lover. At times he filled her with such passion of vague unrest
that life became a torment, for she was of the age when the world is
for the lover's conquest, and the cadence of love's song means most
and is least understood; and yet at times she felt a fear of him which
chilled her. She was struggling, too, with growing ambitions, and with
an expanding knowledge of the world which was beginning to make her
critical--the wonder of the child was giving place to the insight of
the woman. The wish to shake off her invisible tormentors and be like
other girls was in reality a demand for the right to be loved and
valued for her own natural self, entirely free from the touch of
spectral hands.
She was disappointed that Clarke did not understand and sympathize
with this wish, but that he desired her in marriage had never once
entered her mind. He was a minister, and she reverenced his office,
and, besides, she considered herself but a girl, too ignorant and too
trivial to be the wife of one so high in holy service.
With the coming of the young professor a new force seemed entered upon
the saner side of her life. She recognized in him a master of the
great outer world--the Eastern world, the world of the unafraid--and
her determination to at least subordinate her "controls" had expanded
swiftly to a most dangerous height during the few hours of her
companionship with him. She felt that he would sympathize with
her--that he would help her. The clear positiveness of his speech, his
health, his humor, grew upon her each moment, and she resolved to
confide in him when next they met.
Part of this upspringing revolt, this antagonism, Clarke divined, and
the determination to arrest her purpose, the desire to possess her
entirely and at once, excluded every other wish or plan, and to feel
was to act with Anthony Clarke, for he was born to emotional
experience as the sparks fly upward. He had ever been a creature of
unreason, morbidly conscious of self--and naturally, for in him
struggled the blood of three races. His father was Scotch, and his
mother--Spanish on the spindle side and Irish by way of a most
mercurial father--remained an unsolved problem all her days, even to
her husband. Her laughter was as illogical as her tears. Her household
could never tell what the next hour would bring forth, so ready were
her sympathies, so instant her despairs. She lived all her life at the
heights or the depths, with never a day of serene, womanly, reasonable
action, and when she died her passing was of the same emotional
stress. She clung to earth like one whose body was about to drop into
soundless deeps.
Her son had inherited all her fervency, her inconstancy of purpose, as
well as her tendency to collapse under pressure. Physically he had
always been of slender figure, with weak lungs, and these weaknesses
he had used to free himself from work, from responsibility.
He was not a hypocrite--in that Britt was mistaken. He was by nature
deeply religious. His soul aspired, at times, to high things. He was
sympathetic to actual pain, and had always been morbidly in awe of
death. The sight of any poor, lost, and suffering man threw him into
instant, profound, and melancholy pity. A dead beetle in the road, a
fly caught in a spider's web, a young robin water-soaked and
bedraggled, appalled him, even as a boy, and he pondered them with sad
and questioning eyes long after his young companions had forgotten
them. Where had the light of their eyes fled? he asked himself. He
found no sport in killing any creature, and more than once he used all
his slender force to defend a cat from stoning; and yet he was known
to have joined the worst youths of his native town in secret
drinking-bouts, thereby acquiring the reputation of a liar and sneak,
as well as that of licentiate. At seventeen, just when the appetite
for liquor seemed beyond his control, a great "revivalist" won his
soul, as the saying went, and at twenty-three he assumed his first
pastorate.
Success as a pulpit orator was assured by the charm of his voice, the
magnetism of his manner. His head was singularly handsome, and often
when he spoke his face was irradiated like that of a seraph, and the
women of all his congregations adored him from the first glance,
embarrassing him with their ardent praises. That he had remained
faithful to his wife in spite of this adoration was evidence of her
great beauty of character. She was, indeed, his safeguard and his
hourly monitor while she lived.
For him she had sacrificed all her friends in the East. She came to
the mountains without a murmur, she bore with him, cheered him, upheld
him in a hundred ways--and when she died his world went black as
midnight. It was as if in the midst of a monster, interminable cavern
his one starlike light had gone out in his hand. For days he beat his
head against the wall, crying defiant curses against his God; but in
the end he sank into voiceless despair. Then it was, as he lay prone
and passive, that he began to hear mysterious whisperings and tappings
on the walls of his cavern of despond. He rose and listened. He groped
his way towards the dim light. He returned to the world of men. His
faith in the Scriptures was weakened; but he soon discovered a
wondrous change of heart towards those who claimed to be
intermediaries between the worlds of matter and of spirit. He turned
his attention to the study of the physical evidences of life after
death.
Up to that moment he had given but little credence to Mrs. Lambert's
half-hearted confidences concerning her own change of faith, and, as
Viola had been away at school much of the time, he had forgotten that
she was concerned in the mother's confession.
The disclosure of her powers, as he told Dr. Britt--after they were
both involved in the curious case--came violently, without warning, a
few days after Adele's death. "I was sitting with Mrs. Lambert in sad
conversation, seeking her aid and comfort. Viola occupied a low chair
beside the shaded lamp, a book upon her knee. She was listening to me.
I had just finished saying, in deeply passionate tones, 'I would give
all my hope of life for one whisper from the lips of my Adele,' when
the room began to darken. At first I thought the effect lay in my own
brain, but a moment later I perceived that the light had actually
begun to fail. We all watched it in silence for a moment, then Mrs.
Lambert remarked, 'Viola, Mary forgot to fill the lamp.'
"Even as she spoke a cool wind blew over my head and lay along my
hands. The flame leaped into the air, the room went black, save where
a pale glow coming from the street lay upon the floor. A faint
rustling arose, a hand touched my cheek, soft lips brushed my ear, and
a whisper that stopped the beating of my heart began. A vague,
inarticulate murmur, at first; but at last I plainly heard my
spirit-wife speaking in gentle reproof--'Tony, Tony, I am always with
you.'
"The whisper ceased. The hand was taken away. A deep sigh came to my
ear. My Adele was gone! The moment of ecstasy was over. I sat stunned,
inert, my brain whirling with the far-reaching import of this
experience. Before I could drag myself to my feet Mrs. Lambert,
practical and undisturbed, threw open the door and let the light of
the street in. Only then, as I looked on Viola, lying in trance with
white, set face, did I first connect her in any way with my sweet
communion with Adele.
"Then, like a flash of joyous light irradiating my soul, came the
conviction that she was the medium through whom my Adele had
spoken--that she had opened the gates of silence for me.
"I was no longer body--I was a brain suspended in some invisible sea
of force. Here was the reality of religion. Here was the answer to the
anguished cry of humanity--an answer to my prayers which the Hebrew
Scriptures could not give. There _was_ a life beyond the grave. The
spirit _did_ persist after the decay of the body. And here in this
little room, when my despair was deepest, the proof had come, blinding
me with its beauty.
"Then I said: 'Viola, you have given me the most wonderful moment of
all my life. You brought my Adele and put her hand in mine. Through
you I heard her voice again. God has chosen you for a great work; I
feel it. You should not repel these powers; your gift may mean the
most exquisite comfort to thousands--nay, millions--of bereaved
souls.'
"I was amazed at the vehement unreason of her reply. 'I don't want
it!' she cried. 'I hate it! I won't sit again!' Then I tried to
persuade her of her great mission, to no result. The following night
I came, and we pleaded with her to act again with us, but she still
passionately refused. 'Why don't they come to you or to mother,' she
complained, 'instead of to me?' To this I said: 'There is no answer.
They have made you their instrument, and it is your duty to do their
will.'
"That night the little parlor became a battle-field. Mrs. Lambert had
invoked the aid of Donald McLeod, her father, the girl's 'control.'
Viola resisted almost to the death. It seemed as if a strong hand
clutched her throat, commanding obedience. I feared she would be torn
to pieces, and at last I protested. 'She is suffering too much; let us
give over the sitting.' But Mrs. Lambert said, quietly: 'It is her own
fault. She is being punished for her obstinacy. Father is disciplining
her--he will not harm her.' In the end the power conquered, and the
girl lay back in slumber so deep, so dead, that her breath seemed
stilled forever--her hands icily inert, her face as white as marble."
"Why didn't you interfere?" asked Britt, sternly.
"How could I, when the mother and the girl's 'controls' were minded
otherwise? Besides, I began to believe in the girl's mission--I began
to understand the enormous value of her work. My God, Dr. Britt, had I
that girl's gift I would engross the world. I would write such words
across the tomb that death would seem as sweet as baby slumber. I
would make the grave a gateway to the light. I would eliminate sorrow
from the earth. The Bible no longer satisfies me. I want something
more than cold, black letters on a printed page. I want to know! I
want to thrill the world with a new message; and here, now, at my
hand, is a medium. I can never have this power--perhaps it is only
given to babes and to sucklings, but I can spread the light. You, Dr.
Britt, shall help me. Let us study this wonderful gift. Let us
concentrate our energies upon this supreme problem. I will note all
that comes to us, and I will write a burning book--a revelation that
shall go round the globe, guiding and gladdening every human soul.
Think of it! There is no mightier mission on earth. This girl can be,
and must be, made a savior, a hope-bringer, to thousands of despairing
souls!"
To this fervid appeal Britt remained impassive and coldly
critical--till, chilled and repelled, Clarke had withdrawn his
confidence. The two still met occasionally in Mrs. Lambert's home, but
their antagonism had deepened to actual hatred. Britt, impotent to
help, had long since ceased to protest, even to the girl herself; for
he had learned that every revolt on her part brought keener pain and
deeper humiliation in its train. He entered upon a study of the
subject, and thus far had found little to encourage the hope of the
girl's redemption from her maladies.
Clarke, too, had surrounded himself with every available book which
bore upon these baffling phases of human experiences, and had put
himself in touch with every society organized for the investigation of
occult phenomena--and in his dark little den brooded day and night
over the dimly apprehended laws of the unseen universe. He left his
studies only to be with Viola, who had become as necessary to him as
his daily food--as indispensable as air. She was at once his hope and
his very present help. How to keep her, how to mould her to his will,
how to use her to his great purpose of ridding the world of the fear
of death--these became his hourly care, his only interest.
To these ends he strove to enthrall her by his singing, by his
oratory, and by his love of poetry, knowing well that to drum
constantly upon the harsh string of her "mission" would revolt her;
and she, thus beset, thus beleaguered, gave over her rebellion,
resigning herself to her guides till this ruddy and powerful young man
of science came into her world to fill her with new determination to
escape from her mental slavery.
Clarke loved this girl, not as he had loved Adele, of course, but
quite as humanly. Her mediumship, so vital to the world, so sacred in
his eyes, had but added to her allurement. "All that I am, and all I
hope to be, is bound up in the possession of that sweet, wonderful
child," he said, in acknowledgment of his discovery. In a very subtle
way he now apprehended a change in the girl, and, realizing how
utterly his aims, his daily happiness, his future depended upon her,
he rose from his seat resolved not merely to advise against her going
away, but to claim her as his own--his wife.
"My wife!" At this deeply significant word Adele's pleading face rose
vividly before him. Writhing with shame before her reproachful glance,
he cried out: "But I cannot live alone! And then consider--I shall be
able to meet you each day, perhaps each hour, and as I myself develop
in grace of soul I may come to you without any medium. I am not
disloyal to you, Adele. I love this girl, I confess that; but not as I
loved you. You were my true wife, the only spouse I can ever have--you
filled my soul. My love for this girl is that of a father--a teacher.
I need her for--Oh, my Adele, I will confess, before you came back to
me through this child I was weary of the earth, ready to violently end
my anguish. Viola put your hand again in mine--she gave me to hear
your voice. I cannot bear to lose those priceless moments, and yet I
must do so if she goes from me. Am I not justified in desiring her
presence? Come to me; tell me, to-night, what you would have me do. Be
merciful, my angel spouse. Remember my empty, desolate heart. Remember
the greatness of the work I have set myself to do. Oh, my sweet
spirit, if you could only put an arm about my neck _now_, without any
other interposing soul! Come to me, whisper to me--now! Let me know
your presence here as I sit alone and despairing--"
He ceased to pray, and bowed his head upon his desk and waited in an
agony of hope--waited while the darkness deepened and the splendid
eternal song of the river proclaimed the futility and folly of man. A
cricket sang with heart-piercing cheer, as if to say, "I die
to-morrow, but I never despair." But no silken rustle, no whispering
voice came to still the agony welling in bitter sighs from the lips of
the tempted man.
X
CLARKE'S WOOING
Mrs. Lambert was face to face with a decision of almost equal
moment--was, indeed, in the midst of formulating the question which
perplexed her, in order that she might lay it before her invisible
guides for their consideration. She had just written upon a slate
these words: "Shall I take Viola and go East, or shall I send her on
alone?" when Clarke's foot was heard outside her door. Hastily hiding
the slate, she rose to meet her visitor.
He was very pale, and something in his glance made her aware that his
call was of no ordinary intent.
"Where is Viola?" he asked, abruptly.
"She has gone to the street with a friend. She will return soon."
"I am glad you are alone; I want to talk with you. I don't like the
condition of mind Viola is in to-day. The coming of this Eastern
professor seems to have stirred her to another fit of restless desire
to go away. I can't think of this, Julia; she is too precious to me to
lose. She has become a part of my very heart's blood, and I am afraid
to let her go out of my sight. She is young and very impressionable.
If she goes away into the city we may both lose her forever. The time
has come to tell you that I love her--not precisely as I loved Adele,
but deeply, passionately. I want her as my wife. I ask your consent to
tell her so--to-night. Will you give that permission?"
Mrs. Lambert gazed up at him with such fixity of surprise that the
rush of his forthright appeal weakened towards its end. She was
overwhelmed by the intensity of passion in his voice, as well as by
surprise that he, so soon after his bitter loss, could turn to
another--to her daughter, a child. And, at last, she whispered, "What
will _they_ say, Anthony?"
This question he had anticipated, and his reply was ready. "_They_
will advise it, I am sure. For does it not fit to their purpose? Does
not my great book depend on Viola's daily co-operation? I have no fear
of _their_ answer; I fear what she will say." He began to pace up and
down the room. "What, from _their_ point of view, does her musical
education signify? Think of it! She holds the key to the gates of
death. On her the hopes of millions hang. She is the most wonderful
organism in this world--so normal in all other ways, so trustworthy.
She will convince all who come into her presence; and then, have not
her 'controls' chosen me to publish their discoveries to the world? It
is ordained that we work together in this way. She must not go to New
York, that vast caldron which destroys all that is spiritual. She
should go only when closely guarded by those who love her and
understand her exquisite nature, her gifts. Some day I will take her
there. Alone she will be prevented from her grand mission, her message
lost, her faith destroyed. Can't you see she must not go?"
"I have done my best to keep her."
"I know you have," he answered, quickly; "and now you must give me
authority over her--the authority of a husband. I am willing to put
the whole matter to the test this night. She knows that I love her,
and I think she honors and respects me--perhaps she may already love
me, unworthy as I am."
The mother began now to tremble. "I don't know, Anthony; she
thought--we all understood--that you--"
"I know what you mean," he irritably exclaimed. "Why will you persist
in misreading me? I am not disloyal to Adele. Can't you see that my
devotion for her remains, and that my regard for Viola is no treason
to the dead? Adele will understand how vital, how necessary, Viola is
to me, for does she not know that I could not even communicate with
her if Viola went away? I do not love Viola as a boy loves, but as a
man who understands himself and her--as one who understands her
duties. It is a different love, but it is just as true, and it is high
and holy. Without her I would have gone mad. She saved me from
despair. Her union with me will make her an evangel to the earth-bound
millions."
Flattered as well as awed by this disclosure of her daughter's power,
the mother consented to his demand. Marriage with him would
safe-harbor Viola, would establish her in life, and would also carry
forward the work which she, too, considered of greater importance than
any other concern of her life.
"I don't know her mind, Anthony," she said, after a silence. "She
worries and puzzles me lately by her opposition to all our plans; but
I don't think she is attached to any of the young men she knows.
Still, she is not one to speak of such things. And if she consents--"
"When she comes, leave her to me," answered he, with returning
confidence. Deep in the man's egotistic soul lay the thought, "I know
why this girl is restless and uneasy--I know why she seeks afar off;
it is because she thinks me indissolubly bound to Adele. When she
finds that I love her, that I want her for my wife, she will come--her
vague rebellions will cease. Her longings will close round me--"
When the door opened and Viola stepped into the room, so tall, so
vivid, so tingling with life, the very force of his desire rendered
Clarke outwardly humble, drove him to a feigning of sadness and to the
voicing of desolate weakness. After the mother left them alone he
began speaking in a low voice with deep-dropping cadences.
"Viola, I have something important to say to you. I am much disturbed
over your renewed determination to go away. In the face of the great
work which is yours to do I do not understand how you can think of
dropping it in mid-air, so to speak, to go away on an errand which is
essentially selfish--as well as most unwise and full of danger. I
don't understand this renewal of restlessness on your part."
The girl's face was clouded, for she had just learned of Serviss's
departure and was deeply hurt. She drew the pin from her hat and
silently laid it on the table, and in this gesture was something of
the resolution of the warrior who divests himself of his cumbering
plumed helmet. "It's very simple," she curtly answered. "I want to get
away from here for a while. I can't endure my life here any longer."
"Why not? Why are you so unhappy?" he asked, with an accent of stern
reproof. "It is a beautiful land--you are among your own people, you
have your music, your work, and you are young. You ought to be happy."
"That's just it," she interrupted, quite fiercely. "It is because I am
young that I want to do something. It seems to me to-day as if I were
losing the best years of my life here in this little town, and I want
to get away. I _must_ get away!"
"Does your work with me seem of no value?" His glowing eyes sought
hers. He approached her. "Do I weary you? Am I an irritation?"
Her face softened. "No, you have helped me very much. I couldn't have
endured this life without you and my music; but this other life--these
sittings--I can't go on with them."
"Don't you feel that you must? Don't you feel their enormous
importance?"
"No, I don't! I begin to doubt myself--everybody. What have _they_
done for you, for anybody, that I should sacrifice nay whole life to
them and their wishes?"
"They brought me healing; they made Dr. Randall happy in his last
years; they are a daily solace to your mother; they will comfort
millions through our agency." He bent towards her. "Viola, my girl,
God has designed for you and me a closer union than even this. You say
I have comforted you, that I have made life happier for you. I have
come to-night to tell you that I love you, and that I want you to be
my wife."
The girl recoiled from the touch of his hand, uttering a low cry of
surprise, of question.
He went on: "Yes, I have grown to care for you beyond any other human
being. You are my staff, my stay. God sent you to my spiritual
healing. I should have gone mad but for you." He bent upon her a look
of passion and command. "You must not think of going away. You belong
to me." Her face warned him that his appeal was being misinterpreted,
and he added, quickly: "I know this comes to you abruptly, and yet you
must have felt my love, you must have read my heart."
"Not in that way," she answered, in a low voice. "I thought you--I
always understood--" The memory of his professed suffering, his
oft-expressed adoration for the dead Adele, checked her, filled her
with a storm of doubt, and she could not finish her accusation.
He caught up the thread she dropped. "I _did_ love Adele, I love her
still--a holy, mysterious love--a love you cannot understand; my
feeling for you is different, but no less high. It is the cry of a
lonely, desolate man. Come to me, Viola; do not question; follow your
heart's leadings, as I do." The light of her accusing young eyes
pierced the armor of his defence, and he fell upon his knees before
her. "I can't explain it, but it is true, Viola. I have not deceived
you. I loved her--I love her still. She is vital in my life. I was
sincere in all I said; but you are flesh and she is spirit. Don't you
see? You can comfort me--assist me, work with me as she cannot."
As he poured out his passionate plea, a sense of injury, of
disillusionment, overran the girl. She revolted from the touch of his
head against her knee. "You must not talk to me that way--you belong
to her." She pushed him away. "Get up. Go away from me. I hate you
now."
There was something so final, so convicting in her gesture of
repulsion that the man's head dropped. He covered his face and uttered
a groaning cry, and so lay silently sobbing, while she looked down at
him--woman-grown in that instant. His passion moved her to pity, not
to love, and she put him aside gently and left the room without
further word. Her master, her highest earthly guide, had fallen from
his lofty place and lay grovelling at her feet. This conception, vague
but massive, oppressed her heart, and lay upon her brain like a leaden
cap.
At the moment she, too, despaired of life and knew not where to turn
for aid.