Clarke sneered. "You physicists think nothing is natural or sensible

but your own grubbing. You nose in the mire studying parasites of

decaying flesh, while we are lifting wing into the world of spirit

where neither pain nor death is known. You are blinded by your

bigotry, or you would see the leading of every new discovery in the

modes of motion. Heat, light, the X-ray, the emanation of radium--do

they not all point to new subtleties of the physical universe? The

power which the spirits use to communicate with us, the world which

they inhabit, is only a higher evolution, a more potent condition--"

Weissmann arrested him in full flight and began to question him about

Viola's powers, drawing from him rapidly, and with the precision of a

great lawyer, all that he would say of her case, while Serviss,

smoking quietly, listened in deep amazement, so candid, so sincere did

Clarke seem to be in his answers. He was more--he became eloquent,

almost convincing; and the young scientist was forced to acknowledge

once more that appearances were deceitful. "Can this man be the fakir

I have thought him? He is a bigot, a crazy fool, but he does not fit

the rôle of villain; and yet--"

He could not put the alternative into words, so deeply did it involve

Viola herself.

The preacher was in full flow--turgid, studiedly ornate, egotistical,

and bombastic, but the final effect, even upon Weissmann, was that of

one deluded, rather than of one carrying on a deep and far-reaching

system of deception. He bodied forth the emotional moralist seeking

escape from the ferocity of the creed in which his youth had been

nurtured, rather than the self-seeking, coldly calculating

fortune-hunter. With lofty courage he concluded:

"Now to you, gentlemen of science, we say: We respect your methods,

but not your subjects of study. Nothing gives me greater pleasure than

a perusal of your books. The patient way in which you pursue some clew

in the labyrinth of biology is admirable. I met a man last week--a man

I knew in college--and upon my asking what he was doing he replied,

gravely, 'For the last six months I've been making a study of the

parasites in the abdomen of the flea!'" Here Clarke's sneering laugh

broke out. "Yet that man despised me--called me a fool--because I,

forsooth, was intent on the laws which govern the return of the dead."

His laugh died, he became very earnest and very sincere. "Now, men of

science, all we ask of you is to apply your precision of handling to

subjects a little more worth while than the putrid body of an

insect."

Serviss laughed, but Weissmann, with true German contrariety, returned

the compliment gravely. Being confronted with a true believer, he

automatically assumed the opposite position, and with searching scorn

assailed the whole spiritist camp with merciless knowledge of every

defenceless portal.

For a time Morton enjoyed Clarke's discomfiture, but at last his sense

of duty as host awoke and he was about to come to the preacher's

relief when Kate appeared in the doorway, and the old warrior lowered

his lance and rose politely.

Kate gave him a reproving glance. "You've been arguing--I can tell by

your guilty looks."

"Oh no, not at all; a mere statement of opinion--of no interest, I

assure you."

Kate's voice was eager. "Mr. Clarke, Viola wants to sit for us--have

you any objections?"

"Kate!" called Serviss. "I am ashamed of you--"

"I assure you I didn't ask it--I didn't even hint towards it. 'Cross

my heart--hope to die.'"

Morton was at the moment displeased, for he had been looking forward

to a long and intimate conversation with Viola in the drawing-room,

and would have been glad if Clarke had opposed it firmly--which he did

not. Perhaps he saw a chance to turn the tables on his critics; at any

rate, he rose, saying, "I will talk with her and decide the matter,"

and followed Kate out of the room.

"What is it? What did she say?" queried Weissmann, bewilderedly.

Morton explained that Miss Lambert had particularly requested him to

sit with her and talk to her "guides," and that she had expressed a

particular desire for an immediate test.

Weissmann's eyes glittered with new interest. "Very good. Why not? It

is a fine opportunity. Do you not feel so?"

In truth he did not. The intrusion of the abnormal side of Viola's

life seemed at the moment not merely inopportune but repulsive. As he

entered the drawing-room he found her sitting in a low chair beside a

small table on which stood a shaded lamp. Clarke was talking with her,

and Serviss could detect even at a distance the depressing change

which had come to her. Her girlish ecstasy was quite gone and in its

place lay pallid languor and a look of appeal.

Clarke moved away as his host approached, and Viola, glancing up wanly

and wistfully, said: "Isn't it stupid? Just when I was so happy. I

wanted this evening free, but they would not have it so. No sooner was

I seated here than they began to work on me. They say they want to

talk with you--my grandfather especially--and I, too, want you to do

so--only I didn't intend to ask it to-night. Please be patient with

me, won't you?"

"Do not distress yourself about that. I shall be very glad to sit. I

was afraid Kate might be requesting it. I particularly warned her

against mentioning the subject, but if your 'guides' wish it, and you

are willing, be sure Dr. Weissmann and I will be most pleased. But,

tell me, how did the change come? What began to happen?"

[Illustration: "'BUT, TELL ME, HOW DID THE CHANGE COME? WHAT

BEGAN TO HAPPEN?'"]

"The usual tapping--here on the table--then my hand wanted to write. I

ignored it--I fought it. I didn't intend to yield, but they set to

work undermining my will, and then I knew that I must consent or be

strangled. As soon as I gave up they took their fingers from my

throat, but they are here--my grandfather is just back of me--I can

feel his heavy hand on my head. I'm sorry, Professor Serviss. I was

having such a good time. I hope you won't despise me."

"You are entirely too modest," he answered, cheerily. "We are highly

favored. It's like having Paderewski volunteer to play for his

dinner."

His lightness of tone hurt her a little. "You don't believe in me in

the least, do you? You think I am an impostor?"

"Oh no. I believe in _you_."

"But you've got to believe in these manifestations if you believe in

me."

"No, no, that does not follow," he replied, quickly; then, perceiving

that this involved him, "All you do may possibly be explained without

resort to the spiritualistic hypothesis--" He was embarrassed by her

gaze.

"Why are you so contemptuous of spiritualists? It is very hard to

bear."

He felt the rebuke. "I am not contemptuous--"

"Yes, you are. Scientific people never speak of us without a laugh or

a sneer, and it hurts. It confuses me, too. If good people like you

care nothing about death--if you only laugh--"

"I beg your pardon, Miss Lambert, I never intended to be either harsh

or contemptuous. I do not accept--I mean to say I am _unable_ to

accept--your faith. I confess that my mind refuses to entertain the

postulates of what Clarke considers a religion. I must be honest. I am

a 'sceptic,' so far as your faith goes, but that does not mean that I

do not believe in the sincerity of your mother; and as to your own

powers--I do not wish to dogmatize, for the physical universe is a

very large and complicate thing, and, young as I am"--here he

smiled--"I don't pretend to a knowledge of all it contains."

She accepted his explanation, and, with musing candor, replied: "I

don't really blame you. I suppose if these things had happened to some

one else I would not have believed in them. I have thought a great

deal of what you said to me. I want to get away from that house; I am

hating Mr. Pratt more and more, and I will leave to-morrow if

grandfather will only consent. If he comes to you to-night, tell him

so--maybe my father will come, too. I want you to know my father. I'm

sure you will like him. Isn't it strange that I have never been able

to hear his voice?"

He ignored her question. "I do not understand the motives of your

'guides'--I cannot conceive of myself sacrificing you to any cause

whatsoever."

"Don't awaken my doubts," she cried, despairingly. "I don't know why

it is, but you always rouse in me something that makes war."

"I'm sorry if I seem to corrupt you."

"I don't mean that," she hastened to say. "The life which you and your

sister represent is the life I love. I was almost resigned to my fate

when your sister called upon me. Now I'm all rebellion again. Being

here to-night makes me hate all that I am. I hate my very name. I hate

Pratt and his horrible house--I almost hate my mother. Sometimes she

is so cruel to me. She don't mean to be, but she is."

His face grew reflective, almost stern. "I wish there were some way of

taking you out of the world in which you now suffer. I wish--" He

paused, checked by the thought of Clarke's claims upon her.

"There is only one way--my grandfather must consent to my release; he

rules us all."

This delusion rose like a stone wall at the end of every avenue, and

Morton turned to a personal explanation. "I cannot associate what you

seem to me now with what you were when I last saw you. What would you

have said had I seized you the other day--snatched you from the stairs

and ran--"

Her eyes opened wide. "The stairs?"

"Had you no knowledge of following your mother down the stairway after

our interview?"

"I knew I was entranced, but I didn't know--What did I do?" She asked

this anxiously.

"Nothing." He hastened again to change the current. "We were in hot

argument. You came down as peace-maker. I went away cravenly, most

impotently, leaving you there like a captive."

"I don't remember a word of it. I came to myself in my own room, and

only mother was with me." Her rebellious fire blazed up again. "Oh,

Dr. Serviss, I was resigned yesterday, but to-night I am in terror

again, and they know it. They are eager to show their power, to

confound you and convert Dr. Weissmann. I'm sure they will do some

wonderful thing for you to-night if you will let them."

"The best thing 'they' could do for me would be to let you sit and

talk to me," he replied in the voice of a lover.

She seemed to listen to some interior voice. "They are insisting. They

are here--listen!"

As he listened a series of throbbing raps seemed to come from the

chair beneath her hand.

"Very well, we will sit." As he said this three heavy, rending, low

thuds sounded on the under side of the table.

"That is grandfather," she said. "He wants you to be very rigid, and

so do I," she said. "Sometimes it seems as if I did these things

myself--I mean certain physical things--and I get all mixed in my

mind. I want you to study me." She passed her hand wearily over her

face, and Morton looked at her in sorrow, meditating a firm, decisive

assault on her hallucination, but checked himself. "If I am to help

you, I must know all about you," he said at last, "and a sitting may

help."

"You wonder at my fear of my grandfather, but that's because you don't

realize his power. Let me tell you what happened to me once, when I

tried to run away from him. I became desperate one summer vacation and

determined to get away from it all. Without telling mother, I took the

train one morning--" She paused abruptly and pressed both hands to her

burning cheeks. "Oh, it was horrible! My grandfather threw me into a

trance on the train, and the conductor thought I was drunk--" She

shuddered with the memory of it, and could not finish. "Since then I

have never dared to really oppose him."

He pondered her blush, the quiver of her lips, and the timid look of

her eyes, and gravely answered: "I share your horror of an experience

like that. But it does not endear your malevolent grandfather to me.

He must be a kind of male witch--"

"You mustn't feel that way towards him," she cried out in some alarm.

"He is firm because he feels that I should be doing my work--"

"I'd like to talk this matter over with him, but I don't like to have

you entranced. Is that necessary?"

"Yes, to get the voices. The writing we can have any time."

"What do you do to induce this coma--this sleep?"

"Just fold my hands and give myself up."

"It seems a desecration of you; but if there is no other way we will

grant 'the powers' audience."

At his word her face cleared, her fingers relaxed, and she smiled.

"Thank you. He has taken away his hand."

As she rose and stood before him she seemed again the buoyant,

care-free girl, and he could only weakly say, "It seems so ungracious,

so inhospitable in us," as they walked side by side across the room to

Kate.

Clarke was sitting in silence, without pretence of listening to his

hostess, watching Serviss with gloomy, uneasy eyes--a fierce flame of

jealousy burning in his brain. He recalled the change in Viola which

had followed this man's visit to Colorow, and associated her first

persistent revolt with him; and now, seeing her beside him, in his own

house, looking up into his face, absorbed, fascinated, utterly

forgetful of her duty, oblivious to every one else, was maddening. Her

gown angered him. "Why did she wear that dress?" he fiercely asked

himself. "She does not do that for me. She is in love with him--that

is why. She shall not come here again. These people are destructive to

her higher aims."

In this mood he changed his mind, opposed the sitting; but Viola

convinced him that it was the will of her 'guides' and that it was a

splendid opportunity to interest two renowned sceptics, and in that

spirit he again reluctantly consented.

XIII

THE TEST SÉANCE

Morton's study was decided upon as the most suitable place in which to

experiment, for the reason that it had but one exit, a sliding double

door, which led to the library, and its windows all opened upon the

street, six stories below. A burglar could not have entered with full

license to do so.

Viola assisted Morton and Kate in clearing the big mahogany table,

while Weissmann conferred with Clarke. To judge from the girl's gayety

and eager interest the preparations were for a game of cards rather

than for a test séance in which her love and honor were at stake. Mrs.

Lambert was quite serene; Clarke alone seemed anxious and ill at ease.

Weissmann, at Morton's request, assumed general direction, and

betrayed an astonishing familiarity with the requirements. Under his

direction they grouped themselves about the table as for whist, Viola

at the north end, with Clarke directly opposite, and Kate and Mrs.

Lambert on either side and quite near him. The two inquisitors then

took seats--Morton at the psychic's right, Weissmann at her left.

When the positions were all decided upon, Viola, with a note of

disappointment in her voice, asked, "Aren't you going to tie me?"

"Oh no," replied Morton, "the conditions are yours to-night. You are

our guest. Our tests will be made at some other time."

"Please make them to-night," she pleaded. "Please make them as hard as

you can."

Weissmann's glasses glistened upon her with joyful acclaim. "Very

good, your wishes shall be met. Let us see--we shall tie you. Have you

something suitable?" he asked of his assistant.

Morton took from his desk a roll of white tape. "How will this do?"

"Just the thing," Weissmann replied; "but we must have no knots, no

tying. Kate, get your needle, we must fasten Miss Lambert in such wise

that no one can say, 'Oh, she untied the knots!'"

Under his supervision Kate looped the tape about Viola's wrists and

sewed it fast to her close-fitting satin cuffs. She then encircled her

ankles with the tape, and Morton drew the long ends under and far back

of the chair and nailed them to the floor. Thereupon Weissmann said,

"I wish to nail these wristbands to the chair-arm.--Do we sacrifice

the cuffs?" he asked of Viola.

"Yes, yes--anything. Nail as hard as you please."

"And the chair?" pursued the old man, glancing at Morton.

"Oh, certainly," replied he. "Science goes before furniture in this

house," and a couple of long brass tacks were driven firmly down

through both tape and sleeve.

"You poor child!" exclaimed Kate. "If they hurt you, cry out, and I

will free you."

Weissmann then fastened a silk thread to her wrist and gave one end to

Morton. "We will keep this taut," he said; "every motion will be

felt."

As they worked the enthusiasm of investigation filled their eyes. They

lost sight of the fact that all this precaution implied a doubt of the

girl, and Viola on her part remained as blithe as if it were all a

game of hide-and-seek.

Clarke, too, became exultant. "McLeod, now is your opportunity," he

called to the invisible guide. "Bring your band and put the monist

bigots to rout."

Morton moved about the girl with growing excitement, a subtle fire

mounting to his brain each time his fingers touched her smooth, round

wrists. Once she said, "I have never had a real test like this--this

is what I wanted you to do. If anything happens now it will be outside

of me, won't it?"

"We must be cruel in order to be kind," he answered, enigmatically.

At last Weissmann stood clear of her. "Now we are ready," he said,

beaming with satisfaction. "You see I lock this door and here is the

key." He held it up in confirmation. "I pocket the key. Now what?"

"Turn down the gas," replied Clarke. "Do not use electricity--the room

must be perfectly dark."

"Why _perfectly_ dark? I don't like that." Weissmann spoke with

manifest irritation. "We should be able to see something."

Clarke shrugged his shoulders. "You can do as you wish. The guides say

their manifestations are antagonized by light--and that darkness is

necessary for these special phenomena of the cone."

"Oh, we _have_ no cone!" exclaimed Mrs. Lambert.

"Cone? What cone?" asked Weissmann.

"We need some sort of megaphone to enlarge the spirit-voices."

"Make one of card-board," suggested Viola. "Any sort of horn will do."

Morton rose and took down a horn from the top of a bookcase. "Here is

the megaphone of my phonograph; will it do?"

Clarke examined it. "It's rather heavy, but I think they will use it.

Place it on the table. Put a pad and pencil there also," he added. "We

may get some writing."

"Anything else?"

"No--now we are quite ready," replied Clarke, in his exhibition voice.

"It is well to touch hands for a time--until the psychic sinks into

her trance."

"With your permission," said Morton to Viola.

A faint flush came into her face. "Certainly, professor," and a touch

of emphasis on his title had the effect of a slight, a very slight

rebuff.

Clarke turned the light down to a mere point of yellow fire, and in

the sudden gloom all were plunged into silence. "Now, whatever you

do, gentlemen, don't startle the psychic after she goes into sleep."

Morton, with his fingers resting lightly on Viola's soft hand,

experienced a keen, pang of sympathetic pain. "She is so charming!

What profanation to develop the seamy side of her nature! What pitiful

tomfoolery! She is in the lion's mouth now--and yet how eagerly she

seemed to desire it. Weissmann has made anything but the simplest

ventriloquistic performance impossible--she cannot lift a hand. To

save her from herself, as well as from Clarke, it is necessary to

expose her weakness as well as his trickery."

She was saying, in answer to a question: "No, Dr. Weissmann, I have no

control over the manifestations; in fact, the more anxious I am, the

longer we have to wait. I cannot promise anything to-night--"

Morton, hearing this, inwardly commented; "These obscure forms of

hysteria often possess the cunning, the dissimulation of madness. Poor

girl! She is beginning to realize her predicament, and is preparing us

for disappointment," and a return of his doubt kept him silent.

Weissmann spoke. "Shall we not sing something--'We Shall Meet Beyond

the River,' or some ditty like that?"

Thereat Kate said: "Doctor, you betray astonishing familiarity with

the ways of 'spooks.'"

"Oh, I know everything."

"I begin to believe it," she retorted. "I begin to suspect that you

are a secret adherent. Morton, you would better tie Dr. Weissmann,

otherwise he may speak from the cone himself."

As if to counteract this banter Clarke began a discourse on the

leadings of the most recent discoveries:

"The X-ray is a mode of motion, as light is a mode of motion, but the

waves of light move in such a way as to clash with and weaken those of

the X-ray; so we argue that the mode of motion, through which

disembodied souls manifest themselves, being far subtler than the

X-ray, is neutralized--though by no means destroyed--by the motion

called light. Furthermore, there seems to be a reluctance on the part

of the invisible ones to have the actual processes scrutinized. I once

laid a pencil on the table and asked for a visible action of writing,

vainly, so long as it was completely exposed, but upon being covered

with a silk handkerchief it plainly rose and wrote. It could be

distinctly seen moving beneath the cloth. Sir William Crookes had a

similar experience, except in his case he saw the pencil move, prop

itself against a ruler, and try three times to write--all in the

light. I have seen letters form on an exposed surface of a slate, I

have had hands appear through a curtain and write in the light, but

the power must always be generated in shadow."

Kate shuddered. "Woo! It gives me the shivers to think of such things.

Will anything as wonderful happen to-night?"

"I cannot tell--the conditions are severe, but I think we will have

something. Viola?" he called, softly.

"Yes," she answered, faintly.

"Would you like us to sing?"

"No--I'd rather you'd all talk. Perhaps they will let me take part in

the demonstration to-night. They promised to do so, you remember."

Weissman recounted some of the experiences Zöllner had enjoyed in

Germany shortly after the Fox sisters became so celebrated in America.

"Crookes and Wallace and several others went into the whole question

at that time--the world rang with the controversy. But the clamor

passed, the phenomena passed. It is like an epidemic, it comes and it

goes, and in the end is humanity the wiser? No."

"Yes, it is," broke in Clarke. "We are just that much more certain of

the indestructible life of the soul--every wave of this spirit-sea

leaves a deposit of fact on the beach of time, makes death that much

less dreadful. We make gains each decade. Sir William Crookes, Sir

Oliver Lodge, Alfred Russel Wallace, Lombroso have all been convinced

of the reality of these phenomena. Surely such men must influence the

thought of their time. Experimental psychology is on the right road--"

Morton was suffering with the girl, whose hand was beginning to

tremble beneath his palm. She no longer replied to his questions, but

that she was still awake he knew, for he could hear her sighing

deeply, so deeply that the sound troubled him almost as if she were

weeping. His impulse was to rise and turn on the light and give over

this trial, which could only end in humiliating her. "Her temerity is

a part of her malady," he argued. "It has arisen through years of

misconceived petting and nursing on the part of her mother. Up to this

moment her performances have always been in the presence of friends

and relatives, or for the consolation of those eager to believe, and

therefore easily deluded. Every sitter has conspired to practically

force her into an elaborate series of deceptions, each deceit being

built upon and made necessary by the other. It is pitiful, but she now

believes in herself--that is pathetically certain. Otherwise she would

not have yielded herself so completely into the hands of an inexorable

investigator like Weissmann. She must take the consequences," he

ended, with grim closing of the lips. "We must be cruel in order to be

kind. This night may be her salvation."

Weissmann was replying to Mrs. Lambert. "I do not care for a return of

my dead, madam; what I wish your daughter to do is quite simple. I

would like her to move a particle of matter from A to B, without a

known push or a pull--that is to say, by a power not known to

science--as Zöllner claimed Slade was able to do for him."

"She can do it," cried Clarke. "She can move a chair from A to B

without bringing to bear any of the known forces. She can suspend the

law of gravity. She can make a closed piano play, and she can read

sealed letters in an ebony box tightly closed and locked."

"You claim too much, my friend," replied Weissmann, ironically. "We

shall be satisfied with much less. If she will change one

one-hundredth part of a grain from one scale to another, under my

conditions, I will be satisfied. The most wonderful phenomena taking

place in the dark have no value to me."

Mrs. Lambert interposed. "Please don't argue--it prevents the coming

of the spirits."

Both men felt rebuked and the group again settled into silence.

Suddenly, Kate began to laugh, "Isn't it childish? Really, Morton, if

our friends could see us sitting around here in the dark, as we are

now, they would roar. Why should it all be so silly, Mr. Clarke?"

"It is _not_ silly if we take the right view. We must sit together in

order to get into harmony. We further these conditions by sitting in

subdued light with fingers touching. Song adds still more to this

concert of thought. Nothing is really silly or prosaic--all depends

upon the minds of those--"

He was in the midst of an elaborate defence of spirit methods when

Viola's hand began to leap as if struggling to be free. She moaned and

sighed and writhed so powerfully that her chair creaked. "Oh, dear!

Oh, dear!" she cried, gaspingly.

"Is she trying to free her hands?" Morton asked himself, with roused

suspicion. "Is this a ruse to cover some trick?"

Mrs. Lambert spoke quietly. "She is going! Sing something, Anthony."

Clarke began to hum a monotonous tune, while Morton, bending towards

the girl, listened to her gurgling moans with growing heartache. "She

seems in great pain, Mrs. Lambert. Don't you think we'd better release

her? I do not care to purchase sensation so clearly at her expense."

"Don't be alarmed, she always seems to suffer that way when some great

manifestation is about to take place."

The poor girl's outcries so nearly resembled those of a death struggle

that Kate at last rose. "Turn up that light! She is being strangled!"

"Please be silent!" said Clarke, almost angrily. "Take your hands from

her, gentlemen! You are too 'strong'--and do not startle her! Be quiet

everybody!"

Morton took his hand away in anger and disgust. "All this is a ruse to

weaken our grasp upon her," he thought. "Even the mother, so serene,

so candid, is aiding the deception."

"Things will happen now," remarked Mrs. Lambert, confidently; "she is

giving herself up at last."

The girl drew a long, deep, peaceful sigh, and became silent, so

silent that Morton, leaning far over, with suspended breath, his ear

almost to her lips, could detect no sound, no slightest movement, and

listening thus he had for an instant a singular vision of her. He

seemed to see her laughing silently at him from a distant upper corner

of the room, and for the moment secured a glimpse into a new and

amazing world--the world of darkness and silence wherein matter was

fluid, imponderable, an insubstantial world peopled, nevertheless,

with rustling, busy souls.

A sharp rapping began on the cone, a measured beat, which ended in a

clang, which startled Kate into a shriek. "Who is doing that?" she

asked, nervously.

"They are here," Clarke solemnly announced.

"Is that you, Waltie?" asked Mrs. Lambert, sweetly.

Three raps, loud and clear, answered "yes." A drumming on the cone

followed, and Mrs. Lambert, her voice full of maternal pride,

remarked: "Waltie is the life of our sittings--he's _such_ a rogue!

You must be a nice boy to-night--on account of these very

distinguished men."

"Rap, rap!" went the cone.

"Does that mean 'all right'?"

"Rap, rap, rap!" Yes.

"Is grandfather there?"

"Yes."

"Does he wish to speak to the gentlemen?"

"Yes."

"Are we sitting right?"

A decided thump--"No."

Guided by the rapping Mrs. Lambert and Kate moved down to the foot of

the table, sitting close beside Clarke, thus leaving Morton and

Weissmann alone with the sleeping girl. No sooner were they rearranged

than the table began to move, precisely as though pushed by the girl's

feet. Still guided by the rapping, Weissmann and Morton moved with the

table, but retained their threads of silk. Morton's pity had given

place to a feeling of resentment at this device to get them farther

away, and he drew his tell-tale thread tight across his finger. "If

she moves she is betrayed," he thought with hardening heart.

No sooner were they settled than a fumbling sound began in the middle

of the table, and the pencil was twice lifted and dropped. Following

this the leaves of the writing-pad rustled as though being thumbed by

boyish hands.

Kate shivered and cried out: "This is uncanny! Morton, are you doing

this?"

"Certainly not," he replied, curtly.

"Do you feel any motion in your thread?" asked Weissmann, in a quiet

voice.

"None whatever," Morton replied.

"Then the psychic is not moving."

Again they sat in silence, and after some minutes the fumbling began

again and the horn was heard scraping slowly about, as if being lifted

with effort only to fall back with a clang.

"Is it too heavy?" asked Clarke.

Three sharp raps replied--an angry "yes"--and then, with a petulant

swing, the instrument apparently left the table and floated upon the

air. In deep amazement Morton listened for some movement, some sound

from Viola, but there was none, not a breath, not a rustle of motion

where she sat, and the silk thread was tight and calm. "She has

nothing to do with _that_," he said, beneath his breath.

Kate called excitedly, "Oh! It touched me."

"What touched you?" asked Weissmann.

"The horn."

"Did it bump you?"

"No, it seemed to float against me."

Morton spoke out sharply: "Where is Mr. Clarke?"

"Right here on my right," replied Kate.

"What idiotic business!" he exclaimed, mystified, nevertheless.

The horn dropped to the middle of the table, but was immediately swept

into the air again as if by a new and more vigorous hand, and a voice

heavily mixed with air, but a man's voice unmistakably, spoke directly

to Morton, sternly, contemptuously.

"We meet you on your own level. You asked for material tests, and now

conditions being as you have made them--proceed. What would you have

us do?"

"Who are you?"

"I am Donald McLeod--grandfather to the psychic."

At this moment Morton became seized of the most vivid realization of

the physical characteristics of the man back of the voice. In some

mysterious way, through some hitherto unknown sense, he was aware of a

long, rugged face, with bleak and knobby brow. The lips were thin, the

mouth wide, the dark-gray eyes contemptuous. "It is all an inner

delusion caused by some resemblance of this voice to that of some one

I have known," he said to himself; but a shiver ran over him as he

questioned the old man. "If you are the grandfather of the psychic,"

he said, "I would like to ask you if you think it fair to a young girl

to use her against her will for such foolery as this?"

"The purposes are grand, the work she is doing important--therefore I

answer yes. She is yet but a child, and the things she does of her own

motion trivial and vain. We make of her an instrument that will enable

man to triumph over the grave. You will observe that we do not harm

her, we take but little of her time, after all. You are unnecessarily

alarmed. Our regard for her welfare far exceeds yours. Her troubles

arise from her resistance. If she would yield herself entirely, she

would be happy."

As the voice paused, Morton asked, "Weissmann, can you hear what is

being said to me?"

"Very indistinctly," answered Weissmann.

"What does it say?" asked Kate. "I can only hear a kind of jumble."

Weissmann interjected; "I must ask you, Mrs. Rice, have you tight hold

of Mr. Clarke's hand?"

"Yes," answered Kate.

Morton's brain whirled in confusion and conjecture. He believed the

whole thing to be a piece of juggling, and yet he could not connect

Viola in any way with it, and it seemed impossible, also, for Mrs.

Lambert to sit where she was and handle the cone, to say nothing of

the ventriloquistic skill necessary to carry on this conversation. He

again addressed the voice: "You consider your control of the psychic

to be justified?"

"We do."

"Do you know, also, what perilous notoriety, what positive

disgrace--from every human point of view--you are about to bring upon

her?"

The hidden old man pondered a moment, as if to master a profound

contempt, then answered: "We have taken all things into account. When

she has grown to years of sobriety she will thank us that we turned

her aside from dancing and from light conversation, and from all

loose-minded companions. All the sane pleasures are now hers. She is

soon to be idolized by thousands. Her playing on the piano, her

singing are as the rustle of leaves in the forest compared to her

mediumship, which is as a trumpet-blast opening the gates of the city

of refuge to let the weary traveller in." The voice weakened a little.

"The earth-life is but a school--the real life is here. Besides, when

she has completely subordinated her will to ours, when she has given

our message--" The spirit grand-sire seemed to falter and diminish.

"My power is waning, but I will again manifest. We will try--" The

voice stopped as though a door had been shut upon the speaker, and the

megaphone dropped upon the table.

"All that is very interesting," commented Weissmann, "but

inconclusive. Is it all over?"

"Oh no," answered Mrs. Lambert. "They are uniting upon something

wonderful--I feel it."

As they listened the horn moved feebly, uneasily rising a few inches,

only to fall as though some weak hand were struggling with it; but at

last it turned towards Weissmann, and from it issued the voice of a

little girl, thrillingly sweet and so clear that Serviss could hear

every word. She addressed Weissmann in German, calling him father,

asking him to tell mother not to grieve, that they would soon all be

together in a bright land.

To this Weissmann replied in harsh accent: "You assert you are my

daughter?"

The voice sweetly answered: "Yes, I am Mina--"

"But Mina could not understand a word of English--how is that?"

The little voice hesitated. "It is hard to explain," she replied,

still in German. "I can _understand_ you in any language--but I can

only speak as you taught me."

Thereupon he addressed her in French, to which she replied easily, but

in her native tongue.

As this curious dialogue went on Serviss was searching vainly for an

explanation. "Mr. Clarke, will you kindly speak at the same time that

this voice appears?"

Clarke began a discourse, and the two voices went on at the same time.

The young scientist then said: "Mrs. Lambert, will you permit Kate to

lay her hand over your lips? You understand, it is for the sake of

science--"

"Certainly," said Mrs. Lambert.

Here the test failed of completeness, it was so difficult to get the

three voices precisely together; but at last it seemed that the

child's voice was produced at the same time that Clarke spoke and

while Kate's hand covered the mother's mouth.

Thereupon the little voice said farewell, and all was silent for a few

moments. The cone rose again into the air and a soft, sibilant voice

addressed Mrs. Lambert.

"Oh!" she cried, joyfully. "It is Robert!--Yes, dear, I'm listening.

I'm so glad you've come. Can't you talk with Professor Serviss?--He

says he will try," she said to the company.

As Morton waited the cone gently touched him on the shoulder, and a

moment later a man's voice, utterly different from the first one and

of most refined accent, half spoke, half whispered: "We are glad to

meet you, professor. I am deeply gratified by your interest in our

dear girl."

"Who are you?" he asked, moved, in spite of himself, by a liking for

this new personality, so distinct from the others.

"I am R.M. Waldron--Viola's father."

He seemed to wait for questions, and Serviss asked: "How do _you_ feel

about your daughter's mediumship? Are you not uneasy when you think of

what you are demanding of her?"

The invisible one sighed, hesitated, and replied with evident sadness:

"It troubles me to find her reluctant. I wish she were happier in the

work. It seems so important to us." Then the voice brightened. "But

perhaps it is only for a little while. After the public test--after

the truth of her mediumship is made manifest--I think, I hope, we will

ask less of her. Perhaps it will be possible to release her altogether

for a time; but for the present she is too valuable--" The sentence

was lost in a buzz of inarticulate whispering, as if two or three

friends were consulting. The opening and closing of lips could be

heard, and a stir within the horn was curiously trivial in effect, as

if a mouse were at play with a dry leaf.

"If I were to organize a committee of men like Weissmann and Tolman,

and other men of international fame, willing to test your daughter's

powers, will you give over this public demonstration--this publishing

of a challenge?"

Clarke interrupted almost angrily. "Not unless you promise to--"

"Be silent!" commanded Weissmann.

From the horn came a faint murmur, so dim, so far, Serviss could, with

difficulty, distinguish the words. "We will consider that. I am going.

Guard my girl. Good-bye."

The horn, again seemed to rest, and for a long time no sound or stir

broke the silence, till at last Viola began to writhe in her chair in

greater agony than before.

"I think she is waking," said Morton.

Mrs. Lambert answered, quickly: "No. Some great event is

preparing--when this paroxysm passes some very beautiful test will

come."

While Morton and Weissmann were considering this the girl again became

silent as a stone, and a moment later a clear, sweet sound pulsed

through the air as if an exquisite crystal bell had been struck. Then,

while still this signal trembled in his ear, a whispering noise

developed just before the young man's face, as if tremulous lips were

closing and unclosing in anxious effort to communicate a message

without the use of the trumpet.

"Is some one trying to speak to me?" he asked, gently.

Three measured strokes upon, the tiny bell replied, and with their

pulsations the room seemed to stir with a new and different throng of

winged memories. The very air took on mystery and beauty and a sweet

gravity. Matter was for the moment as subtle, as imponderable as soul.

"Who is it?" he asked, and into his voice, in spite of himself, crept

a note of awe.

The answer came instantly, faint as the fall of an autumn leaf on the

grass.

"Mother."

Kate bent eagerly forward, "Who was it, Morton?"

Ignoring her question Morton addressed the invisible one. "Can't you

speak again?"

There was no reply and the whispering ceased. Almost instantly the

horn seemed grasped by a firm and masterful hand, and the rollicking

voice of a man broke startlingly from the darkness in words so clear,

so resonant, that all could hear them.

"Hello, folks. Is this a Quaker meeting?"

"Who are you?" asked Morton.

"Can't you guess?"

Kate gasped. "Why, it's Uncle Ben Roberts!"

The voice chuckled. "Right the first time. It's old 'Loggy'--true

bill. How are you all?"

Kate could hardly speak, so great was her fear and joy. "Morton

Serviss, what do you think now? Ask him--"

The voice from the trumpet interposed. "Don't ask me a word about

conditions over here--it's no use. I can't tell you a thing."

"Why not?" asked Morton.

"Well, how would you describe a Connecticut winter to a Hottentot? Not

that you're a Hottentot"--the voice broke into an oily chuckle--"or

that I'm in a cold climate." The chuckle was renewed. "I'm very

comfortable, thank you." Here the invisible one grew tender. "My boy,

your mother is here and wants to speak to you but can't do so. She

asked me to manifest for her. She says to trust this girl and to carry

a message of love to Henry. I brought one of her colonial wineglasses

with me--as a sign of her presence and as a test of the power we have

of passing through matter."

For nearly an hour this voice kept up a perfectly normal conversation

with a running fire of quips and cranks--recalling incidents in the

lives of both Kate and Morton, arguing basic principles with Weissmann

yet never quite replying to the most searching questions, and finally

ended by saying: "Your conception of matter is childish. There is no

such thing as you understand it, and yet the universe is not as Kant

conceived it. As liberated spirits we move in an essence subtler than

any matter known to you--ether is a gross thing compared to spirit.

Your knowledge is merely rudimentary--but keep on. Take up this work

and my band will meet you half-way. My boy, the question of the

persistence of the individual after death is the most vital of all

questions. Apply your keen mind to it and depend on old 'Loggy.'

Good-by!"

Kate was quivering with excitement. "Morton, that settles it for me.

That certainly was 'Loggy.' Oh, I wish mother could have spoken."

Morton's voice was eager and penetrating as he said: "Mrs. Lambert, I

would like to place my hand on your daughter's arm again, I must be

permitted to demonstrate conclusively that she has had nothing to do

with the handling of the horn."

"I will ask the 'guides.' Father, can Professor Serviss--"

Three feeble raps anticipated her question.

"They say 'yes'--but they are very doubtful--so please be very

gentle."

Serviss rose, his blood astir. At last he was about to remove his

doubt--or prove Viola's guilt. "Doctor," he said, and his voice was

incisive, "take the other side and place a hand on her wrist. That

will be permitted?" he asked.

Three raps, very slow and soft, assented.

Clarke interposed. "I am impressed, gentlemen, to say: Let each of you

put one hand on the psychic's head, the other on her arm."

"We will do so," replied Weissmann, cheerfully.

With a full realization of the value of this supreme test of Viola's

honor, Morton laid his right hand lightly on her wrist. At the first

contact she started as though his fingers had been hot iron, and he

was unpleasantly aware that her flesh had grown cold and inert. He

spoke of this to Weissmann, who replied: "Is that so! The hand which I

clasp is hot and dry, which is a singular symptom." Then to the

others: "I am now holding both her hands. One is very hot, the other

cold and damp and I feel no pulse."

"She is always so," Mrs. Lambert explained. "She seems to die for the

time being."

"That is very strange," muttered Weissmann. "May I listen for her

heart-beat?" Three raps assented, and a moment later he said, with

increased excitement: "I cannot detect her heart-beat."

Clarke reassured him. "Do not be alarmed. She is not dead. Proceed

with your experiment." There was a distinct note of contempt in his

voice.

As Morton laid his hand upon the soft coils of her hair Viola again

moved slightly, as a sleeper stirs beneath a caress, disturbed yet not

distressed--to settle instantly into deeper dream.

"We are ready," called Weissmann. "Whatever happens now Miss Lambert

is not the cause. Take Mr. Clarke's hands in yours--"

"Mrs. Lambert's also," added Morton.

"Our hands are all touching," answered Kate.

"Now, let us see!" cried Weissmann, and his voice rang triumphantly.

"Now, spirits, to your work!"

Clarke laughed contemptuously. "You scientists are very amusing. Your

unbelief is heroic."

As they stood thus a powerful revulsion took place in Morton's mind,

and with a painful constriction in his throat he bowed to the silent

girl, and with an inconsistency which he would not have published to

the world, he prayed that something might happen--not to demonstrate

the return of the dead but to prove her innocence.

As he waited the pencil began to tap on the table, and with its stir

his nerves took fire. A leaf of paper flew by, brushing his face like

the wing of a bird. A hand clutched his shoulder; then, as if to make

every explanation of no avail, the room filled with fairy unseen folk.

Books began to hurtle through the air and to fall upon the table. A

banjo on the wall was strummed. The entire library seemed crowded with

tricksy pucks, a bustling, irresponsible, elfish crew, each on some

inconsequential action bent; until, as if at a signal, the megaphone

tumbled to the floor with a clang, and all was still--a silence

deathly deep, as if a bevy of sprites, frightened from their play, had

whirled upward and away, leaving the scene of their revels empty,

desolate, and forlorn.

"That is all," said Clarke.

"How can you tell?" asked Kate, her voice faint and shrill with awe.

"The fall of the horn to the floor is a sure sign of the end. You may

turn up the gas, but very slowly."

Stunned by the significance, the far-reaching implications of his

experiment, Morton remained standing while Weissmann turned on the

light.

Pale, in deep, placid sleep, Viola sat precisely as they had left her,

bound, helpless, and exonerated. She recalled to Morton's mind a

picture (in his school-books) of a martyr-maiden, who was depicted

chained to the altar of some hideous, heathen deity, a monster who

devoured the flesh of virgins and demanded with pitiless lust the

fairest of the race.

Of her innocence he was at that moment profoundly convinced.

XIV

PUZZLED PHILOSOPHERS

While he still stood looking down upon her Viola began to moan and

toss her head from side to side.

"She is waking," cried Mrs. Lambert. "Let me go to her."

"No!" commanded Weissmann, "disturb nothing till we have examined all

things."

"Make your studies quickly," said Morton, his heart tender to the

girl's sufferings. "We must release her as soon as possible."

Weissmann was not to be hastened. "If we do not now go slowly we lose

much of what we are trying to attain. We must take her pulse and

temperature, and observe the position of every object."

"Quite right," agreed Clarke, "Do not be troubled--the psychic is

being cared for."

Thus reassured the two investigators scrutinized, measured, made

notes, while Kate and Mrs. Lambert stood waiting, watching with

anxious eyes the changes which came to Viola's face. Weissmann talked

on in a disjointed mutter. "You see? She has no pulse. The threads are

unbroken. The table is thirty inches from her finger-tips. Observe

this pad, forty-eight inches from her hand--and which contains a

message."

"Read it!" demanded Kate.

He complied. "'_You ask for a particle of matter to be moved from A to

B without the use of any force known to science. Here in this

wineglass is the test. Oh, men of science, how long will you close

your eyes to the grander truths._'"

"That is from father," remarked Mrs. Lambert.

"It is signed 'McLeod,' and under it are two words, 'Loggy' and

'Mother,' each in different handwriting."

"Give it to me!" cried Kate, deeply moved.

"And here is the wineglass," replied Weissmann, extracting from among

the books a beautiful piece of antique crystal.

Kate took it reverentially, as if receiving it from the hand of her

dead mother. "How came that here?"

"You recognize it? It was not left here by mistake?"

"Oh no. There are only four of them left and I keep them locked away.

I have not had them out in months."

Clarke smiled in benign triumph. "That is why they brought it--to show

you that matter is an illusion and to prove that dematerialization and

transubstantiation are facts. That was the bell we heard."

"Morton, what do _you_ think? How could--"

But Morton was bending above Viola and did not heed his sister. The

girl's eyes were opening as from natural slumber, and he said, gently:

"I hope you are not in pain? We will release you in a moment."

[Illustration: "THE GIRL'S EYES WERE OPENING AS FROM NATURAL

SLUMBER"]

She smiled faintly as she recognized him. "My arms are numb, and my

feet feel as if strips of wood were nailed to my soles," she answered,

wearily, "and my head is aching dreadfully; but that will soon pass."

"She always complains of her feet," the mother explained. "She can't

walk for quite a little while afterwards."

"You poor thing!" exclaimed Kate. "You are a martyr--that's what you

are."

Viola looked up with sweet and anxious glance. "Did anything happen?

Did your friends come to you, Mrs. Rice?"

"No, but several voices spoke to Morton."

"I'm sorry no one came to you. I've been a long way off this time,"

she continued, with dreamy, inward glance, "into a beautiful country

from which I hated to return. I wouldn't have come back to you at all

only a thread of light tied my soul to my body and drew me down to

earth in spite of myself."

"What was it like--that far country?" asked Morton.

She pondered sleepily. "I can't tell you--only it was very beautiful

and I was happy. Every one lived in the light with nothing to fear. I

had no memory of the earth--only of my body which I was sorry for.

There was no death, no cold, no darkness up there. I was very happy

and free."

"You should be free and happy here," answered Morton, gravely. "Come,

doctor, can't we free her now?"

"Yes, you may do so," he replied, still busy with his note-book.

The young host, with a feeling of having been unnecessarily brutal,

ripped the tape loose from the floor, and Kate slipped the loops from

Viola's ankles. Then, leaning on her hostess's arm, she rose slowly,

smiling brightly, her weakness most appealing. "I hope a great deal

happened--it means so much to me. I want to talk, but I can't now, my

head is too thick. You must tell me all about it pretty soon."

"A great deal happened--you are quite clear of any connection with

it."

Her face lit with placid joy. "Oh, I'm so glad! It must be very late,"

she added, turning to her mother.

"Yes, and we must be going," responded Mrs. Lambert, nervously. "Mr.

Pratt will be impatient."

"I wish you'd stay with me to-night," pleaded Kate. "It was all so

wonderful. I can't let you go. Please stay! Both of you. You're too

tired to go out into the raw air."

"Oh no, we can't do that--not to-night," Viola answered, decisively.

Morton threw back the doors. "Kate, take Miss Lambert into the

dining-room and give her something to drink. She is quite exhausted.

Let me steady you," he said, tenderly, touching her arm. "You fairly

reel with weakness."

"I will be as well as ever as soon as my blood begins to circulate,"

she bravely answered, and his touch quickened her pulse miraculously.

As soon as Weissmann had finished taking his notes and measurements,

he locked the door of the library and joined them all in the

dining-room, where they were sipping coffee and nibbling cake. Morton

was sitting beside Viola (who had entirely regained her girlish

lightness of mood), and was chafing her cold hand in the effort to

restore the circulation as well as to remove the deep mark the silken

thread had made about her wrist.

"We shall be obliged to shut out all young men from our committee,"

the old scientist jocularly remarked, as he stood looking down at

them. "Lovely psychics like you would put the whole American Academy

of Science in disorder."

Clarke, raging with jealous fire, turned to Weissmann in truculent

mood. "Well, Dr. Weissmann, how do you account for these phenomena? To

whose agency do you ascribe these marvels?"

"Spooks!" answered the old man, with cheerful promptness.

Clarke reeled before this laconic admission. "What! You agree? You

admit the agency of spirits?"

"Certainly--unless I say Miss Lambert wriggled herself out of her

skin, which would not be nice of me, or that you are the greatest

ventriloquist in the world. No, I prefer to compliment the spirits."

Clarke's face darkened. The old man's face and voice were too jocose.

"I see you do not value our wonderful experiences to-night."

Viola, pinching her sleeve about her wrist, looked up roguishly. "I

couldn't possibly wriggle out of my gown, could I, Dr. Weissmann? And

if I did, how could I get the tacks back without a hammer?"

"Precisely. You would be more burglarious than the ghosts which walk

through the key-holes," he answered.

"And the little girl who spoke German--who was she?" asked Kate.

The hour that followed was a delicious one for the young people, for

they had come at last to some sweet and subtle understanding. As she

recovered the use of her limbs Viola glowed with joy of Morton's

change of attitude towards her. He, on his part, was puzzled by this

mood. It was as if she had been vindicated to herself--liberated from

some dead body of doubt.

Clarke glowered in silence; disapproving, with manifest disdain, the

levity of the scientists, and resenting bitterly Viola's growing trust

and confidence in Serviss. Each moment his anger took on heat, and he

found it hard to reply even to his hostess, who tried to interest him

in a deeper discussion of the evening's marvels. He seemed to have but

one desire--to get away and to take Viola with him.

"Tell me," said Viola to Morton, "did papa speak to you?"

"A voice purporting to be your father spoke a few words."

"He is very nice. Didn't you think so?"

"The voice was very gentle and refined, and expressed a very tender

regard for you."

She sighed. "I have never heard my father's voice, for he always comes

when I am in my deepest trances. They say that I will be permitted

some day to hear all the voices through the cone--I only hear them now

in an interior way."

"Do you really suffer as you seem to do?" he asked, the echo of his

pity still in his tone.

"Not after I am really gone. Did I groan?"

"Horribly! My heart was filled with remorse--"

"I'm sorry. It doesn't really hurt me--physically. You see I am

perfectly well again. And yet I hate more and more to give myself up.

I can't explain it, but I seem to be losing more and more of

_myself_--that is the thought that scares me. I hate to think of being

so helpless. It seems to me as if I were becoming like--like a hotel

piano--for any one to strum on--I mean that any one in the other

world--It is so crowded over there, you know!" Her brows drew together

in momentary disgust.

"I _don't_ know, but it must be so if all the myriads of past humanity

are living there. If I had my way you would never sit again," he

declared, most fervently.

"I wouldn't mind so much," she went on, "if I were not marked out for

suspicion--if people would only talk to me of nice earthly things part

of the time as they would to any other girl--but they never do.

Everybody wants to talk to me about death and spirits--"

"That's what gives edge to my remorse," he interrupted. "Here am I

doing the very things you abhor. To think that we who have made such

a protest against your slavery could not allow you one free evening! I

will not say another word on these uncanny subjects."

"But I _want_ to talk of them to _you_! I wanted to tell you all about

myself that day we rode up to the mine--but I could not."

"I wish you had. It might have made a great deal of difference in your

life--and mine. I have been thinking of that ride to-night, as we sat

in the darkness. If I could, I would keep you as girlish, as gay, as

you were that day. This business is all a desecration to me. I love to

think of you as you were then--when you laughed back at me in the

rain. I wish we were both there this minute."

She smiled. "You forget the time of night!" Her face grew wistful.

"I've been getting homesick for the mountains lately--and yet I like

it here. I love this beautiful room. I adore your sister. I know I

could have a delightful time if only my guides weren't so anxious to

have me convert the world."

"I grow more and more conscience-smitten!" he exclaimed. "To think we

should be the ones to tie and torture you, and at our first

dinner-party!"

"Please don't blame yourself. It was not your fault; grandfather

insisted on talking with you, and I--I wished it very much." Her face

grew radiant with pleasure. "Oh, I'm so glad you made it a

test-sitting!--I want you to believe in me. I mean that I don't

deceive--"

"I am sure of that."

"There are so many things I want to talk with you about--but not

now--it is late."

Clarke, who had grown too restless to remain seated, interrupted a

story which Kate was relating, and rose, saying, harshly: "It is time

for us to be going. Pratt will lock us out if we don't."

The cloud again fell on Viola's face--her little hour of freedom from

her keeper was over. Morton felt the change in her, and so did Kate,

who fairly pleaded with the mother to remain. "It is late and you are

tired, and after this wonderful evening you ought not to go back to

that gloomy place."

Mrs. Lambert looked at Clarke, whose reply was stern. "No, we must

return."

Something very sweet and intimate was in Morton's voice as he found

opportunity to say to Viola: "I don't like to think of you returning

to that gilded mausoleum. It is a most unwholesome place for you. You

are too closely surrounded with morbid influences."

"I know it. I dread to go back--I admit that. I suppose Mr. Pratt is a

good man, I know he does a great deal for the faith, and he is very

generous to us, but oh, he is so vulgar, so impertinent! He bores me

nearly frantic by being always at my elbow. I shudder when he touches

me as if he were some sort of evil animal. Mother can't realize how he

annoys and depresses me, and Anthony insists that we must endure it."

"I wish you'd stay here!" he exclaimed, impulsively. "Accept my

sister's invitation--it would give us such an opportunity to talk of

this sitting. Come, let me send for your trunks."

She shrank a little from his eager eyes, and Mrs. Lambert again

interposed. "It is quite impossible, professor; perhaps some other

time."

Viola yielded to her mother and went away to get her cloak, and Morton

turned to Clarke. "One of the conditions of my promise to organize a

committee is this: you and Pratt must be excluded from the circle."

Weissmann echoed this. "Quite right! That we demand."

The clergyman's face hardened. "You ask the impossible. It is

necessary for me to be present at each sitting. I have the right to be

there as the historian of the case. Furthermore, I add to the strength

of the manifestations--that I have fully demonstrated."

"I appreciate your position, but in order to avoid criticism, to make

the tests perfect, it will be necessary to hold the sittings either

here or at Weissmann's, and to exclude every one connected with Miss

Lambert. In no other way can we convince ourselves or the public."

Clarke's face was darkly stubborn. "Then you will have no sittings. My

challenge will go forth next Sunday afternoon, and one of the

unchangeable clauses of that challenge will be this: the sittings must

take place in Pratt's library and I must be present."

"I hope you will not insist on that," Morton further urged; "for Miss

Lambert's sake you must not. To incorporate such terms in your

challenge will brand her as an impostor and you and Pratt as her

confederates. In this statement I think you will find her 'controls'

agreeing. They were undecided to-night, but when they consider

carefully they will see that my advice is sound."

Clarke's eyes were aflame. "You have my terms. Accept them or refuse

them, as you please."

Viola, returning, extended her hand to Morton with a trustful smile.

"I've had a beautiful evening."

"To say that after we have tied you hand and foot till you were numb,

and kept you in the dark all the evening, is very gracious of you. I

feel very much the brutal host. But you must come again. I swear Kate

shall not pester you next time."

Kate was indignant. "Well, I like that! when _you_ were the one crazy

to experiment. Of course they're coming, coming to stay to-morrow

night, and any one who dares to talk ghosts to her will be sent to

bed."

And so in a hearty, cordial clangor of farewells they got out into the

hall, and Morton, seeing Viola in her handsome cloak, her eyes

shining, her face once more gay and smiling, was again filled with

wonder at her astounding resiliency of mood. It was as if two sharply

differentiated souls alternated in the possession of her body.

Clarke, wearing a cape overcoat and a soft hat, was far less admirable

in appearance than when, with head uncovered, he sat within. He

resembled a comic picture of an old-fashioned tragedian--a man glad

to feel the finger of remark directed towards him, but his face was

bitter, his eyes burning with anger, his lips white with pain.

Serviss relented as he studied him. "You'd better take Britt's trail

and return to the mountains," he said, kindly. "This is a bad climate

for you."

"My work is here," he replied, curtly. "I have no fear," and so they

parted.

Weissmann was sitting in silent meditation in one corner of the

dining-room when Serviss returned. "Well, master, what do you think of

to-night's performance?"

Weissmann replied, in ironical phrase: "Hearing in civilized man is

vague and indefinite. Spooks do well to limit their manifestations to

a sense which most powerfully appeals to the imagination."

Morton spoke with great earnestness. "Weissmann, that girl could not

move a limb. She positively remained where we put her. So far as I am

concerned, to-night's test eliminated her from the slightest

complicity, and I confess it rejoices me greatly; but who was

responsible for the prestidigitation?"

Weissmann replied, slowly: "It is very puzzling," and fell into a muse

which lasted for several minutes. At last he roused to say: "Well, we

will see. Next time Clarke and the mother must be eliminated."

"You don't think evil of her?" exclaimed Morton.

"She is very anxious, you know--"

Kate put in her word. "It's all very simple," she said; "the spirits

did it. You needn't tell me that Clarke or Mrs. Lambert got up and

skittered around the room doing those things. I held their hands--and

know they didn't get away. Besides, how did that glass come there? and

how could they make those voices sound so natural? What is the use of

being stupidly stubborn? If you treat Viola fairly she will confound

your science."

"You base all this on one imperfect test?"

"I don't know what you'd call a _perfect_ one. Anyhow, that child is

absolutely honest."

"I hope you are right, Kate; but there are some serious

discrepancies--even in to-night's performances. Nothing took place

which I could not do sitting in her chair with my hands free."

"But her hands weren't free! If there is any virtue in cotton fibre or

steel she remained precisely where we set her at the beginning."

"But to admit that one book was moved from its place is to admit that

a force exists unknown to science."

"But what are you going to do? Did you do it? Or did I? Did Clarke

reach from where he sat and manipulate the horn? Who brought the old

wine-glass from the china-closet? No one entered from the

outside--that is certain. And then the things 'Loggy' said?"

"What do you think, Dr. Weissmann?"

Weissmann looked up abstractedly. "If Clarke performed these feats

to-night he is wasting his time in any profession but jugglery. You

said the cone touched you?" he asked of Morton.

"Several times."

"To do that he must have left his seat."

"I am perfectly sure he did not," replied Kate, firmly.

Morton insisted. "He must have done so, Kate--there is no other

explanation of what took place. It was very dark and the rug soft.

There is another important point--all of the books came from within a

radius of a few feet of the psychic, so that if she _were_ able to

rise and free her hands--"

"Which she did not do," answered Weissmann. "She remained precisely

where we put her; but we should have nailed Clarke to the floor also."

"How about the child who spoke German?" asked Kate. "Was she--"

Weissmann replied slowly, with a little effort, "I had a little girl

of the name Mina who died at eight years of age."

Kate's voice expressed sympathy. "I didn't know that. She must have

been a dear. The voice was very sweet. I could almost touch the little

thing."

"I do not see how Clarke or any one here knew of my daughter or her

name. Clarke may be a mind-reader. The voice did not prove itself."

"Neither was 'Loggy' quite convincing," said Morton. "And yet I cannot

understand how those voices were produced. Our imaginations must have

been made enormously active by the dark. As scientists we cannot admit

the slightest of those movements without the fall of some of our most

deeply grounded dogmas. What becomes of Haeckel's dictum--that matter

and spirit are inseparable?"

"There is matter and matter," replied Weissmann. "To say that spirit

and flesh is inseparable is to claim too much. We can say that we have

no proof of such separation, but Crookes and others claim the

contrary. It is curious to observe that we to-night have trenched on

the very ground Crookes trod. I am very eager now to sit with this

girl--the mother and Clarke being excluded."

"Of one thing I am more than half persuaded, and that is that Clarke

is a mind-reader; for how else could he know the things which the

supposed ghost of my uncle recounted?"

"It is very puzzling," repeated Weissmann, deep-sunk in speculation;

and in this abstraction he took himself silently away.

Kate, with an air of saying, "Now that we are alone, let's know your

real mind," faced her brother with eyes of wonder. "Morton, what do

you honestly think of it? Viola had nothing to do with it, did she?"

"No; but are you absolutely sure Clarke did not get loose and do

things?"

"Mort, I was never more alert in my life, and I _know_ he didn't move

out of his chair."

"But think what it involves!"

"I don't care what it involves. So far as the senses of touch and

hearing go, Clarke remained seated every minute of the time, and I

certainly held both his and Mrs. Lambert's hands the whole time while

the books were being thrown."

"Well, there you are. Somebody did it." He shrugged his shoulders in

an unwonted irritation.

"Why not say the spirits did it all?"

"Because that is unthinkable."

"Sir William Crookes and Dr. Zöllner, you say, believed in these

disembodied intelligences--"

"Yes, but they belong to what Haeckel calls the imaginative

scientists."

"You needn't quote Haeckel to me, Morton. If I believed what he

preaches I would take myself and my children out of the world. I don't

see how a man can look a child in the face and say such things. I

can't read any of your scientific friends straight along. Their jargon

is worse than anything, but I pick out enough to know that they don't

believe in anything they can't see, and they won't go out of their way

to see things. Do you suppose I'm going to believe that Robbie is

nothing but a little animal, and that if he should die his soul would

disappear like a vapor?"

"I can only repeat that the converse is unthinkable. There is no room

in my philosophy for the re-entrance of the dead."

"Why not? It's all very simple. We're creatures of our surroundings,

aren't we? Now, sitting there in the dark to-night, it seemed to me

that the people we think of as dead were all about me. It scared me at

first; but, really, isn't it the most comforting faith in the world?

I've always liked the idea of the Indian's happy 'hunting-grounds'--and

this is something like it."

He smiled shrewdly. "That performance to-night and this conversation

would make a pretty story to lay before the president of Corlear--now

wouldn't it?"

"How do you suppose he will take your going into this investigation?"

"I don't know, but I think he'll 'fire' me instanter."

"Well, let him try it! He wouldn't _dare_--"

"Oh yes, he would, if he thought I was hurting the institution. See

what they did to poor little Combes, who mildly claimed to be able to

hypnotize people."

"Yes, but he made himself ridiculous in the papers."

"You mean the papers made him ridiculous. Couldn't they do the same

with Weissmann and me? Think of a big, sprawling, sketchy drawing in

the _Blast_, with Weissmann glaring at a strangely beautiful young

lady in scanty gown--his hands spread like claws upon the table, while

another younger man (myself) catches at a horn floating overhead. Oh

yes, there are great possibilities in to-night's entertainment. May I

ask you, Mrs. Rice, to be more than usually circumspect?"

"You may, Dr. Serviss."

He rose gravely. "Very good. Now I think you would better go to bed."

"I wish your Mr. Lambert would come."

"So do I. I'm afraid he is going to ignore my summons. Unless I hear

from him to-morrow I shall consider him craven or indifferent."

"What will you do then?"

His brows contracted into a frown. "I don't know. She should be freed

from Clarke's immediate influence, but I don't see how I can

interfere."

"I can't believe that she really cares for him; in fact, from things

she said to-night, I think she fears him. He was furiously jealous of

you, I could see that. And I must say you gave him cause."

He turned and looked at her in affected amazement. "Where are you

heading now?"

She laughed. "Where are you drifting, my boy? I never saw any one more

absorbed, and I can't say I blame you; she was lovely. Good-night."

And so she left him.

Sitting thus alone in the deep of the night, the flush of his joy at

the proof of Viola's innocence grew gray and cold in a profound

disbelief in the reality of his experiences. "_Did_ anything really

happen?" he asked himself. Returning to the library with intent to

study the situation he mused long upon the tumbled books, the horn,

the tables, and the chairs. He put himself in Viola's seat in the

attempt to conceive of some method whereby even the most skilful

magician would be able to pull out tacks, rip stitches, and break

tape--and then--more difficult than all, after manipulating the horn,

reseat himself and restore his bonds, every tack, to its precise

place. And his conversation with "Loggy," most amazing of all, came

back to plague him. What could explain that marvellous simulation of

his uncle's chuckling laugh?

Yes, Viola was clearly innocent. It was impossible for her to have

lifted a hand; that he decided upon finally--and yet it was almost as

difficult for Clarke or Mrs. Lambert to have performed all the tricks,

"Unless Kate"--he brought himself up short--"in the end, my own

sister, is involved in the imposture," he exclaimed, with a sense of

bewilderment.

When he dwelt on Viola's delight in her own vindication, and

remembered her serene, sweet, trustful glance, a shiver of awe went

over him, and the work of saving her, of healing her, seemed greater

than the discovery of any new principle; but whenever his keen,

definite, analytic mind took up the hit-or-miss absurd caperings of

"the spirits" he paced the floor in revolt of their childish

chicanery. That the soul survived death he could not for an instant

entertain. Every principle of biology, every fibre woven into his

system of philosophy repelled the thought. To grant one single claim

of the spiritists was disaster. "No, the mother and Clarke are in

league, and when the bonds are on one the other acts. I see no other

explanation. I distrust Clarke utterly--but the mother is apparently

very gentle and candid, and yet--Weissmann may be right. Maternal love

is a very powerful emotion. That second voice was like hers. And yet,

and yet, to suspect that gentle soul of deliberate deception is a

terrible thing. What a world of vulgarity and disease and suspicion it

all is! An accursed world, and the history of every medium is filled

with these same insane, foolish, absurd doings."

And so he trod in weary circles, returning always to the same point,

with an almost audible groan. "Why, _why_ was that charming girl

involved in all this uncanny, hellish, destructive business? Clarke

claims her. On him her fate depends. Perhaps at this moment her name

and hideous reproductions of her face are being printed in all the

sensational papers of the city. Oh, that crazy preacher! It may be

that he has already made her rescue impossible." And always the dark,

disturbing thought came at the end to trouble him. "Can she ever

regain a normal relation with the world--even if I should interfere?

She should have been freed from this traffic long ago. Can the science

of suggestion reach her? Am I already too late?"

The conception that sank deepest and remained most abhorrent in his

musings was that conveyed in her own tragic words: "_It seems to me I

am becoming more and more like a public piano, an instrument on which

any one can strum--and the other world is so crowded, you know!_"

"If there is any manhood left in Lambert he must assert it or I will

throttle Clarke myself," he muttered through clinched teeth. "I ran

away two years ago--I evaded my duty yesterday, but I do not intend to

do so now. I will not sit by and see that sweet girl's will, her very

reason, overthrown by a fanatic preacher eager for notoriety. I will

see her again and demand to know from her own lips whether she is in

consent to be his wife. I cannot believe it till she tells me so, and

then I can decide as to future action."

And at the moment he was comforted by the recollection of something

timidly confiding in her parting smile.

XV

VIOLA REVOLTS FROM CLARKE

No sooner were they seated in their carriage than Clarke broke forth

in harsh protest. "You must not think of leaving Pratt's house at this

time."

"Why not?" asked Viola, roused by the tone of his voice, which was

even less considerate than his words.

"Because it will displease him--may possibly alienate him just at a

moment when we need him most. He will not consent to be shut out from

these test-sittings; on the contrary, he is likely to insist on their

taking place in his own library. Furthermore, I don't see why you are

in haste to leave so sumptuous an abode."

"Because I hate him, and all connected with him." Her voice was

colored with a fierce disgust. "That is the reason, and reason

enough."

"You must not let him know that."

"I don't care if he knows it or not. We are not dependent on him or

his house."

"Yes, we are! He is most important to all of us until our tests are

over and my book in type. I need his indorsement besides. He is very

bitter and vindictive with those whom he thinks should be very

grateful, and we must not anger him; we can't afford it."

Mrs. Lambert mildly protested. "I'm sure Mr. Pratt will not think of

detaining us if father thinks it best for us to go, and I confess I am

anxious to get away myself, Tony. He has been very disagreeable

lately."

Clarke went on: "We must continue to let him think his advice and aid

invaluable till our book is out, then we can cut loose from him. Our

policy--"

Rebellion was in Viola's heart as she cuttingly interrupted: "You

speak as if we were in league to cheat him of something. You have

always told me that my powers were 'dedicated to the good of the

world,' but lately you talk as if they were dedicated to your personal

advancement in some way. Now which do you really mean?"

He saw his mistake. Once or twice before he had met her complete

opposition, and he feared it. His voice suppled, became persuasive. "I

mean, Viola, that in entering upon a great contest--one whose issue is

to electrify the civilized world--"

"I don't believe it. What does the world care about a little speck of

humanity like me? Professor Serviss is nearer right when he says that

converting people to any creed is a thankless task. Ask grandfather to

let me live my own life. He listens to you. Tell him I'm tired and--"

"He has promised to be easier on you after we have won our battle."

"But I dread the battle--oh, how I dread it! Professor Serviss says we

will lose."

Clarke broke in, sharply: "Please don't quote what Serviss says. His

view is that of the worldly wise materialist. You should listen to my

advice--not his."

"You said you were anxious to have him on the committee."

"Yes, because I thought his name would count, and that he could bring

Weissmann--but now I distrust him. He is too bigoted."

As he continued in this strain he stood in dark contrast to Morton,

and the girl could not but wince under the revelation he was

unconsciously making. "Anthony, you have talked in that strain ever

since we came East. Nothing but using people, using people, all the

time. You've been constantly running after those who could 'be of use

to us!' and I don't like it. Every word you're saying now makes me

doubt your sincerity. I was ashamed of you to-night--I am ashamed of

you now. How can I respect you when you say things like that?"

He again tacked. "I do it all for the furtherance of our faith. To do

our work we _must_ have authority. It is always necessary to make a

big stir in the world in order to do good--think of Christ defying the

money-changers and making a scene in the temple!"

She pursued her way. "It's the tone of your voice that scares me.

You're a different person since we came here--you've been harsh and

cruel to me." Her voice choked, and yielding to a flood of doubt she

cried out: "I've lost faith in you. This ends it all, I will never

marry you! I don't care what my 'guides' say. I daren't trust myself

to you--now that's the truth."

The mother was aghast. "Why, Viola Lambert! What a terrible thing to

say!"

"I can't help it, mother--that is my decision."

Clarke blundered a third time. "I won't release you! This mood is all

the influence of those accursed pagans we have just left. That man

Serviss has been an evil influence upon you from the very first. He

has no God in his heart. You must keep away from that home--it is

destructive."

"It is not!" she retorted, fiercely. "It is beautiful and honest

and--sane, and I'm going there as often as they will let me--and I'm

going to leave the Pratt house to-morrow! I will not stay there

another day."

"There are others to be consulted about this," he grimly answered.

"You have tried playing truant before."

She was now in full tide of revolt. "I am going to leave that house if

I fall dead in the streets. I am going if 'they' choke me black in the

face."

He sneered. "I know where you are going!"

At this moment she hated him and everything he stood for, and her

voice was hoarse with her passion. "I don't care what you say or what

you do, I will not be hounded and driven around like a slave by you or

Simeon Pratt any longer. I'm going to have a little life of my own if

'they' tear me in pieces for it."

This outburst, so much more intense than any which had preceded it,

alarmed Clarke and appalled Mrs. Lambert, who took her daughter in

her arm with soothing words and caresses. "There, there, dearie! Don't

worry--don't excite yourself. Father will not insist on your doing

anything that will be harmful. He will protect you."

The girl, sobbing in reaction, bowed to the maternal bosom, feeling

once more her own helplessness, receiving no help from her mother's

sympathy, which was merely superficial. Her only hope of release lay

in the strong, bright, self-reliant, humorous people she had just

left, those to whom her grandfather and his "band" were less than

shadows. They alone could save her from the despairing madness which

she felt creeping upon her like a beast in the night. Her nerves,

strung to dangerous tension, gave away utterly, and Clarke, realizing

this, ceased to chide, and the ride ended without another word.

Pratt, who had been waiting for hours with the angry impatience of

senility, met them at the door, truculent as a terrier. "What time o'

night do you call this?" he asked, with insulting inflection.

Mrs. Lambert answered: "I'm very sorry, but we had a sitting, and it

took longer--"

"A sitting!" He faced Viola. "What did you do that for? I told you I

didn't want any sittings given unless I was present, and you promised

not to give any."

"I did not!" she replied, lifting a tear-stained but imperious face to

him.

"Well, Clarke did."

Clarke hastily interposed: "The 'chief control' asked for it--said he

wanted to talk to some of those present."

"I don't care what the 'chief control' said--"

Viola, thoroughly roused, now faced him, pale and scornful. "What

right have you to ask where I've been or what I've done? I am not your

servant--nor one of your poor relatives. You seem to forget that. I

will not be your guest another day! I'd leave this house this instant

if I could. I came here against my wish, and I will not be insulted by

you any longer. I wish I had never seen you." And with haughty step

she started to pass him.

He put out a hand to stay her. "Hold on, now!"

With flashing eyes and a voice that smote him like a whip, she cried

out, "Leave me alone, please!" He fell back against the wall, and she

passed on and up the stairway, leaving him leaning there in dismay,

his jaw lax.

The mother hastily followed, and as the door closed behind them Viola

turned with blazing eyes. "This is horrible--disgraceful! I hope you

enjoy being treated like that! How can you endure it? How can you ask

me to endure it? If Anthony Clarke possessed one shred of real

manhood--But he hasn't. He's so selfishly bent on his own plans he's

willing to let me suffer anything. I'm done with him, mother. You

needn't try to find excuse for him. I don't see how I endured him so

long. He must never touch me again."

"Don't do anything rash, child."

"Will you submit to more insult? You can stay on till you are ordered

out of the house if you like, but I will not!"

"But you know they advise it."

The girl turned, a new tone in her voice. "There, now, mother, we come

back to that again! I'm tired of hearing that. If they insist on our

staying here I will be sure they are the voices of devils and not

those they claim to be. I don't believe my father would ask me to stay

in a house where the very servants sniff at us. I don't believe he

would let Anthony make use of me in this way. Professor Serviss calls

our faith a delusion, and to-night I almost hope he's right. I have

lost the spirit of the martyr, and everything seems foolish to me."

Mrs. Lambert regarded her daughter with horror. "Child, some

earth-bound spirit has surely taken possession of you."

"I hope it will stay till to-morrow--till I get out of this house,"

she replied, and went to her own room without a good-night kiss,

leaving her mother hurt and dismayed.

A few moments later Clarke knocked at the sitting-room door. "Julia,

here is a message I want you to give to Viola."

As she opened to him he faced her, pale and tremulous, all his anger,

all his resolution gone. "She was unjust to me," he said, humbly;

"take her this." He extended a folded leaf of paper in a hand that

partook of the pallor of his face.

"You poor boy," she exclaimed, her heart wrung by his suffering, "you

mustn't mind what she said--it was only a girlish pet."

"Mother," he cried, passionately, "to lose her now would kill me. She

is my hope, my stay, my God! She has stabbed me to the heart to-night.

Did she mean it? She can't mean it!"

She patted him on the shoulder. "Go to bed, laddie, it's only a mood.

She will be all sunshine to-morrow. It's only a reaction from a

wearisome day--be patient and don't worry."

"She tortured me deliberately," he went on, wildly. "She let that man

take her hand. She smiled at him in a way that set my brain on fire. I

tried to be calm. I didn't intend to speak harshly, but I wanted to

kill him when he said good-night to her. May God eternally damn his

soul if he tries to steal her from me!"

She recoiled from his fury. "Tony! What are you saying?"

"I mean it! Do you think I will submit to his treachery? I told him

she was mine, and yet he took her hand--he leaned to her--he looked

into her face." His eyes blazed with such wild light that the gentle

woman shrank and shivered.

"Tony, you are letting your imagination run away with you. Go to bed

this instant," she commanded, in a voice that trembled.

He went away at last, weeping, miserably maudlin, almost incoherent,

and when she closed and locked the door upon him she dropped into a

chair, and for the first time since her husband's death gave way to

tears of bewilderment and despair.

XVI

THE HOUSE OF DISCORD

Surely Simeon's house that night was a place of tormenting and

tumult--the meeting-place of spirits whose dispositions were to evil

fully inclined, and of mortals whose natures were upon the edge of

combat. Viola, in full revolt, would not even permit her mother to

come to her. Clarke, in an agony of love and hate, paced his room or

sat in dejected heap before his grate. Mrs. Lambert, realizing that

something sorrowful was advancing upon her, lay awake a long time

hoping her daughter would relent and steal in to kiss her good-night,

but she did not, and at last the waters of sleep rolled in to submerge

and carry away her cares.

Viola, made restless by her disgust of Pratt as well as by her loss of

respect and confidence in Clarke, did not lose herself till nearly

dawn. Her mind was at first busy with the past, filled with a

procession of the many things he had done to enrich her life. She was

troubled by the remembrance of the grave, sad courtesy of his

intercourse in the days just following his wife's death. At that time

his kindly supervision of her music and his suggestions for her reading

had given him dignity and romantic charm. "He was nice then," she said

to herself. "If only he had stopped there." When he fell at her feet in

the attempt to rouse her pity he had been degraded in her eyes. His

whole manner towards her became that of suppliant--beseeching the

"guides" to sanction their ultimate union. She burned with shame as she

thought of her tacit acquiescence in this arrangement. "You have no

right to interfere with my--with such things," she now said to the

invisible ones. "I do not love Anthony Clarke. I don't even respect him

any longer."

He had, indeed, become almost as offensive to her as Pratt, and the

picturesque, soulful presence which he affected was at the moment

repugnant. In contrast to the young scientist he was mentally and

morally sick, and the world which he inhabited (and which she shared

with him) hopelessly askew. Of this she had a clear perception as her

mind recalled and dwelt upon the taste, the comfort, the orderly cheer

of the Serviss home.

"We never made the spirit-world so awful. Mamma did not take such an

excited view of it all. What has produced this change in us? Tony has.

He has carried us out into a nasty world and he has set us among

frauds and fanatics, and I will not suffer it any longer."

She did him an injustice, but she was at the same time right. Mrs.

Lambert, left to herself, would have kept a serene mind no matter what

the manifestations might be. With her the world of spirit

interpenetrated the world of every-day life, and the one was quite as

natural as the other and of helpful, cheering effect. She had remained

quite as normal in her ways of thought as when in Colorow, and aside

from her dependence upon the spirit-world for guidance would not have

seemed at any point to be akin to either fraud or fanatic.

At last the girl's restless mind, cleared of its anger, its doubts and

its doles, came back to rest upon the handsome, humorous, refined face

of young Dr. Serviss. She felt again the touch of his deft, strong

hands, and heard again the tender cadence of his voice as he said: "I

hope you are not in pain? We will release you very soon." She dwelt

long upon the final scene at the table, when, with a jesting word on

his lips, but with love in his eyes, he took her hand to remove the

marks of her bonds; and the flush that came to her was not one of

anger--it rose from the return of her joy of those few moments of

sweet companionship.

How sane and strong and safe he was. "He does not believe in our

faith, but he does not hate me. How Dr. Weissmann loves him! They are

like father and son."

Thinking upon these people and their home, with their griefs, their

easy, off-hand, penetrating comments, their laughter filling her ears,

the girl grew drowsy with some foreknowledge of happier days to come,

and fell asleep with a faint smile upon her lips.

She woke late to find her mother bending over her, and lifting her

arms she drew the gray head down to her soft, young bosom and

penitently said: "Mamma, forgive me. I am sorry I spoke as I did. I am

not angry this morning, but I am determined. We must go away from here

this very day."

The mother did not at once reply, but when she spoke her voice

trembled a little. "I guess you're right, dearie. This house seems

like a prison to me this morning. But what troubles me most is this:

Why do Maynard and father permit us to stay here? I am afraid of Mr.

Pratt--everybody says he will make us trouble, and yet our dear ones

urge us to remain."

"Mamma," gravely replied Viola, "I want to tell you something that

came to me this morning. I wonder if _what grandfather says is not

made up of what Pratt and Anthony want_?"

"What do you mean, child?" asked the mother, sitting back into a chair

and staring at her daughter with vague alarm.

"I mean that--that--grandfather, strong as he seems to be, is

influenced in some way by Tony. He goes against my wishes and against

your wishes, but _he never goes against Tony's_."

The mother pondered. "But that is because Tony is content to follow

_his_ will."

The girl lost her firm tone. "I know that interpretation can be given

to it, but to-day I _feel_ that it is the other way, and, besides, it

may be that grandfather doesn't realize all our troubles."

The mother rose. "It's all very worrisome, and I wish some change

would come. I dread to meet Mr. Pratt, but I suppose I must."

"Don't go down. I don't intend to see him again if I can avoid it.

Ring for your coffee and take your breakfast here with me this

morning."

"No. That would only make him angry. I'll go down."

"I don't care what he says, mamma, I shall do as I like hereafter."

With this defiant reply ringing in her ears, Mrs. Lambert went slowly

down the stairs to find the master of the house, sullen, sour, and

vindictive, breakfasting alone in his great dining-room. As she

timidly entered he looked up from his toast with a grunt of greeting,

and Mrs. Lambert, seeing that his resentment still smouldered, stopped

on the threshold pale with premonition of assault. She would have fled

had she dared to do so, but the maid drew a chair for her, and so she

seated herself opposite him in silence.

"Where's that girl?" he asked, harshly.

"She's not feeling very well this morning, so I told her she needn't

come down to breakfast."

He grunted in scorn. "What happened over there last night? Everybody

seems upset by it. I want to know all about it. You had a sitting, did

you?"

"Yes."

"Whose idea was that--Clarke's?"

"No, father wanted to speak with Dr. Serviss and Dr. Weissmann."

"Weissmann was there, was he? What did _he_ say?"

"He seemed impressed."

"What happened?"

"Father came, as usual--"

"I mean what happened outside the séance? Something set that girl

against me and upset Clarke. I want to know what it was."

"I don't think anything was said of you at all."

"Yes, there was. You can't fool me. Somebody warned that girl against

me. The whole thing seems funny to me." (By funny he meant strange.)

"You go away from my house for a dinner against my will--leave me in

the lurch--and come home at one o'clock in the morning with faces that

would sour milk, and now here you are all avoiding me this morning. It

just convinces me that if we're going to carry on this work together

we've got to have a definite understanding. You've got to stop going

to such houses and giving séances without my permission. I won't have

that under any conditions."

Clarke, who had appeared at the doorway, a worn, and troubled spectre

of dismay, now put in a confirmatory word. "You are quite right,

Simeon. That house reeks with the talk of wine-bibbers and those who

make life a witticism. Such an atmosphere profoundly affects Viola."

Pratt glowered at him with keen, contemptuous glance. "You look as if

you'd been drawn through a knot-hole. What happened to _you_?" As

Clarke did not reply to this he took another line of inquiry. "About

this sitting, what was the upshot?"

"It was a very remarkable test-sitting, and seemed to make a profound

impression. The conditions were severe--"

"Why was I left out? That's what I want to know."

"That's what puzzles me. McLeod, who promised us never to have a

circle without you, insisted on the sitting there--"

"How do you know he did? Did he write or speak to you?"

"No--he _impressed_ the psychic."

"I don't trust that girl in such a house. Did you talk with Weissmann

about heading the committee?"

"Yes, but"--he hesitated--"they both insisted that if they took the

matter up both of us must be excluded."

Pratt bristled. "And you consented to that?"

"I did not. I insisted that the sittings take place here and that we

be present. They would not listen to that, so I think I'll go ahead on

my programme and decide upon the personnel of the committee

afterwards."

Pratt regarded him fixedly. "I'm not sure I like your programme, my

friend. I've been thinking it over lately, and I've just about come to

the conclusion that you'd better not issue that challenge."

"Why not?"

Pratt snapped like a peevish bull-dog. "Because I don't want it

done--that's all the reason you need. I've never made any concessions

to reach these damn scientists, and I don't intend to begin now. You

are planning to involve us in a whole lot of noise and sensation, and

I don't like it. Furthermore, I don't intend to submit to it."

Clarke was too irritable to take this quietly, and his eyes blazed.

"You're very sensitive all at once. When did you reach this new point

of view?"

"Never you mind about that; I've reached it, and I intend to maintain

it. Why, you simple-minded jackass, these scientists will eat you up.

They'll make a monkey of me and disgrace the girl. They'll pretend to

expose her--the press will be on their side--and I will be made the

butt of all their slurring gibes. I won't have it!"

"You're too nervous about the press," replied Clarke, loftily. "You're

all wrong about the papers. They'll take a malicious joy in girding at

the scientists as 'the men who know it all.' They'll have their fling

at us, of course, but it won't hurt."

"Oh, it won't! Well, it may not hurt you--it's a fine stroke of

advertising for you--but I don't need that kind of publicity. That's

settled! Now, about this man Serviss"--he turned to Mrs. Lambert--"is

he married?"

"No."

"I thought not. How long has he known Viola?"

"It's nearly two years since he came to Colorow; but he has only seen

her a few times--"

Pratt cut her short. "I begin to understand. You'd better not let him

mix in here--he's too young and too good-looking to conduct

experiments of this kind with your girl. If you had any sense,

Clarke, you'd see that for yourself."

Clarke's expression changed. His cheeks grew livid with his passion,

and his eyes burned with the same wild light that had filled them as

he looked across the room at Morton bending over Viola's hand. Pratt's

brutal frankness had cleared his own thought and re-aroused his sense

of proprietorship in the girl. Until that dinner came with its

revelation, he had thought of Serviss merely as the scientist to be

used to further his own plans. Now he knew him for what he was--a

young and dangerous rival. With a sinking of the heart he suspected

him to be a successful rival.

He rose from the table and left the room, and Mrs. Lambert followed

him fearful of what he might do in his rage.

"Tony, Tony!" she called.

He turned and faced her, his face set in horrible lines, his fists

clinched. "I've been a fool, a fool!" he declared, through set teeth.

"Why didn't you warn me? I should have made her safely my own before I

came East. She loves him, but he shall not have her--by God he shall

not! Where is she? Tell her I must see her!"

She pleaded for delay, and at last calmed him so that he left her and

went to his room. She then hastened to Viola and locked the door

behind her.

"Viola, dear, get ready! We must leave this house at once," she said,

breathlessly.

"What has happened?" asked Viola.

Mrs. Lambert took time to think. "It was very disagreeable. They are

wrangling again about that challenge and about you."

"About me! Yes, that's what wears on me--they wrangle about me as if I

had no right to say what part I am to take. But it's all over, mother;

unless grandfather holds me by the throat every mortal minute to-day

I'm going into the street--"

A knock at the door startled them both, but it proved to be the maid,

who said, "Here is a note from Mr. Clarke, miss; he said, 'be sure and

bring an answer,' miss."

The note was a passionate appeal for a meeting, but Viola wrote across

it in firm letters, "No. It is useless," and returned it to the girl.

"Take that to him," she said, careless of the fact that her refusal

was open to the eyes of the messenger.

When they were again in private she said: "We'll go if we have to

telephone the police to help us. And I'm going to wire Papa-Joe to

come and take us home."

"You are cruel to Tony, child."

"No, I'm not! He must understand, once for all, that I belong to

myself. I never really cared for him. Deep in my heart I was afraid of

him, and now he has grown so egotistical that he is willing to

sacrifice me to his own aims, and I hate him. I will not see him again

if I can avoid it."

The mother protested less and less strongly, for she was forced to

admit that something fine and true had gone out of her idol, and that

he now stood in a new and harsh light. All the hard lines of his face

appeared to her, and his pallor, his deep-set eyes were those of a

sick and restless soul. She no longer rejoiced at the thought of

giving her daughter into his hands.

Clarke was truly in a pitiable state of incertitude and despair. His

oration, his interdicted challenge, his book, his religion were all

swallowed in by the one great passion which now flooded and filled his

brain--his love for Viola. "She belongs to me," he repeated, as he

walked his room with shaking limbs, a dry, hard knot in his throat,

his eyes hot with tears that would not fall. "She must surrender

herself to me--finally and now--to-day, I will wait no longer. She

must leave this house at once--but she must go as my wife! She is

right. Pratt is a beast--a savage. He will rage--he will vilify us

both, but we will defy him. Our 'guides' will confound him. We are,

after all, not dependent upon him. We can go on--" The maid,

returning, handed him Viola's answer and went hastily out. He read it

and reread it till its finality burned into his brain, then dropped

into a deep chair and there lay for a long time in despairing stupor.

Was it all over, then? Was her final decision in that curt scrawl? She

had returned his own note as if with intent to emphasize her refusal

to see him, and yet only a few days ago she had assented to all his

plans, leaning upon his advice. What had produced this antagonism?

What evil influence was at work?

He rose on a sudden, fierce return of self-mastery, and went to Mrs.

Lambert's door and knocked, and when she opened to him demanded of her

a full explanation. "What is the matter? Is she sick or is she

hatefully avoiding me?"

"She's all upset, Anthony. Don't worry, she will see you by-and-by."

"She _must_ see me! After what she said last night I can't think--I am

in agony. What is the matter with us all? Yesterday we were

triumphant; to-day I feel as if everything were sinking under my feet.

She shall not leave me! I will not have it so! Tell her I insist on

seeing her! I beg her to speak to me if only for a moment."

"I will tell her you are here." She left him at the threshold, a

haggard and humble suitor, while she knocked at her daughter's door.

"Viola, child, Anthony is here. Let me in just a moment."

As he waited the half-frenzied man noted the absence of certain family

portraits and cried aloud, poignantly: "She is packing! She is going

away!" And when Mrs. Lambert returned he seized her by the arm, his

eyes wild and menacing. "Tell me the truth! She is preparing to

leave."

Mrs. Lambert looked away. "I tried to reason with her, Anthony. I

wanted her to 'sit for council,' but she's so crazy to get away she

will not do it. She will hardly speak to _me_."

"She must not go--she shall not leave me! I will not permit her to go

to him!" His voice rose and his lifted hand shook.

"Hush, Tony! She will hear you. Please go away and let me deal with

her."

He lifted his face and spoke with closed eyes. "Donald McLeod, if you

are present, intercede for me. Bring her to me. Command her to remain.

You gave her to me. You led us here. Will you permit her to ruin all

our plans? Stretch out your hand in power. Do you hear me?" There was

no answer to his appeal, neither tap nor rustle of reply. In the

silence his heart contracted with fear. "Have you deserted me, too?"

Then his brain waxed hot with mad hate. His hand clinched in a savage

vow. "I swear I will kill her before I will let her go to that man!

Together we will enter the spirit-world."

He sprang towards the door, but Mrs. Lambert, with eyes expanded in

horror, caught him by the arm. "Tony, Tony! What are you doing? Are

you crazy?"

Her hand upon his arm, her face drawn and white with fear, recalled

him to himself. He laughed harshly. "No--oh no; I'm not mad, but it's

enough to make me so. I didn't mean it--of course I didn't mean it."

"You are dreadfully wrought up, Tony. Go out and walk and clear your

brain, and by-and-by we'll sit for council."

In the end she again persuaded him to return to his chamber, but he

did not leave the house--neither could he rest. Every word the girl

had said of his selfishness, his egotism, burned like poison in his

brain. Had his hold on her been so slight, after all? "She despises

me. She hates me!" And in his heart he despised and hated himself. He

cursed his poverty, his lack of resource. "Why am I, the evangel of

this faith, dependent on others for revelation. Why must I beg and

cringe for money, for power?" He was in the full surge of this flood

of indignant query when Pratt shuffled into his room.

"Some reporters below want to see you. I guess you better--"

Clarke turned, the glare of madness in his eyes. "Curse you and your

reporters! Go away from me! I don't want to be bothered by you nor by

them."

Pratt stared in dull surprise, which turned slowly to anger. "What's

the matter with you _now_?" he roared. "Damn you, anyway. You've upset

my whole house with your crazy notions. Everything was moving along

nicely till you got this bug of a big speech into your head, and then

everything in my life turns topsy-turvy. To hell with you and your

book! You can't use me to advertise yourself. I want you to understand

that right now. I see your scheme, and it don't work with me."

He was urging himself into a frenzy--his jaws working, his eyes

glittering, like those of a boar about to charge, all his concealed

dislike, his jealousy of the preacher's growing fame and of his

control of Viola turning rapidly into hate. "I don't know why you're

eating my bread," he shouted, hoarsely. "I've put up with you as long

as I am going to. You're nothing but a renegade preacher, a dead-beat,

and a hypocrite. Get out before I kick you out!"

This brought the miserable evangel to a stand. "I'll go," he said,

defiantly, "but I'll take your psychic with me--we'll go together."

"Go and be damned to the whole tribe of ye!" retorted Pratt, purple

with fury. "Go, and I'll publish you for a set o' leeches--that's what

I'll do," and with this threat he turned on his heel and went out,

leaving Clarke stupefied, blinded by the force of his imprecations.

The situation had taken another turn for the worse. To leave the house

of his own will was bad enough; to be kicked out by his host, and to

be followed by his curse was desolating. "And yet this I could endure

if only she would speak to me--would go with me."

He fell at last into a deep gulf of self-pity. Yesterday, now so far

away, so irrevocable, was full of faith, of promise, of happiness, of

grand purpose; now every path was hid by sliding sand. The world was a

chaos. His book, his splendid mission, his communion with Adele, his

very life, depended upon this wondrous psychic. Without her the world

was a chaos, life a failure, and his faith a bitter, mocking lie. With

a sobbing groan he covered his face, his heart utterly gone, his brain

benumbed, his future black as night.

And yet outside the window, in reach of his hand, the spring sunlight

vividly fell. The waves of the river glittered like glass and ships

moved to and fro like butterflies. The sky was full of snowy

clouds--harbingers of the warm winds of spring. Sparrows twittered

along the eaves, and the mighty city, with joy in its prosaic heart,

was pacing majestically into the new and pleasant month.

XVII

WHEN DOCTORS DISAGREE

At breakfast next morning Morton took up the paper with apprehension,

and though he found Clarke's name spread widely on the page, he was

relieved to find only one allusion to the unknown psychic on whose

mystic power the orator was depending.

"She has another day of grace," he said to himself, thinking of

Lambert.

All the way down to his laboratory he pretended to read the news, but

could not succeed in interesting himself in the wars and famines of

the world, so much more vital and absorbing were his own passions and

retreats, so filmy was the abstract, so concrete and vital the

particular. A million children might be starving in India, a thousand

virgins about to be sold to slavery in Turkestan; but such

intelligence counted little to a man struggling with doubt of the

woman he loves, and questioning further the right of any philosopher

to marry and bring children into a life of bafflement and pain and

ultimate annihilation.

This must ever be so. The particular must outweigh the general, and

philosophers, even the monists, must continue to be inconsistent. The

individual must of necessity consider himself first and humanity

afterwards; for if all men considered the welfare of the race to the

neglect of self, the race would die at the root and the individual

perish of his too-widely diffused pity. To be the altruist, one must

first be the egoist (say the philosophers), to give, one must first

have.

The questions which filled this implacable young investigator's mind

were these: Is my love worthy? And again: Dare I, insisting on man's

unity with all other organisms and subject to the same laws of

extinction, entertain the idea of marriage? If the theories I hold are

true--if the soul of a child is no more than the animating principle

of the ant or the ape (and this I cannot deny)--then of what avail is

human life? By what right do men bring other organisms into being

knowing that they will only flutter a little while in the sun like

butterflies and die as unavailingly as moths?

Up to this time he had accepted with a certain calm pitilessness the

most inexorable tenets of the evolutionists, and had defended them

with remorseless zeal; but on this fair spring morning, with love for

Viola stirring in his heart, he found himself far less disposed to

crush and confound. He acknowledged a growing sympathy with those who

mourn the tragic fact of death.

All that he had read concerning clairvoyance, telepathy, hypnotism,

and their allied subjects began to assume new significance and a

weightier importance. He was annoyed to find himself profoundly

concerned as to whether the power of "suggestion" was anything like as

coercive as many eminent men believed it to be, and in this awakened

interest he 'phoned Tolman (upon reaching his desk), asking him to

lunch with him at the club. "If there is anything in his philosophy I

want to know it," he said, as he turned to his desk.