Madame Parlato
Blair's first interview with Carly Harper was painful for both. The
Cranes had told her of Peter's death, but the sight of Blair seemed to
bring home to the girl a further and more vivid realization of her loss.
"I wish now I'd been kinder to him," she said, her voice quivering.
"Oh, come now, Carly, I know you weren't unkind."
"No; but I wouldn't--wouldn't do what he asked me----"
"Never mind, dear; I think I know what you mean, and, let me tell you,
old Peter was happy enough--about you. He seemed pretty sure that things
were coming his way."
"Of course," the girl said frankly. "I only wanted him to go away, free,
and then if he still wanted me when he came back--and now he'll never
come back!" she gave way to silent weeping.
"His parents say he has come back," offered Blair, more by way of
diversion than comfort.
Carly looked up quickly. "They told you that?" she said.
"Yes, told me pretty much all about their 'messages.' Foolishness, of
course, but it seems to comfort them."
"It doesn't comfort me," and Carly sighed. "I don't believe in it, you
see." And she looked at him with a curious glance.
"No; I don't either. But the old people do, and if it helps them bear
their grief,--why----"
"Yes; I understand. How--how much did they tell you?"
"All, I suppose. They said some medium,--well, not a professional, but
some friend of theirs,--helped them to get messages 'through,' as they
call it."
"Didn't they tell you who the friend was?"
"No; but they weren't mysterious about it. They simply didn't say. I
believe Julie doesn't like to have them try it,--the Ouija, I mean."
"Oh, she feels as I do,--as anybody must,--if they like it let them have
it. She went to the lectures."
"Everybody did, it seems."
"Yes, the whole town went crazy on the subject. Is yet, but not quite to
the same extent."
"The war brought it all about, of course. After a short time, the fad
will die out."
"Yes, if it is a fad. But,--do you never think there may be a grain of
truth in it all?"
"I haven't seen the grain yet, but I'm open to conviction."
"Oh, well, I've no intention of trying to convince you. Tell me all
about your trip,--tell me all the queer experiences you had, and
everything you can think of. And tell me lots about Peter."
Blair did her bidding. He described their life in the Labrador, told of
their exploits and discomforts and also of the glorious outdoor days and
nights that were so enjoyed by them all.
"I'd love it!" Carly declared. "Oh, not all the tramping and portaging,
but the camp life."
"Better try it nearer home. The Adirondacks would give you enough
excitement. There's no use braving that cold up there, and those fierce
storms."
"If it hadn't stormed, Peter wouldn't have been lost, would he?"
"Probably not. You see, we've mulled it over and over. He must have
fallen and hurt himself in some way, or he would have followed us
somehow."
"He would have called out."
"That's the point. The wind was in our faces, it was a villainous blast,
and nothing any one said could be heard by one in front of him, unless
they were near each other. If Peter had shouted, the wind would have
carried his voice back and away from us. That is undoubtedly what
happened."
"Don't you think the guide was greatly to blame?"
"No; he had no reason to look back at us, as if we were sheep. We had
always followed his trail, there was to all appearances no difference
between this trip and any other. We had breasted equally severe storms,
and come home, laughing. I feel sure Peter met with an accident,--or, it
may be,--probably enough,--his strength suddenly gave out, or even his
heart went bad, or something like that. Perhaps he couldn't shout. I
blame myself, of course, for not looking back sooner, but I do honestly
feel that it was not a culpable omission."
"Of course it wasn't! I see just how it was. Great, big, stalwart Peter
was not a baby to be looked after by you others. But--oh, Gilbert,--it's
so dreadful to think of his dying there alone! Perhaps he--he didn't die
right away----"
"Don't, Carly! Try not to think about that. Think only that old Peter
Boots is gone,--that he lived a fine, clean, splendid life, and met his
end bravely, whatever happened. And, too, I'm told that he couldn't have
suffered much. He must have lost consciousness very quickly."
"Yes,--I suppose so. But--oh, Gilbert, I didn't know how much I cared,
until--until I lost him."
"I know, dear,--it's awful hard for you. Come on, get your hat and let's
go over to Julie's. I haven't seen her yet, and I promised to call
to-day."
They went to the Cranes', and found Shelby already there.
It was tea hour, and several people were gathered about Julie's pretty
tea table.
For the Crane family, though in mourning, received gladly the intimate
friends who had loved Peter, and who came, full of sympathy, to talk of
him.
Julie received Blair with a warm welcome, but,--or at least so Blair
thought,--she was a little cool in her greeting to Carlotta.
The two girls were pleasant enough, but there was an evident constraint
between them, and both turned quickly aside to talk to some one else.
Blair pondered. He was by way of noting significant details and his own
interest in Carly Harper made him quick to resent any slight put upon
her. Not that Julie's attitude could be called really slighting, nor was
it more so than Carly's own, but there was some dissonance there.
His observation, though veiled by a pleasant, general interest in
everything, was no less acute, and he continued to note that the girls
really avoided each other. It was none of his business, but he was
curious and surprised at a state of affairs so different from the
intimacy he had known them to enjoy of old.
He bided his time, and at last, finding an opportunity, he spoke to
Julie alone. She still sat at the tea table, but all having been served,
she was idle and a little distrait.
"I'm glad to see you again, Gilbert," she said, at last, looking at him
through tearful eyes, "but it makes me think of Peter, and--oh,
talk,--or I shall go all to pieces!"
Knowing Julie's emotional nature, Blair tactfully talked, telling
Peter's sister of trifling occurrences that were interesting in
themselves rather than of personal import. He succeeded in restoring her
calm and at last a chance allusion brought up Carly's name.
"What's the trouble between you two girls?" Blair asked, lightly.
"Trouble? There isn't any," and Julie's blue eyes,--so like
Peter's,--looked straight at him.
"Oh, just a school-girl squabble, is it?"
"It isn't anything," Julie persisted, "why do you say that?"
"Now, look here, Julie Crane, you can't fool me. I'm a mind reader, and
I see there's a rift in the lute that you and Carly used to play duets
on."
Julie smiled at the way he put it, and said, half unwillingly: "Well,
you see, Gilbert, Carly's a snake-in-the-grass."
"What! Oh, I say, Julie, don't talk like that! What do you mean?"
"She's underhanded, sly, deceitful, dishonest----"
"Stop, stop! You're losing your mind! Suppose you let up on vituperation
and do a bit of explaining. What has Carly done to merit those terms?"
"What has she done? She has come over here,--when I've been away,--and
stirred up father and mother with that silly, hateful, vicious old Ouija
Board performance,--that's what she's done!"
"Ouija! Carly! Surely you're mistaken."
"Indeed, I'm not. Father and mother couldn't make the silly thing go at
all, till Carly helped them. She pushes it, of course,--and they are
gulled and duped----"
"But, Julie, wait! Why should Carly do such a thing?"
"Oh, she's got the fad. Lots of people have, you know. And I haven't--I
hate it all--and so Carly comes over when I'm not home."
"And was it she who got the messages from Peter?"
"Yes, it was; that is, she pretended to."
Blair was amazed. Carly had given him the impression that she didn't
believe in occult manifestations. Why should she do that, if she had
assisted at the Crane _seances_? He hated to think of Carlotta Harper as
insincere, but--he mused--that sort of thing tends to make people
insincere. He came to a quick decision that he would observe for himself
and not seek further enlightenment directly from either of the two
girls.
So he only said, carelessly, "There's no accounting for the doings of
people who are obsessed by that sort of thing. But, look here, Julie, if
it is any comfort to your parents to think they have messages from
Peter, you wouldn't disturb their belief, would you?"
"No, I don't. That's why I don't have a real quarrel with Carly. I think
she knows I've discovered her part in it all, and I think she knows I
resent it; but, as you say, if it helps dear old dad and mother to bear
their grief, I'm willing they should wear out one Ouija Board after
another!"
"Good girl. You attended the lectures, I hear."
"Yes, and they meant nothing to me. What was produced as evidence seemed
to me no evidence at all. I'd like your honest opinion, Gilbert."
"I didn't hear the lectures."
"But you can read the books. Sir Rowland has written several, and there
are hundreds of others. Do read some, and see if you can find anything
in them--anything at all that is conclusive proof."
"Proof of what? Of continuity of existence?"
"Not that, no. But proof that the spirits of the dead have ever
communicated with the living."
It was during this conversation that Benjamin Crane came in. He was
evidently in a happy mood, his face was radiant and his fine features
glowed with enthusiasm.
"I've had such an experience," he exclaimed. "I've had a _seance_ with a
real medium----"
"Oh, father!" Julie cried out, involuntarily, but he only smiled
benignly at her.
"Just listen, Julie, dear. Reserve your comment till you hear it all.
Then we'll see."
He drew his armchair nearer the fire and rubbed his hands to the blaze,
then settled back in comfort, taking the cup that Julie brought him.
"Yes, yes," he went on, "a wonderful experience. You know," he looked
round, including all his hearers, for all present had drawn near to
listen, "you know I felt sure we had no real mediums here in America.
When Sir Rowland told of the trustworthy ones he has consulted in
England, I almost decided to go over there myself. But I heard of one
here in New York, and I investigated fully her credentials and
references before going to her. Truly, she is a marvel."
"I thought they weren't allowed," observed Shelby, smiling a little.
"'Not allowed' is sometimes a mere figure of speech," and Mr. Crane
smiled, too. "However, I was allowed to see her and have a real
_seance_--oh, Helen," he turned to his wife, "I can scarcely wait to go
there again and have you go with me."
"Father, I can't stand this!" Julie's eyes were blazing. "Please drop
the subject--at least, for the present."
"There, there, my daughter, don't lose your temper. If you don't want to
hear about this, you may be excused." He smiled at her lovingly but with
a decided intention.
"You're all interested, are you not?" he went on, turning to the various
attentive faces, and receiving nods and words of assent.
"Then I'll go on," and he glanced at Julie, who sat still, controlling
her expression of face but with tumult in her heart.
"Take it easy," Shelby whispered to her, "you'd better hear it, you
know, whatever it's all about."
"The lady," Crane said, "is a medium, well recommended by members of the
Society for Psychical Research, and by individuals who have been her
clients."
"What sort of recommendations does she offer?" asked an interested
voice, "letters?"
The speaker was McClellan Thorpe, a friend of Blair's, who shared a
studio with him.
Thorpe was frankly skeptical, but by no means controversial. He asked
his question in an honest desire to know of the credentials.
"Yes," returned Crane, "letters from many well-known Spiritists,
Psychics, Scientists and plain citizens, who are enthusiastic and
sincere in their praise of this lady."
"What's her name?" asked Mrs. Crane, who, it was plain to be seen,
fairly hung upon her husband's words.
"Madame Parlato," returned Crane. "She is no fraud, no charlatan, but a
refined, gracious lady, whose sympathies are as wonderful as her occult
gifts."
Carlotta Harper, who sat by Thorpe, was absorbed in the tale, and her
large dark eyes glowed, with intense interest as she listened.
"Tell us just what happened," she said, and Julie gave her a look of
mingled scorn and apprehension.
"I will," Crane's deep voice went on. "The lady, you understand, knew
nothing of me or of Peter. I was careful about this, for I know there
are unscrupulous mediums, and I wanted to feel sure of this one's
honesty."
"How do you know she'd never heard of you?" asked Thorpe. He had a
manner of speaking that was definite without being annoying. Apparently
he was curious, and not, necessarily, incredulous.
"How could she?" returned Crane, "we have no mutual friends. I heard of
her through a comparative stranger, and I went to her at once. Don't be
carping, Thorpe, just wait till you hear my story. Well, she greeted me
pleasantly, and with a most courteous and lady-like demeanor. I had an
appointment, of course, and she directed me to sit at a table opposite
herself. I did so, and for quite a time nothing happened.
"Then--she was not exactly in a trance, I should say, but rather she
seemed absorbed in deep thought--she said, 'I see a man, a fair-haired
man with a sunny, boyish smile. Do you recognize that description?' I
didn't say much, for I'm no fool to give myself away, you understand,
but I nodded assent, and she went on: 'He seems very active, full of
life and energy, and of a loving, affectionate nature.' You may guess
how I felt when she described Peter so exactly! I wanted to exclaim,
'Yes, that's my boy!' but I'm always careful not to help in any way. So
I just nodded, and she went on. 'He passed away about two or three
months ago, and he seems willing to communicate with me. What shall I
ask him?'
"Now, I'm canny, you know, and I said, 'Make sure of his identity first.
Ask him what name we used to call him by?' And, will you believe it?
after a short pause, she said, 'Peter Boots!' She seemed surprised
herself at such a name. I thought I ought to tell her how true that was,
so I did. She looked pleased to think it was all right, and waited for
me to ask another question. So I said, 'Ask him how he died.' She did,
and he told her he was frozen to death in a fearful snowstorm. Think of
that! And I said, 'Ask him how it happened.' And she did, and Peter said
he couldn't exactly say--he lost consciousness, and he knew nothing more
until he found himself on the other side. He said for me not to grieve,
for he should carry on over there all he had attempted to do here. He
said he retained all his ambition and energy and hope--you know he was
blessed abundantly with those traits--and----"
"Did he say he was happy?" asked Mrs. Crane, eagerly.
"He said he was content, and though it was all a little strange as yet,
he was becoming accustomed to that life and did not wish to return."
"Did he send any message to me?" urged the anxious mother.
"I'm coming to that, dear. Yes, he said for you not to grieve for him,
but to think of him as busy and happy and entirely contented. Oh, Helen,
isn't it wonderful? I arranged for another _seance_, and you shall go
with me. She held out a hope of materialization later, but she wasn't
sure she could compass that for some time to come. You needn't look
skeptical, Thorpe; that expression on your face only proves your
ignorance of these things. I tell you, man, if it were somebody you
loved and cherished you'd be mighty glad to hear from him!"
"Never mind my expression, Mr. Crane," Thorpe returned, looking
apologetic, "I'm deeply interested, I can tell you, and I'd like to hear
more."
"There's little more to tell. It was a quiet session--none of that
curtained cabinet, tambourine-playing business, you understand; but a
plain revelation from my boy's spirit through the medium of a refined,
cultured woman. I'm sorry, now, I didn't take my wife with me to-day,
but I feared it might not be so agreeable, and I tried it out myself
first. But we will go together soon."
Crane beamed happily, and it was impossible not to rejoice with him in
his delight and satisfaction at his experience.
Julie, her lips pressed tightly together, made no comment on her
father's story. Christopher Shelby, who sat beside her, eyed her
covertly, not quite decided whether to speak to her on the subject or
not.
He concluded to do so, and whispered, "How does it all strike you?"
"I don't know," she returned, passing her hand across her white brow
with a wearied gesture. "If it had been those foolish cabinet affairs I
should have been disgusted, but the really nice woman,--as father
describes her,--and he never misrepresents,--gives a slightly different
face on it. Still, I can't believe----"
"Shall you go to the next _seance_?"
"I haven't been asked. I doubt if they'll want me. I wonder what Carly
thinks of it all."
But Carlotta was talking with Blair and Mr. Thorpe, and their
conversation had no connection with the subject in hand. They were
discussing a wedding of two of their mutual friends, which had proved a
surprise to them all. Blair and Julie joined that discussion, and the
matter of the _seance_ was not again referred to by the young people.
But on the way home Thorpe spoke his mind to Blair, who accompanied him.
"How can a sensible, otherwise well-balanced man like Benjamin Crane
fall for that fake?" he exclaimed. "I've known Mr. Crane for years and
he never showed signs of paresis before!"
"I don't attempt to explain it," returned Blair, casually, "but I do
know that lots of other equally hard-headed citizens are tarred with
the same brush."
"That's true enough, but this is the first time I've run up against it
so closely. I say, Blair, how did the lingo tally with the facts of
Peter's death? Or would you rather not talk about it?"
"I don't mind talking about it at all. Why should I, among Peter's
friends? As to facts, we know none ourselves except that he was lost in
the snow. You've no idea of that snow, Thorpe! It was like a thick,
white feather-bed, falling, falling continually. It was impenetrable to
sight or hearing. The wind blew it about some, but it fell so thickly
that it seemed a solid mass that we struggled through. And it was quite
all we could do to get along----"
"Oh, don't think for a minute I feel you were in the least derelict! I
know you weren't. It merely chanced that Peter's heart gave out--or
whatever it was that did happen--while he was the last one of the
procession."
"And not only that. If, say, I'd fallen, a man behind might not have
seen me go down. If we swerved ever so little from a straight line, and,
of course, we did,--couldn't help it,--we lost sight for a moment of the
man in front. And as we all went along, eyes down or closed much of the
time, we might have lost a man who wasn't walking last. I wish I could
make you see it, Mac! See the traveling, I mean. I've never progressed
against such difficulties."
"I know, old chap. Do get out of your head that anybody blames any of
you in the least. And if they did, the blame would fall on the guide,
not on you fellows."
"Joshua was not a bit to blame either. Surely you see that. It was every
man for himself,--and--fate took the hindmost! Oh, I hate to think about
it! It's even worse to me now than when it happened. The more I think
about it the more I grieve for dear old Peter. We were good pals, you
know."
"I know it; we all were. Mighty few chaps like Peter Boots!"