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At the request of Dr. William Owen I am writing this account of what happened last night after Roberta Vallis' party. What happened during the party was terrible enough, but what came later, after the doctor and the guests had gone and we three women were alone together, Roberta and Penelope and I, was infinitely worse.
I am told to put down details of the night, as far as I can remember them, so that these may be kept in the records of the American Occult Society. There never was a clearer case of an evil spirit working destructively against a living person, although other noble souls have faced a similar ordeal, especially returned soldiers and Red Cross workers, and some have not survived it. Remember those pitiful, unaccountable suicides of our bravest and our fairest. In every casethere was a reason!
Penelope did not go home after the party, she was in no condition to do so, but stayed at Roberta's, and I stayed with her, at least I promised to stay, for I knewshe needed me. I knew that the greatest danger was still threatening her.
When the guests had gone we took off our things (Roberta let me have her little spare room on the mezzanine floor and she gave Penelope her own big bedroom with the old French furniture), then a Russian singer, a tall blond, Margaret G——, came in from the next apartment and we talked for a long time. Pen and Bobby smoke cigarettes and drank cordials; they drank in a nervous, hysterical way, as if they felt theymustdrink, and, strangely enough, the more they drank the more intensely sober they became.I understood this!
Such talk! Miss Gordon had just returned to America by way of Tokio. She had been in London, Paris, Petrograd, Cairo; and, everywhere, as a result of the war, she said, she found a mad carnival of recklessness and extravagance. Everywhere the old standards of decency and honor had been set aside, greed and lust were rampant, the whole human race seemed to be swept as with a mighty tide, by three fierce desires—for money, for pleasure, for sensuality. And God had been forgotten!
I, who know how hideously true this is, tried to show these womenwhyit is true, especially Penelope, whose eyes were burning dangerously, but they were not interested in my moralizing. “Let us eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die,” mocked Margaret G——, emptying her glass, and Roberta joined her, while Penelope hesitated.
“Wait! For God's sake, wait!” I caught the poorchild's arm and the wine spilled over the carpet. Never shall I forget the look in her eyes as she drew back her head and faced me. I realized that the powers of evil were striving again for the soul of Penelope Wells. Poor, tortured child!
“Why shouldn't we eat, drink and be merry?” she demanded boldly, and I was silent.
How could I explain to this dear, misguided one that, even as those rollicking words were spoken, I felt the clutch of a cold foreboding that I know only too well.
For tomorrow we die!
The Russian singer presently withdrew as if she were annoyed at something, saying to Roberta that she would see her later. It seems they had arranged that Roberta should pass the night in Margaret G——'s apartment so that Penelope might have the large bedroom.
It was now after two o'clock and I suggested that we all needed sleep, my thought being for Penelope; but she was aggressively awake, and Roberta, as if bent on further excitement, started a new subject that came like a challenge to me. She began innocently enough by putting her arm around Penelope, as she sat on the bedside between the draped curtains—I never saw her so beautiful—and saying sweetly: “You don't know how terribly I'm going to miss you, Pen, when you get married.”
Married! That word, so full of exquisite sentiment, seemed to stir only what was evil in Penelope. Her face hardened, her eyes narrowed cynically.
“Good old Bobby! I'm not so sure that I shallmarry at all. I'm a little fed up with this holy matrimony stuff. Perhaps I want my freedom just as much as you do.”
For a moment I caught her steady defiant gaze, then her eyes dropped and shifted. I knew that Penelope was gone.
After this outburst theother onewas restrained enough for a time and did not betray herself by violent utterances. Apparently she was listening attentively to Roberta Vallis' views about life and love and the destiny of woman, these views being as extreme and selfish as the most wayward nature could demand.
I realized that the moment was critical and concentrated all my spiritual power in an appeal to Penelope, praying that God would bring her back and make her heed my words. I spoke gently of God's love for His children and said that we need fear no evil within us or about us, no dangers of any sort, if we will learn to draw to us and through us that healing and protecting love. We can do this, we must do this by establishing a love-current from God to us and from us to God, by keeping it flowing just as an electrician keeps an electrical current flowing—every day, every hour. It is not enough to pray for God's love, we must keep our spiritual connections right, exactly as an electrician keeps his electrical connections right, if we expect the current to flow. We cannot make our electric lamps burn by merely wishing them to burn, although there is a boundless ocean of electricity waiting to be drawn upon. We must know how to tap that ocean. Similarly, the power of God's infinite love will not descendupon us simply because we need it or ask for it. We must ask for it in the right way. We must establish the right love-connections. We must set the love-current flowing, and keep it flowing,from God to us and from us back to God; and this can be done only by confessing our sins, by cleansing our hearts of evil thoughts and desires.Not even God Himself can make the sun shine upon those who wilfully hide in the shadows!
I saw that they were listening impatiently and more than once Roberta tried to interrupt me, but I persisted and said what I had to say as well as I could, with all the love in my heart, for I knew that my precious Penelope's fate was hanging in the balance.
When I had finished Roberta got up from the bed where she had been sitting and lighted a cigarette.
“Now, then, it's my turn,” she began. I could see her eyes shining with an evil purpose. “You've heard her pretty little speech, Pen. You've heard her talk about the wonderful power of God's love, and a great rigamarole about how it guards us from all evil, if we say our prayers and confess our sins and so on. I say that is all bunk, and I can prove it. Take women—they've always said their prayers more than men, always confessed their sins more than men, always been more loving than men, haven't they? And what's the result? Has God protected them from the evils of life more than men? He has not. God has let women get the worst of it right straight along through the centuries. Women have always been the slaves of men, haven't they?—in spite of all their love and devotion,in spite of all their prayers and tears? How do you account for that?”
She flashed this at me with a wicked little toss of her head and Penelope chimed in: “Yes, I'd like to know that myself.” But, when I tried to answer, Roberta cut me off with a new flood of violence.
“I'll let you know how I account for it,” she went on angrily. “It's because all the churches in the world, all the smug preachers in the world, like you, have gone on shooting out this very same kind of hot air that you've been giving us; and the women, silly fools, have fallen for it.But not the men!The women have tried to live by love and prayer and unselfishness; they have said: 'God's will be done,' 'God will protect us'; and what is the result? How has God protected the women, whodidbelieve? And how has He punished the men who refused to believe? He has made the men masters of the world, lords of everything; and He has kept the women in bondage, hasn't He?—in factory bondage, in nursery bondage, in prostitution bondage? Is what I say true, or isn't it true? I ask you, I ask any person who has got such a thing as a clear brain and is not simply a mushy sentimentalist, is what I say true?”
Again I tried to answer, but again she cut me short and rushed on in a blaze of excitement.
“So it has been through all the pitiful history of women, until a few years ago, the poor, foolish creatures began to wake up. At last women are getting rid of their delusions and emerging from their slavery—why? Because they have begun to imitate men, and go straight after the thing they want, the thing that isworth while,by using their power as women, and not depending upon the power of love or the power of God or any other power. Believe me, the greatest power in the world is the power of womenas women, and we may as well use it to the limit, just as men would. We can get anything we want out of men by learning to use this power, and, I tell you, Pen, there isn't anything better in this good old United States than money. So far men have had the money, they've ground it out of the poor and the ignorant, especially women, but now women are going after money and getting it, just like the men. Why not? If I want a sable coat and a limousine and a nice duplex apartment, why shouldn't I have them, if I can get them without breaking the law? And Icanget them; so can you, Pen, if you'll play the cards you hold in your hand. Haven't I done it? You don't see me eating in Childs restaurants to any great extent these days, do you? And I'm not worrying about clothes, or about paying my rent.”
The poison of her words was stealing into Penelope's soul and defiling it, yet I was powerless to restrain her.
“Listen to this, child, and remember it, women are the equals of men today in every line, and they're going to have their full share of the good things of life. They're going to have freedom, and that means the right to do as they please without asking the permission of any man. Women are going to have their own latch keys and their own bank accounts. They're going to cut off their hair and put pockets in their skirts, and have babies, if they feel like it, or not have them, if they don't feel like it. The greatest revolution theworld has ever known is going on now, it's the revolution of women. Let the men open their eyes! How did women get the suffrage? Was it by praying for it? Was it by the power of love? Was it by the mercy of God? No! They got the suffrage by fighting for it, by going out and hustling for it, just the way men hustle for what they want. If women had depended on the power of God's love to give them the suffrage, they wouldn't have got it in a million years.”
Of course, those were not Roberta's exact words, but I am sure I have given the substance of them, and I cannot exaggerate the defiant bitterness of her tone. She was a powerful devil's advocate and I saw that wavering Penelope (if it still was Penelope) was deeply impressed by this false and wicked reasoning. She looked at me out of her wonderful eyes—unflinching, cruel, then the balance swung against me.
“I believe you are right, Roberta Vallis,” she spoke with raised forefinger and a show of judicial consideration. “It's a bold speech for a woman, I never heard the thing put that way before, but—I'm damned if I see what the answer is except—”
“Oh, Penelope!” I interrupted, trying in vain to reach her with my eyes.
“You shut up,” she answered spitefully. “I said I'mdamnedif I see what the answer is except your answer, Bobby, that women have always been fools and dupes—dupes of religious superstition invented by men for the benefit of men and never accepted by men.”
Roberta applauded this. “Bravo! little one! I'll tell that to Kendall Brown.Women have always beendupes of religious superstition invented by men for the benefit of men and never accepted by men!Go on! Tell us some more.”
And Penelope went on, flinging aside all restraint, while my heart sank.
“Take my own life. Look at it! I had an ignoble husband. Why didn't I leave him? Because I was loving, trusting. I thought I could save him. I said prayers for him. I asked God to strengthen him. And what was the result? The result was that Julian not only destroyed himself, but he destroyed what was best in me. Did God interfere? Did God give any manifestation of His infinite love? Not so that you could notice it.”
She paused with heaving bosom and then swept on in her mad discourse.
“And then, when I was left alone in the world, what happened? I went abroad as a Red Cross nurse. I tried my best to help in the war. I took care of the wounded—under fire. I bore every hardship. I said my prayers. And God put a curse upon me—yes He did. He took all chance of happiness and health and love away from me. He made me do things that I never meant to do, that I don't remember doing.”
Her cheeks were burning scarlet, her eyes shone like black stars. I tried to stop her. “My darling, you are ill!”
“Ill? Who made me ill? God made me ill, didn't He? That's my reward, isn't it? That's what has come of all my love and faith. If that's what God does, you can have Him. I don't want Him. I'll go withRoberta. I'll do as Roberta does—yes, I will.” She almost screamed the words.
How I prayed then for wisdom!
“No—no!” I said slowly but firmly. “You willnotgo with Roberta. You will go with me.”
“I must say I like your impertinence,” Roberta put in, her face white, her voice trembling with fury. “This happens to be my apartment, Mrs. Seraphine Walters, and now you can get damned well out of it.”
I saw that I could no nothing more, for Penelope's eyes were hard set against me. They both wanted me to go.
“Good night. God bless you, dear,” I said.
“Don't you worry about God's blessing us. You can tell Him the next time you make your report that there is a young woman named Roberta Vallis living at the Hotel des Artistes who is getting along quite well, thank you, without—”
“Don't say it, please don't say it,” I begged. “You have no idea what dangers are threatening, what evil powers are about us—even now—here.”
She laughed in my face. “I snap my fingers at your evil powers and your God of Love. I don't believe in either of them. I'm not afraid of either of them. Evil powers! Ha! Let them come if they want to. Here! We'll drink defiance to the powers of evil. Come on, Pen!”
“Defiance to the powers of evil,” laughed my poor soul-sick Penelope, lifting her glass.
With a shudder I watched these two tragically led young women as they stood there, draped in white, anddrank this sacrilegious toast; then, heavy-hearted, I came away.
It was nearly four o'clock when I reached my home and I was so exhausted by the emotions of the night that I lay down without undressing and almost immediately fell into a troubled sleep. Then, suddenly, I awoke with a start of alarm and a sense that a voice had called me. And, though my bedroom was dark, I distinctly saw a white vaporish form passing over me as if someone had blown a cloud of tobacco smoke in my face. Once before I had had this experience of a white form passing over me—it was when my mother died.
I got up quickly, knowing that this was a summons, and, as I put on my hat and cloak, I heard my control telling me that I must go to Penelope. I knelt down and prayed that I might not be too late. Then I hurried back to the hotel and got there at half-past five. It was still night.
A sleepy elevator girl took me up to Roberta's apartment and I found that the door opened at my touch. In another moment I was standing in the silent hall looking down a long passage that led to Penelope's bedroom. The bedroom door was ajar and a dim light from the chamber illumined the way before me.
Thus far I had acted swiftly, almost mechanically, knowing that I had only one thing to do, and I had been aware of no particular emotion except a natural anxiety; but now, the moment I entered this apartment and closed the door behind me, I was conscious of a freezing, paralyzing fear, a sensation as real as thetouch of a hand or the sound of a bell. It was something that could not be resisted. I was bathed in an atmosphere of terror. I was afraid to a degree that made my breath stop, my heart stop....
The passage leading to Penelope's bedroom was not more than six yards long, but it seemed as if it took me an hour to traverse it. I could scarcely force my lagging steps, one by one, to carry me. And every hideous moment brought me the vision of Penelope lying on that curtained bed, her beautiful face distorted, her eager young life—crushed out of her. Oh God, how I prayed!
When at last I came into the bedroom I faced another struggle. There was absolute silence. No sound of breathing from the bed, although I saw a woman's form under the sheets. But not her face, which was hidden by the curtain. For a long time I stood beside that bed, rigid with fear, before I found courage to draw the curtain back. At last I drew it back and—there lay Penelope, sleeping peacefully, quite unharmed. I was stunned with relief, with amazement and—suddenly her eyes opened and she gave a wild but joyful cry and flung her arms around my neck, sobbing hysterically.
“Oh! Oh! My dear, dear Seraphine! You came to me. You forgave me. You did not abandon your poor Penelope.” She clung to me like a child in frantic, pitiful terror.
Then she told me that she too had gone through a frightful experience. When Roberta had left her, about an hour before, to sleep in the adjoining apartment, as they had arranged with Margaret G——, Penelope had tried to compose herself on her pillow, but she had scarcely fallen into a doze when she was awakened by the same sense of horrible fear that had overcome me. She was about to die—by violence. An assassin was coming—he was near her. She could hardly breathe. It was almost beyond her power to rise from the bed and search the apartment, but she did this. There was nothing, and yet the terror persisted. She huddled herself under the bed-covers and waited, saying her prayers. And when I entered the apartment and came down the passage—so slowly, so stealthily!—sheknewit was the murderer coming to kill her. And when I paused at her bedside—how long it was before I drew the curtain!—she almost died again, waiting for the blow.
Of course I did not leave Penelope after this, but comforted her and prayed with her and rejoiced that her madness was past. Then we tried to sleep, locked in each other's arms, but, shortly after six, there came a timid knock at the door and, all of a tremble, Jeanne entered, Penelope's French maid who had come with her mistress to Roberta's party and had occupied a small room overhead, and she told us with hysterical sobs that she had not closed her eyes all night for ghastly visions of Penelope murdered in her bed.
Now it is easy to scoff at premonitions and haunting fears, but there can be no doubt that on this night an evil spirit was present in Roberta's apartment, a hideous, destructive entity that came and—wavered in its deadly purpose against Penelope, then—manifested toRoberta Vallis in the adjoining apartment, for when I went in there a little later I found Roberta—she who had mocked God and defied the powers of evil—I found her in her bed, her face convulsed with a look of indescribable terror—dead!
The hotel doctor reported it as a case of heart failure, but Doctor William Owen, who has an honest mind, acknowledged that all this was beyond his understanding. This tragedy made him realize at last that there may be sinister agencies in us and about us that cannot be dealt with by mere medical skill. And, at my pleading, he directed that Mrs. Wells be placed immediately in the care of Dr. Edgar Leroy.
Thank God, my precious Penelope will receive psychic treatment before it is too late. There is no other hope for her but this.
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At Dr. Leroy's Sanitarium.
I understand why people kill themselves. There was an hour last night, that horrible hour between four and five (I have seen so many hospital patients die then), when I was resolved to kill myself. Seraphine was sleeping in the next room—she has not left me since I came to this place yesterday—and I longed to waken her for a last talk, but decided not to. What was the use? I must settle this for myself—whether it was possible for me to go on living or not, I must fight out this battle alone—with my own soul.
I decided to kill myself because I felt sure, after what had happened, that I was condemned to madness. This is evidently a place where mad people are treated. They call it a Sanitarium, but I know what that means. Seraphine speaks of Dr. Leroy (I have only seen him once) as a wonderful spiritual healer and she says I will love him because he is so kind and wise; but none of this deceives me. I know they have brought me to a place for mad people.
Here is a thought that makes me waver—what if death is not annihilation? What if I find myself in some new state where there are other horrors and terrors—worse than those that I have suffered? The Voices tell me this—taunting me. And then Christopher! He loves me so much! He will be so sorry, if I do this!
While I was hesitating—it was just before dawn—Seraphine came to me. She talked to me, soothed me, and, at last, she told me the truth about myself. She said that all my troubles come from this, that I am possessed by an evil spirit!Literally possessed!This is what she was leading up to when she told me about the great company of earth-bound souls that are hovering about us since the war, striving to come back!
The extraordinary part of it is that I no longer regard this as a fantastic impossibility. I no longer reject it. I am not terrified or horrified by the thought, but almost welcome it, since it offers an explanation of what has happened that does not involve madness. I am either possessed by an evil spirit or I am mad, and of these two I prefer the evil spirit. That, at least, is a definite cause carrying with it the hope of a cure, for we read that evil spirits were cast out in olden times, and they may be again.
One thing convinces me that what Seraphine says is true—I did something at Roberta's party that my own soul or spirit, even in madness, could never have done. I accused Christopher of committing a crime. I accused him of treason! Christopher! My love! Seraphine bears witness to this. Imustbe possessed by an evil spirit! This would account for something else that happened last night. I was just falling into a troubled sleep when—no, I cannot tell it!
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Christopher sent me a gorgeous basket of roses this morning with his love. He loves me in spite of the devil and all his angels—he said that to Seraphine. How wonderful! I wish they would let me see him, and yet—I am ashamed. How can I ever face Christopher again?
There is something strange about Roberta Vallis—I feel it. She did not come in to speak to me or say good-bye before I left her apartment—that morning. Why not? I asked Seraphine if there was anything the matter with Roberta—had I done anything to offend her?—but the only answer I could get was that Roberta is not well. Seraphine is keeping something back—I am sure of it.
Seraphine knows of two cases where evil spirits have been cast out. One was a New York silversmith who had never shown any talent for art, but who suddenly began to paint remarkable pictures, which sold for good prices. He was desperately unhappy, however, because he felt sure that he was becoming insane. He had visions of scenes that he was impelled to paint and he suffered from clairaudient hallucinations. Two well known neurologists declared that he was a victim of paranoia and must soon be confined in an asylum.This man was brought back to a normal condition by Dr. Leroy's treatment, and the first step in his improvement was when he grasped the idea that his abnormal symptoms were due to possession. This satisfied his reason and drove away his fears (I understand that), especially when he was assured that an evil spirit can be driven out by the power of God's love as easily as an evil germ or humour of the body can be driven out by the same agency. What a blessed thought!
Seraphine says we must obey the safeguarding rules with which God has surrounded the operation of His love, if we would enjoy the blessed guardianship of that love. We must not expect God to change His rules for us.We must cleanse our hearts of evil!
The other case of possession was not a patient of Dr. Leroy, but came under Seraphine's notice while she was attending a sufferer. This was Alice E——, a charming, refined girl about twenty, the daughter of well-bred people who lived in Boston. They were somewhat stricter in family discipline than most American parents, consequently Alice, from babyhood up, was guarded and protected in every possible way. She and her mother were almost inseparable companions. There was absolutely no way in which Alice could have become acquainted with people of the underworld, or heard the vile expressions that she afterward used in an evil personality. Her face showed unusual innocence and purity, her disposition was affectionate and serene.
But when she was about seventeen Alice began to have strange spells of irritability; she would grow sullen and stubborn, and soon these ugly moods became more violent; she would burst into horrible tirades against her father and mother and declare that she couldn't stand their goody-goody ways, that they were so damned pious they made her sick. Then rage and lust seemed to possess her and she would talk about men in a shocking way, using unspeakable words, while the expression of her face and the posture of her body became those of a wanton.
At first Alice could not tell when these attacks were coming on, but later, when she was about twenty, she knew and would beg her family to keep “that dreadful, horrible girl” from taking hold of her. “She's going to change me! Oh, keep her away! Don't let her get me!” she would cry out in terror.
Through the last days of the poor girl's life the struggle between the real Alice and the gutter woman went on almost constantly. Alice would implore Seraphine to make the wicked girl go away so that when the end came (she knew she was going to die) she might be herself. But the evil spirit had firm possession and a few hours before her death Alice's mouth was coarse and sensual, her eyes were wicked, her whole expression revolting.
Seraphine sent word to the family that they must not come into the room; then, kneeling by the bedside of the dying girl, she nerved herself for a last struggle between the powers of good and evil. With all the strength of her pure soul she invoked God's love to restore and heal this afflicted child ere she departed for the Great Beyond; and, an hour before the end, thefamily were admitted to the chamber and looked upon Alice's pillowed face, sweetly smiling, beautiful and unsullied, as they had always known her and cherished her.God's love had prevailed!
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When Seraphine left me my mind had become calm and hopeful and I had given up my wicked purpose. I fell asleep praying that God would save me from the powers of darkness, that His love would watch over me and protect me from all evil, especially from that dream on the Fall River steamboat, the one that has tortured me so many nights.
I awakened suddenly to the knowledge that a terrible thing had happened, an incredible thing. I was alone in my bedroom,and yet I was not alone! I had escaped one degradation only to face another. I was awake, fully awake; yet I was more abdominally tempted than ever I was in my dreams. With all the strength of my soul I fought against the aggressions of a real presence that—that touched me!I cried out, I struggled, I begged God to save me or else to let me die. And then Seraphine came to me again in my agony.
But before she came the Voices sounded worse than ever, nearer about me than ever. Why was I such a fool? Why was I so obstinate in resisting my fate? Was I not Their appointed sacrifice? Why not be resigned to the inevitable? Why not ...? They laughed and fluttered close to me with vile murmurings while I prayed against them with all my strength.
“God of love, guard Thy child; God of power, save Thy child,” I prayed.
A harsh, cruel voice broke in to tell me that Roberta Vallis was dead, she died of terror because she had defied Them, as I had defied Them; and, in three days, the Voice said that I, too, would die of terror. Three days remained to me, three nights with my dream and a hideous awakening, unless—
Then Seraphine opened my bedroom door and I sobbed in her arms a long time before I could speak.
“Is—is Roberta dead?” I gasped.
She looked at me strangely and I knew it was true.
“Yes, dear,” she answered gently, and tried to comfort me again, but it was in vain.
“I have only three days to live, Seraphine,” I said solemnly. “Three days and three nights!”
Then I told her what the evil spirit had said, and she listened with grave attention.
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There may now be presented, as bearing upon Mrs. Wells' strange illness, a conversation which took place between Dr. William Owen and Dr. Edgar Leroy, the psychic healer, on the evening following Penelope's entrance into the Leroy sanitarium on Fortieth Street, just south of Bryant Park.
Owen began in his bluff, outspoken way: “Doctor, I have put into your hands a lady I am very fond of, in spite of the fact that your theories contradict everything I stand for. Not very complimentary, is it?—but I may as well tell you the truth. Mrs. Wells has not improved under my treatment, I admit that, and I have turned her over to you as a sort of last hope.”
Leroy's rather stern face brightened with a flash of humor.
“The same thing has happened to other physicians, doctor. I believe you diagnose this case as shell shock?”
“Unquestionably—with unfavorable developments, dual personality complications—I wrote you.”
“Yes. I spent several hours with Mrs. Wells last evening when she arrived. She was agitated, but I soothed her and explained certain things that hadtroubled her, and, gradually, she grew calm. I think I can help her.”
In spite of himself Dr. Owen was favorably impressed both by the man and his surroundings. There was nothing garish or freakish or Oriental about the place, which was furnished with the business-like simplicity of an ordinary doctor's office. And Leroy certainly had a fine head—a clean-shaven face with heavy black brows under which shone grave, kindly eyes that twinkled now and then in good-natured understanding. He was about ten years younger than his colleague.
“May I ask, doctor, if there is any scientific evidence to prove the existence of this healing spiritual power that you use or think you use?” In spite of himself, Owen put this question a little patronizingly.
“There are the results—the cures. And there is the evidence of Christianity. Spiritual power is the basis of Christianity, isn't it?”
A deeper note sounded here, and the hard-headed materialist began to realize that he was in the presence of an unusual personality, developed by suffering and struggle, a man who had finally reached a haven of sure and comforting belief. There was great kindness in this face as well as strength.
“Nothing else? Is there no evidence similar to that which convinces us that the X-rays really exist?”
Leroy thought a moment, then he spoke with a quiet impressiveness that was not lost upon Dr. Owen.
“There is evidence that would probably convince any fair-minded person who was willing to give to the investigation time enough to get results. The X-rayswere not discovered in a day, were they? Suppose I tell you how I got into this occult field—would that interest you?”
“Very much.”
“Take that other chair—make yourself comfortable—that's better. It began accidentally with certain persistent hallucinations, as I used to call them, in a patient of mine, a Southern lady whom I attended when I was a regular practitioner like yourself. These hallucinations worried me, and, being an open-minded man, I found it impossible to dismiss them as of trivial importance; so I began an investigation that led me—well, it led me very far, it is still leading me, for I am scarcely over the threshold of that mysterious region where spirit phenomena occur. I resolved to knowfor myselfwhether these things are true.”
“And you think they are true?”
“I know they are true,” was the grave reply.
Dr. Owen listened attentively while Leroy described his first groping efforts to determine whether or not he personally possessed psychic powers. He began with regular periods of mental concentration, an opening of the soul, as it were, to spirit impressions; he would sit alone, in a state of meditative receptiveness for ten or fifteen minutes every day, and later several times a day, waiting for something to happen—he did not know what.
Day after day the psychologist persisted in this singular experiment and, soon, he began to see small blue figures, irregularly shaped, that moved rapidly about the room and cast no shadows. Some of these bluefigures were luminous, and among them were occasional luminous white figures. As weeks passed and his efforts continued, there came a noticeable increase in the number of these moving shapes until, when the doctor desired it, he could make them swarm everywhere, over the walls, the pictures, the bookcases.
“Wait!” interrupted Owen. “Do you see these blue shapes or luminous figures at all times? Do you see them now?”
“No. I only see them when I desire to see them—when I prepare myself to use them—for a case.”
Leroy told how the phenomena continued to increase in frequency and in intensity, how gradually he felt an unmistakable sense of power growing in himself, as if he had somehow tapped a vast source of energy, a kind of spiritual trolley-line, and he was now impelled to use this power. He made his first trial on a poor man who had suffered for years from headaches that seemed incurable.
“Stretch out on that reclining chair, close your eyes, don't think of anything,” ordered the experimenter. Then he laid his hands on the man's forehead and concentrated his mind in the psychic way he had adopted. Almost immediately the blue shapes appeared in great numbers, and began to pour themselves in fine, pulsing streams, like a purplish mist, over the patient's brow and head and shoulders, over his whole body until he was completely enveloped in them, laved by them, penetrated by them.
“That was a crude beginning,” Leroy went on, “but it drove away those obstinate headaches for threemonths; then a second laying on of hands completed the cure. After that, as months passed, other persons were cured in the same way—especially nervous cases. Whatever these blue streams are, they benefit the patient in most cases. One woman told me, during a treatment, thatshe saw blue shapes about her!”
“You hypnotized her,” declared Owen.
“Possibly. I did not intend to.”
“What I want to know is, have you ever treated a case like this one of Mrs. Wells?”
“Yes, I treated a young woman in Mrs. Wells' profession, a trained nurse. She came of good family and was very intelligent, but she was driven toward certain forms of depravity. It was pretty bad. All efforts to change her had failed and, at last, her mother in desperation decided to try psychic treatment.”
“And you cured her?”
“Yes. She is now doing useful work in Washington for the Red Cross.”
“How did you cure her—it wasn't simply by the laying on of hands, was it?”
“No. I recognize the necessity of getting at the forgotten or concealed causes of these abnormalities, just as Freud does in his psycho-analysis, but, instead of following the uncertain trail of dreams, I conceived the idea of discovering the truth by clairvoyant revelation. I engaged Mrs. Seraphine Walters to assist me in my work. She has astonishing psychic gifts and—” he hesitated.
“Yes?”
“In her entranced condition, Mrs. Walters discovered things about this young woman, painful things that had been hidden for years and—well, I was able to relieve her of her fears and check her waywardness,” he concluded abruptly.
“But the details? Tell me more about this case. What were the painful things that Mrs. Walters discovered?”
Leroy shook his head.
“What's the use? I can state the result of my treatment, but if I go into details, if I try to make you understand the cause of this young woman's evil desires and how I overcame them—” he paused, his eyes shining with an inspired light. “Don't you see, doctor, you and I do not speak the same language. You are always in opposition. You have no faith. It's your narrow training.”
“Narrow?” snorted the other.
“Yes, you scientists are childishly narrow. You believe in atoms and ions and electrons that you have never seen and never will see, but if anyone mentions secrets of the soul that control human happiness, you laugh or sneer.”
“Not necessarily. I suppose you refer to your theory of possession by evil spirits. If you could only furnish any evidence—”
“It isn't my theory. It's as old as Christianity, it's a part of Christianity. As to evidence, my dear sir, you are blind to evidence. The young lady I speak of was despaired of by everybody, she was on her way to an insane asylum, two alienists had declared her case hopeless, yet, thanks to psychic treatment, she was restored to health and happiness. Does that impress you? Not at all if you call it a coincidence. And if I am fortunate enough to cure Mrs. Wells, whom you have failed to cure, you will call that a coincidence, too.”
Dr. Owen tried to control his irritation, but his prejudices got the better of him.
“Of course I want to see Mrs. Wells cured, but—do you mean to tell me seriously that you believe she is possessed by an evil spirit?”
“I believe that some malignant influence is near her and able to control her—intermittently. How else do you account for the facts in her case? Even Mrs. Wells believes this.”
“That is because Seraphine put the notion in her head. It's unfortunate.”
“No, she believes this because of the way her friend died. You know how she died?”
“Miss Vallis? She died suddenly, but the cause of her death is doubtful. People die suddenly from all sorts of causes.”
“Yes,” answered Leroy with a significant tightening of the lips, “and one of the causes is fear. People die suddenly of fear, doctor.”
“Referring to Mrs. Wells and her bad dreams?”
“Precisely. If you had seen her last night—after midnight—watching the clock with dark, furtive glances, watching, waiting, as the hands approached half past twelve, you would understand what fear can do to a woman. That is Mrs. Wells' worst symptom, she is afraid—not all the time but intermittently.”
Owen leaned forward in concentrated attention.
“Why was she in such a state at half past twelve rather than at any other time?”
“Because the change in her takes place then, the change into her other personality.”
“Fauvette? You saw her—in that personality?”
“Yes. I saw her. Besides, she told me about it in advance. She knows what is going to take place, but is powerless against it. Every night at exactly half past twelve there comes a violent period that lasts until one o'clock. Then she falls into a deep sleep, and a dream begins, always the same dream, a horrible dream that terrifies her and drains her life forces. She had this dream last night, she will have it again tonight, and again tomorrow night.She believes that she will die tomorrow night, just as her friend died!”
“Good God! What a pity!” exclaimed Owen. “Why does she think she is going to die tomorrow night?”
“Her Voices tell her so, and she believes them.”
“She told you this?”
“Yes.”
The older man tapped impatiently on his chair-arm.
“And you? What did you say to her? You surely do not believe that Mrs. Wells will die tomorrow night? You know these are only the morbid fancies of an hysterical woman, don't you?”
Leroy rose quietly and took down a volume from the bookcase.
“How we love to argue over thenamesof things!” he answered gravely. “I don't care what you call theinfluence or obsession that threatens this lady. I ask, What do you propose to do about it? Doyoubelieve that Mrs. Wells will die tomorrow night? Do you?”
Owen moved uncomfortably on his chair, frowned, snapped his fingers softly and finally admitted that he did not know.
“Ah! Then is it your idea to wait without doing anything until tomorrow night comes, and see if Mrs. Wells really does die at half-past twelve, and then, if she does, as the Vallis woman died, to simply say: 'It's very strange, it's too bad!' and let it go at that? Is that your idea? Will you take that responsibility?”
“No, certainly not. I don't mean to interfere with your plans. I told you I have left this matter entirely in your hands,” answered the skeptic, his aggressiveness suddenly calmed.
“Very well. Take my word, doctor, fear is terribly destructive, it may cause death. Listen to this case, cited by a French psychologist.” He turned over the pages. “Daughter of an English nobleman, engaged to a man she loves, perfectly happy; but one night she is visited, or thinks she is, by her dead mother who says she will come for her daughter the next day at noon. The girl tells her father she is going to die. She reads her Bible, sings hymns to the accompaniment of a guitar, and just before noon, although apparently in excellent health, she asks to be helped to a large arm chair in her bedroom. At noon exactly she draws two or three gasping breaths and sinks back into her chair, dead. That shows what fear will do.”
But his adversary was still unconvinced.
“What does that prove? Do you think you could have saved this young woman if you had been in charge of the case?”
“Perhaps. I hope to save Mrs. Wells.”
“How?”
Leroy hesitated, frowned with a nervous squinting, as if he were trying to solve a baffling problem.
“How? I wish I could tell you, doctor, but you would not understand. That is the sad part of my work, I am all alone.”
His eyes burned somberly, then he spoke with intense feeling.
“Not one of you orthodox physicians will join me in my effort to save millions of unfortunates from the tragedy of our state hospitals. You won't lift a hand to help me. You all say there is nothing to be done. What a wicked evasion of responsibility! Nothing to be done? I tell you there is everything to be done. Suppose you had a daughter or a sister or a wife who was suffering from such an affliction—how would you feel? God grant you may never know how you would feel. Why do you doctors scoff at miracles when the Bible is full of them and we all live among them? What is life but an unceasing miracle? Tell me how you move your finger except by a miracle? What is vision? What is death? How do youknowthat spirits of the departed, good and bad, do not come back to help us—or to harm us? Many great men believe this and always have. Many fine women know that this is true. Mrs. Walters has actuallyseenan evil spirit hovering about a girl who was called insane.How do you know that insanity is not caused by evil possession?”
“Hold on! I can't answer all those questions,” laughed Owen and now his manner changed quite charmingly as he made anamende honorable. “I'm a stubborn old fool, doctor. I ought to have had more sense than to get into this argument. What I care about is to have this dear lady restored to health and happiness. There!” He held out his hand. “Forgive me! The more miracles you can work for her cure, the better I shall like it.”
At this Leroy relented in his turn.
“Dr. Owen, I will not conceal from you that Mrs. Wells is in great peril. I have no more doubt that she will die tomorrow night, unless she consents to do something that I have already indicated to her as necessary, than I have of your presence in this room.”
“Extraordinary! Do you really mean that? What is this thing? Is it a definite thing, or is it some—some spiritual thing?”
Dr. Leroy sighed and shook his head.
“It's hard for you to believe, isn't it? I suppose you want me to give Mrs. Wells a dose of medicine or put a hot water bag at her feet. No, doctor, it's much more difficult than that.”
The veteran pondered this in puzzled exasperation.
“If Mrs. Wells does this definite thing that you have told her to do, will she be saved?”
“Yes, I think so,” Leroy spoke confidently.
There came a knock at the office door, but both menwere so absorbed in their conversation that they paid no attention to it.
“Is there any doubt about her doing this definite thing that will save her?”
“That's the trouble, she fights against doing it with all her strength. She says she cannot do it.But I tell her she must do it!”
The knock sounded sharper. An attendant had come with a message from Seraphine asking Dr. Leroy to come to her at once. She was upstairs in Mrs. Wells' sitting-room. Something serious had happened.
“Tell Mrs. Walters that I will be right up,” he said. “You had better wait here, doctor.” Leroy glanced at his watch. “It's half-past nine. We have three hours.”