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For the purposes of this narrative, which is concerned almost exclusively with the poignant strangeness of a woman's experiences, it is sufficient to say that Captain Christopher Herrick was what is generally known as a fine fellow—handsome, modest, well-to-do, altogether desirable as a lover and a husband. At thirty-five he had made for himself an enviable position as a New York architect, one who was able to strike out boldly in new lines while maintaining a reasonable respect for venerable traditions. He had served gallantly in the war and he was now, for quite understandable reasons, desperately in love with Penelope Wells.
On this particular evening when Christopher had been summoned by his much respected friend, Dr. Owen, to dine and discuss a matter of immediate importance, the young officer had accepted eagerly. For some time he had wanted to talk with the doctor about Penelope's nervous condition. He was drawn to this girl by a force that stirred the depths of his being—he could not live without her; yet his love was clouded by anxiety at her strange behavior.
Christopher's face was troubled. His brain was ina turmoil. The happenings of the last few days bewildered him. Life had seemed so simple, so beautiful, with just their great love for each other to build on; but now.... He was only sure of one thing, that from the moment Penelope Wells had come to him as a ministering angel across the scarred and broken battle field, he had adored her with a love that would endure until the day of his death ... and, he told himself, beyond that!
“Chris, my boy,” began Owen in his bluff, cheery way when they had retired to the study for coffee and cigars, “I am in a difficulty, I must ask you some questions that may embarrass you—it's the only way out.”
Herrick's clear, honest gaze met the doctor's eyes unflinchingly.
“That's all right, sir. Go ahead. I suppose it's about Mrs. Wells?”
“Yes. I am very much interested in her case, not only on your account, but because she is a wonderful woman. When I write your father I'll tell him he's going to have a daughter-in-law who will make him sit up and take notice. Ha, ha!”
The young man's heavy brows contracted gloomily.
“I wish that were true, sir, but—you know what I told you?”
“About her refusing you? Don't worry over that. Just wait until we get her health built up a little.”
“Do you think she will change her mind? Did she say so?” Herrick asked eagerly.
“Pretty nearly that. If she doesn't marry you, she won't marry anyone. The fact is—Mrs. Wells is suffering from a nervous strain, I'm not sure what it is, but there are abnormal symptoms and—I hate to force your confidence, Chris, but, speaking as Mrs. Wells' medical adviser and a mighty good friend of yours, a sort of representative of your father—you know how close your father and I have always been?”
“Yes, sir, I know. I'll do anything you say.”
“You want to help this lovely lady? You want to make her happy?”
“That's what I want more than anything in this world,” the officer's grey eyes flashed with the spirit of a lover and a soldier.
“Good. Now the way to do it is—you must help her by helping me. I think I understand the situation up to a week ago, but since then—well, it's a little complicated. Mrs. Wells has paid you two visits in the last few days, hasn't she?”
“Yes. Did she tell you?”
“She told me a little. Try some of that port, Chris, and light another cigar,” the older man said genially. “We may as well be comfortable. There! Now tell me about Mrs. Wells' first visit—after the dance?”
At this invitation the young officer began quite frankly and with a certain sense of humor to describe the circumstances that led up to the climax, but presently he hesitated, and, observing this, Owen said: “No false delicacy, please. It's extremely important to me as a doctor to know everything that happened. You say Mrs. Wells came in chilled and frightened and—then what?”
“Then I threw a couple of logs on the fire and wasjust going to get her some brandy against the cold when there came an awful racket overhead, it shook the whole place and Penelope was so startled that—just instinctively I put my arm around her. She clung to me and—I tried to soothe her and before I knew it—I couldn't help it—I kissed her.”
The doctor smiled. “If you hadn't kissed her under those circumstances, my boy, I would never have forgiven you. Perhaps she wouldn't either. Well?”
“It's going to be pretty tough, sir, to tell you—some of this,” stammered Herrick, frowning at the carpet. “Penelope got awfully angry and said she was going to leave. I apologized and tried to square myself, but she wouldn't have it. She said I had insulted her and she refused to stay in my place another minute. I asked her to wait until I could get a dry coat and umbrella for her and then I would take her wherever she wanted to go. She agreed to wait and I went into the other room.”
Christopher paused and drew his chair closer to the doctor.
“Now here is a most extraordinary thing. When I left Penelope she was standing before the fire, furious with me, but when I came back, not two minutes later, she was lying on the divan with her eyes closed, apparently asleep. As I had been out of the room for so short a time, it seemed incredible that she could have really fallen asleep, yet there she was. I looked at her in astonishment. I wondered if she could have fainted, but I saw that her cheeks were flushed, herlips were red and she was breathing regularly. I didn't know what to make of it.”
“Well?” questioned the doctor.
Herrick shifted uneasily on his chair. “I haven't had much experience with women, sir, but I know they are complicated creatures, and I couldn't help thinking that Penelope was playing a little joke on me; so I bent over her and, after I had made up my mind that she wasn't ill and wasn't asleep, I—I kissed her again. That's another queer thing. Her lips were warm, her breathing was as soft and regular as a child's, but she never moved nor spoke nor responded in any way. She just lay there and—”
“You thought she was shamming?” suggested Owen.
“That's it, especially as she had been so angry with me just a few minutes before. I couldn't imagine anything else. So—er—”
“Go on,” said the older man.
“You know I have always respected women, and this woman was more to me than anything—she's the woman I want for my wife, so you see I would be the last man in the world to show her disrespect, but—” the young fellow flushed—“as I looked at her there on the divan—so beautiful—I longed to hold her in my arms and I said to myself that, even if she was tricking me, it was quite a pleasing trick—if she could stand it, I could—so I—I kissed her some more. I begged her to speak to me, to respond to me, to tell me she returned my love and would be my wife; but she didn't answer, didn't move, or speak, she didn't even open her eyes, and presently I was filled with a horrible senseof shame. I felt like a thief in the night, stealing caresses that were not meant for me or willingly given. I realized that something terrible must have happened to Penelope, although she looked so calm and beautiful.
“And now my only thought was to call for help. I hurried into the next room and tried to get you on the telephone, but they said you were at the hospital and could not be reached for an hour. Then I rushed back to the studio and, as soon as I came in, I could scarcely believe my eyes but there was Penelope standing in front of the fireplace, just as I had left her the first time. She was looking at the blazing logs with a thoughtful expression and when I came close to her, she faced me naturally and pleasantly as if nothing had happened.
“You can imagine my astonishment, I could not speak, but—I was so relieved to find her recovered that I put my arm around her affectionately and just touched my lips to her cheek. Heavens! You should have seen her then. She sprang away from me indignant. How dared I take such a liberty? Had she not reproved me already? It was incredible that a man who professed to care for her, a gentleman, should be so lacking in delicacy. And before I could do anything or explain anything, she had dashed out into the night alone, refusing even to let me walk beside her. Now then,” Christopher concluded, “what do you make of that?”
“Strange!” nodded the doctor, “very strange. And in spite of this she came to see you again?”
“Yes, two evenings later, without any warning, she burst into my studio about nine o'clock.”
“In a red dress?”
“Yes.”
“And a black hat?”
“Yes.”
“Good Lord, it's true!” muttered Owen. “Go on, my boy. I want the details. This may be exceedingly important. Go right through the scene from the beginning.”
After a moment of perplexed silence, Christopher continued: “When I say she burst in, that about expresses it. She was like a whirlwind, a red, laughing, fascinating whirlwind. I had never seen her half so beautiful—so alluring. I was mad about her and—half afraid of her.”
“Hm!” grunted Owen. “What did she do?”
“Do? She did a lot of things. In the first place she apologized for having been so silly the time before—after the ball. She said she was ill then, she didn't want to talk about it. Now she had come to make amends—that was the idea.”
“I see. Well?”
“Well, we sat before the fire and she asked me to make her a cocktail. She said she had had the blues and she wanted to be gay. So I mixed some cocktails and she took two, and she certainly was gay. I didn't know Penelope drank cocktails, but of course it was all right—lots of women do. Then she wanted to sit on the divan and she bolstered me up with pillows.She said she liked divans. I hate to tell you all this, sir.”
“Go on, Chris.”
“Pretty soon she wanted a cigarette and she began to blow smoke in my face, laughing and fooling and—finally she put her lips up so temptingly for another light that I ... I'll never forget how she bent over me and held my face between her two hands and kissed me slowly with a little sideways movement and told me to call her Fauvette—not Penelope. She said she hated the name Penelope. 'Call me Fauvette,' she said. 'I am your Fauvette, all yours.'”
“Extraordinary! This was the woman who had been furious with you only two nights before for daring to kiss her once?”
“Yes, sir. Now she was a siren, a wonderful, lithe creature, clinging to me. I almost lost control of myself. Once I caught her sharply by the shoulder—I tore her dress....”
Christopher stopped as the power of these memories overcame him. He covered his eyes with one hand, while the other clutched the chair arm.
The doctor waited.
“Well, sir,” the young man resumed, “I don't know how I came through that night without dishonor, but I did. There was a moment of madness, then suddenly, distinctly, like a gentle bell I heard a voice inside me, a sort of spiritual voice saying two words that changed everything. 'Your wife!' That is what she was to be, my wife! I loved her. I must defend her against herself, against myself. And I did. I got herout of that place—somehow. I got her home—somehow. I have been through several battles, doctor, but this one was the hardest.”
Captain Herrick drew a long sigh and sat silent.
“What's the answer, doctor?” he asked presently.
“I don't know, Chris. Upon my soul, I don't know.”
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Tuesday Night.
Heaven help me! I have heard the words that sound my doom. I saw Dr. Owen this morning. It is all true—my dream, and what I saw myself do in the bowl of goldfish. True! I did those incredible things. I wore my red dress and my black hat. I went to Captain Herrick's studio. I lay down on the divan—everything is true. Oh, God, this is too horrible! How can I ever face Christopher again? I wish I could die!
Dr. Owen questioned me about the name Fauvette—why did I ask Christopher to call me Fauvette? I have no idea. I hate and despise that name. It brings up memories that I wish might be forever blotted out of my mind. That was the name Julian used to call me when he had been drinking. He would pretend that I was another person, Fauvette, and sometimes Fauvette would do things that I refused to do. Fauvette would yield to his over-powering physical charm and would say dreadful things, would enter into his mood and become just the sort of animal creature that he wanted. It was like a madness.
Wednesday morning.
I cried my eyes out last night and lay awake for hours thinking about my unhappy life. All my pride and hopes have come to this—an irresponsible mind. It makes no difference whether the cause is shell shock or something else, the fact remains that my mind does not work properly—I do things without knowing or remembering what I do. I am sure I cannot live long—what have I to live for? I have made a will leaving my little fortune to Chris—he will never know how much I care for him—and my jewelry to Seraphine, except my silly thumb ring, which is for Roberta Vallis. She loves it.
This afternoonTheycame again.Theynever were so bad. I was walking down Fifth Avenue and, as I reached the cathedral, I thought I would go in and say my prayers. I love the soft lights and the smell of incense, but just at the doorTheybegan insulting me.
“Little fool! Little fool! She is going to say her prayers. Ha, ha!” They laughed.
I knelt down and breathed an old benediction, shutting my ears against the Voices:
“The peace of God which passeth all understanding—”
“Fauvette! Fauvette!”Theymocked me.
“Keep your hearts and minds in the knowledge and love of God—”
“She's a pretty little devil. I like her mouth.”
“And of his son, Jesus Christ our Lord—”
“Red dress! Red dress! Divan! Divan!”
“And the blessing of God Almighty, the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost—”
“She can't remember it. She's thinking of her lover. She wants to kiss her lover.” ThenTheysaid gross things and I could not go on. I got up from my knees, heartbroken, and came away.
∵
Thursday night.
I thought I should never be happy again, but whatever the future holds for me of darkness and sadness, I have had one radiantly happy day. Christopher telephoned this morning and arrived half an hour later with an armful of roses. He took me to luncheon, then for a drive in the Park, then to tea at the Plaza where we danced to delicious music, and finally to dinner and the theater. He would not leave me. And over and over again he asked me to marry him. He will not hear of anything but that I am to be his wife. He loves me, he worships me, he trusts me absolutely. Nothing that has happened makes the slightest difference to him. Dr. Owen is going to cure me in a few weeks, there is no doubt about it, Christopher says, and anyhow, he loves me.
If I were in Europe now I'd make a pilgrimage to the shrine of some saint and heap up offerings of flowers. Imustdo something to make others happy; my heart is overflowing with gratitude!
I thrilled with pride as I walked beside my lover on the Avenue this afternoon. He looked so tall andsplendid in his uniform. I love his eyes—his shoulders—everything about him. My Christopher!
I am to give him his answer within a week, but—what answer can I give him?
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Friday morning.
Alas! I have paid for my happiness—it was written, it had to be. I have lived through a night that cannot be described. Seraphine's prophetic words have come true. Horror! Terror! I cannot bear it any longer. It is quite impossible for me to bear it any longer. I have sent for Seraphine, begging her to come to me at once—this afternoon, this evening, any time tonight, before I sleep again. I would sooner die than endure another such night.
∵
Saturday morning.
Seraphine did not get my note until late, but in spite of a snow-storm, she came to me and stayed all night. Dear Seraphine! She spends her life helping and comforting people in distress. She sees nothing but trouble from morning till night, yet she is always cheerful and jolly. She says God wants her to laugh and grow fat, so she does.
We talked for hours and I told her everything—or nearly everything. There is only one abominable memory that I can never tell to anyone, I may write it some day in the red leather volume of my diary that is locked with a key and that must be burned before Idie. I told Seraphine how I was suddenly awakened Thursday night by a horrible feeling that there was apresencenear me in my bedroom. Then I slept again and saw myself all in white lying on the ground surrounded by a circle of black birds with hateful red eyes—fiery eyes. These birds came nearer and nearer and I knew I was suffering horribly as I lay there, yet I looked on calmly without a shred of sympathy for myself; in fact I felt only amused contempt when I saw the dream image of poor Penelope start up from the ground with a scream of fright.
While I opened my heart Seraphine sat silent, watching me like a loving mother. Several times she touched my arm protectingly, and once her gaze swept quickly down my skirt, then up again, as if she saw something moving.
“What is it? What do you see?” I asked, but she did not tell me.
When I had finished she kissed me tenderly and said she was so glad I had let her come to me in my distress. She told me there was a great and immediate danger hanging over me, but that God's infinite love would protect and heal me, as it protects all His children, if I would learn to draw upon it.
I asked what this danger was and Seraphine said it would strike at me very soon through a dark-haired woman; but she would try to help me, if I would heed her warnings. I don't know why but I immediately thought of Roberta Vallis, and the strange part of it is that within an hour, Roberta called me on the telephone to say she was coming up right away. Robertaand Seraphine had not seen each other for years, not since that night when Seraphine made her prophecy about me.
Within a half hour Roberta arrived very grand in furs and jewels, quite dashingly pretty and pleased with herself—the realjoie de vivrespirit. She was perfectly willing to reveal the source of this sudden magnificence, but I did not ask her—I know enough of Bobby's love affairs already—and I could see that she was uneasy under Seraphine's gravely disapproving eyes. She had come to invite me to a house-warming party that she is planning to give at her new apartment in the Hotel des Artistes. I shall meet all sorts of wonderful people, social and theatrical celebrities, and there will be music. Seraphine's eyes kept saying no, and I told Bobby I would telephone her tomorrow before six o'clock. I was not sure whether I could accept because—“Haven't you an engagement for Thursday with Captain Herrick?” suggested Seraphine.
Whereupon Bobby, with an impertinent little toss of her bobbed-off black hair, said: “Oh, Pen, why do you waste your time on a commonplace architect? He will never satisfy you—not in a thousand years. Bye-bye, I'll see you at the party.” Then away she went, her eyes challenging Seraphine who stands for all the old homely virtues, including unselfish love, that Bobby Vallis entirely disapproves of. What shall I do? Seraphine says I must not go to this party, but—I want to go!
∵
I have accepted Roberta's invitation, in spite of a warning from Seraphine that something dreadful will happen to me if I go. I have a morbid curiosity to see what experiencescanbe in store for me that are worse than those I have gone through already. Besides, I do not believe what Seraphine says—it is contrary to my reason, it is altogether fantastic. And, even if it were true, even if I really am in the horrible peril that she describes, what difference does it make where I go or what I do? I am just a spiritual outcast, marked for suffering—a little more or lessje m'en moque.
∵
I have hesitated to write down Seraphine's explanation of my trouble, even in my diary. I reject it with all the strength of my soul. I consider it absurd, I hate it, I try to forget it; but alas! it sticks in my thoughts like some ridiculous jingle. So I may as well face the thing on paper, here in the privacy of my diary, and laugh at it. Ha, ha!—is that false-sounding laughter?
Seraphine says that the great war has thrown the spirit world into confusion, especially in the lower levels where the new arrivals come and linger. Millions, have died on the battle field in hatred and violence. Great numbers of these have gone over so suddenly that they are not able to adjust themselves to the other plane where they constitute an immense company of earth-bound souls that long to come back. There are myriads of these unreconciled souls hovering all about us, crowding about us, eagerly, greedily, striving to come back. Some do not know that they are dead and rebel fiercely against their changed condition. The drunkards still thirst after drink. The murderers want to go on killing. The gluttons would fain gorge themselves with food, the lustful with bodily excesses. All these evil spirits, cut off from their old gratifications, try to satisfy their desires by re-entering earthly bodies, and often they succeed. That is the great peril of the war, she says. What a horrible thought! I simply refuse to believe that such things are possible.
And yet—those Voices!
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If this were a conventional novel and not simply a statement of essential facts in the strange case of Penelope Wells, there would be much elaboration of details and minor characters, including the wife of Dr. William Owen and an adventure that befell this lady during a week-end visit to Morristown, N. J., since this adventure has a bearing upon the narrative. As it is, we must be content to know that Mrs. William Owen was an irritable and neurasthenic person, a thorn in the side of her distinguished husband, who was supposed to cure these ailments. He could not cure his wife, however, and had long since given up trying. It was Mrs. Owen who quite unintentionally changed the course of events for sad-eyed Penelope.
It happened in this way. Dr. Owen received a call from Mrs. Seraphine Walters on the day following Seraphine's talk with Penelope and was not overjoyed to learn that his visitor was a trance medium. If there was one form of human activity that this hard-headed physician regarded with particular detestation it was that of mediumship. All mediums, in his opinion, were knaves or fools and their so-called occult manifestations were either conjurers' trickery or self-created illusions of a hypnotic character. He had never attended a spiritualistic séance and had no intention of doing so.
But in spite of his aversion for Seraphine'smétier, the doctor was impressed by the lady's gentle dignity and by her winsome confidence that she must be lovingly received since she herself came armed so abundantly with the power of love. Furthermore, it appeared that the medium had called for no other reason than to furnish information about her dear friend Penelope Wells, so the specialist listened politely.
“You are the first spiritualist I ever talked to, Mrs. Walters,” he said amiably. “You seem to have a sunny, joyous nature?”
Her face lighted up. “That is because I have so much to be grateful for, doctor. I have always been happy, almost always, even as a little girl, because—” She checked herself, laughing. “I guess you are not interested in that.”
“Yes I am. Go on.”
“I was only going to say that I have always known that there are wonderful powers all about us, guarding us.”
“You knew this as a little girl?”
“Oh, yes, I used to see Them when I was playing alone. I thought They were fairies. It was a long time before I discovered that the other children did not see Them.”
“Them! Hm! How long have you been doing active work as a medium?”
“About fifteen years.”
“What started you at it? I suppose there were indications that you had unusual powers?”
“Yes. There were indications that I had been chosen for this work. I don't know why I was chosen unless it is that I have never thought much about myself. That is the great sin—selfishness. My controls tell me that terrible punishment awaits selfish souls on the other side. I was so happy when I learned that the exalted spirits can only manifest through a loving soul. They read our thoughts, see the color of our aura and, if they can, they come to those who have traits in common with their own.”
“If they can—how do you mean?”
“My controls tell me that many spirits cannot manifest at all, just as many humans cannot serve as mediums.”
At this moment a maid entered the office and spoke to Dr. Owen in a low tone saying that Mrs. Owen had sent her to remind the doctor that this was Saturday morning and that they were leaving for Morristown in an hour to be gone over Sunday. No message could have been more unfortunate than this for Dr. Owen's equanimity, since he abominated week-end invitations, particularly those like the present one (which Mrs. Owen revelled in) from pretentiously rich people.
“Very well. Tell Mrs. Owen I will be ready,” he said, then turned with changed manner to poor Seraphine, whose brightening chances were now hopelessly dissipated.
“Suppose we come to the point, Mrs. Walters,” hewent on. “I am rather pressed for time and—you say you are a friend of Mrs. Wells? Have you any definite information bearing upon her condition?”
“Oh, yes,” she replied and at once made it clear that she was fully informed as to Penelope's distressing symptoms.
“She is suffering from shell shock,” said the doctor.
“No, no!” the medium disagreed, sweetly but firmly. “Penelope's trouble is due to something quite different and far more serious than shell shock.”
Then earnestly, undaunted by Owen's skeptical glances, Seraphine proceeded to set forth her belief that there is today in the world such a thing as literal possession by evil spirits.
“You mean that as applying to Mrs. Wells?” the doctor asked with a weary lift of the shoulders.
“Yes, I do. I can give you evidence—if you will only listen—”
“My dear lady, I really cannot go into such a—purely speculative field. I must handle Mrs. Wells' case as I understand it with the help of means that I am familiar with.”
“Of course, but, doctor,” she begged, “don't be vexed with me, I am only trying to save this dear child, I love Penelope and—Imustsay it—you are not making progress. She is going straight on to—to disaster. Iknowwhat I am saying.”
For a moment he hesitated.
“What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to have a consultation with Dr. Edgar Leroy.”
“Dr. Edgar Leroy? Who is he? I never heard of him.”
“He is a New York doctor who has had great success in cases like Penelope's—cases of obsession or—possession.”
“Oh! Does he believe in that sort of thing? Is he a spiritualist?”
Seraphine felt the coldness of his tone and shrank from it, but she continued her effort, explaining that Dr. Leroy had been a regular practitioner for years, but he had changed his methods after extended psychic investigations that had led him to new knowledge—such wonderful knowledge! Her deep eyes burned with the zeal of a great faith.
“I see. Where is his office?”
“In Fortieth Street—it's in the telephone book—Dr. Edgar Leroy. If you only knew the extraordinary cures he has accomplished, you would realize how necessary it is for Penelope to have the help he alone can give her.”
She waited eagerly for his reply.
“How do you happen to know so much about this doctor?”
“Because I have been allowed to help him. He uses me in diagnosis.”
“You mean that Dr. Leroy relies upon information that you give him as a medium in treating cases?” He spoke with frank disapproval.
“Yes.”
Dr. Owen thought a moment. “Of course, Mrs. Wells is free to consult anyone she pleases, but I wouldnot feel justified in advising her to go to Dr. Leroy.”
“But youmustadvise it, you must insist upon it,” urged Seraphine. “Penelope relies entirely upon you, she will do nothing without your approval, and this is her only hope.”
“My dear lady, you certainly are not lacking in confidence, but you must realize that I cannot advise a treatment for Mrs. Wells that involves the use of spiritualistic agencies when I do not believe in spiritualism. In fact, I regard spiritualism as—”
Seraphine lifted her hand with a wistful little smile that checked the outburst.
“Don't say it—please don't. Will you do one thing, doctor, not for me but for poor Penelope? Come to my house Monday night. I have a little class there, a class of eight. We have been working together for three months and—we have been getting results. You may be allowed to witness manifestations that will convince you. Will you come?” she pleaded.
“You mean that I may see a spirit form? Or hear some tambourines playing? Something of that sort?” His tone was almost contemptuously incredulous.
The anxious suppliant was gathering her forces to reply when the hall clock struck solemnly, bringing back disagreeably to the specialist's mind his impending social duty, and this was sufficient to turn the balance of his decision definitely against Seraphine. He shook his head uncompromisingly.
“I cannot do it, madam. I am sorry to disappoint you, but I have strong convictions on this subjectand—” He rose to dismiss her. “Now I must ask you to excuse me.”
In spite of this disappointment Seraphine did not lose faith. “Dear child,” she wrote to Penelope that night, “I am like a man in the darkness whoknowsthe sun will rise soon and is not discouraged. Before many days Dr. Owen will listen to me and be convinced.”
Firm in this confidence, the medium returned to Dr. Owen's office the following Monday morning, but she was coldly received. A rather condescending young woman brought out word that the specialist was exceedingly busy and could not see her.
“But it issoimportant,” pleaded Mrs. Walters with eyes that would have moved a heart of stone. “Couldn't you ask him to give me a few minutes? I'll be very grateful.”
The office assistant wavered. “I'll tell you why you had better come back another day, madam,” she began confidentially; “Dr. Owen is very much upset because his wife has just lost some valuable jewelry. You see, Mrs. Owen went to Morristown for the week-end and took a jewel box with her in her trunk—there was a pearl necklace and some brooches and rings; but when she came to dress for dinner last night—”
“Wait! I—I hear something,” Seraphine murmured and sank down weakly on a chair. She closed her eyes and her breathing quickened, while the young woman bent over her in concern; but almost immediately the psychic recovered herself and looked up with a friendly smile.
“It's all right. You are very kind. I am happy now because I can do something for Dr. Owen. Please tell him his wife is mistaken in thinking that she took the jewels with her. The jewels are here in this house—now.”
“What makes you think that?”
“My control says so.” The medium spoke with such a quiet power of manner that the office assistant was impressed.
“Suppose I tell Mrs. Owen?” she suggested.
“Very well, tell Mrs. Owen. Ask her if I may go to the room where she last remembers having her jewel box?”
The young woman withdrew with this message and presently returned to say that Mrs. Owen would be glad if Seraphine would come up to her bedroom. A few minutes later Seraphine faced a querulous invalid propped up against lace pillows.
“I am positive I put my jewel box in the trunk,” insisted Mrs. Owen. “It is foolish to say that I did not, it is perfectly useless to look for the jewels in this house. However—what are you doing? Why do you look at me so strangely?”
“The jewels are—in this room—in a chintz sewing bag,” the psychic declared slowly, her eyes far away.
“Absurd!”
“I see the sewing bag—distinctly. There are pink roses on it.”
“I have a sewing bag like that,” admitted the doctor's wife, “it is on a shelf in the closet—there! Willyou get it for me, Miss Marshall? We shall soon see about this. Now then!” She searched through the bag, but found nothing. “I told you so. My husband is quite right in his ideas about mediums. I really wish you had not disturbed me,” she said impatiently.
But the medium answered pleasantly: “I have only repeated what my control tells me. I am sorry if I have annoyed you. I advise you to search the house carefully.”
“I have done that already,” said Mrs. Owen.
Whereupon Seraphine, still unruffled, took her departure, with these last words at the door to the office assistant: “Please tell Dr. Owen that I beg him most earnestly to have the house searched for his wife's jewels. Otherwise one of the servants will find them.”
And Dr. Owen, in spite of his scientific prejudices, in spite of his wife's positive declaration that the jewels had been stolen during her visit, and that the house had been thoroughly searched, acted on this suggestion and had the house searched again.And this time the missing jewel box was found, with the necklace, rings and brooches all intact, in a chintz sewing bag covered with pink roses!
It seems that Mrs. Owen had two chintz bags, one for ordinary sewing, one for darning, and in the latter bag, hanging on a nail behind the bureau, where the doctor's wife had absent-mindedly hidden it, the missing jewel box was discovered.
“This beats the devil!” exclaimed the doctor when he heard the good news. And an hour later he sentthe following telegram to Seraphine: “Jewels found, thanks to you. We are very grateful. I have reconsidered the matter and accept your invitation for tonight. Will call at eight o'clock.”
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New York January 31, 1919.
An extraordinary thing happened on Monday night at Seraphine's apartment. I must write down the details before they fade from my memory. Seraphine telephoned Monday morning that there was to be a meeting of her occult class in the evening and she wanted me to come as Dr. Owen had promised to be there. She regarded this as a great opportunity to help me. Darling Seraphine! Of course I could not refuse, although I abhor spiritualism. I love Seraphine for what she is, and in spite of her queer beliefs.
When we were gathered together and after introductions to her class (there were six or seven devout believers), Seraphine explained that it was difficult to obtain psychic manifestations in the presence of active disbelief, and she begged us to maintain an attitude of friendly open-mindedness. I am afraid I did not do this all the time.
We had first some psychic reminiscences and Seraphine described in detail how on a certain night years ago she and her sister were sleeping together in aheavy mahogany fourposter bed, when the whole bed with the two women was lifted several inches from the floor and rocked about, and was then held suspended in the air while the chamber resounded with strange music. In my opinion, this was a dream or an illusion.
I am also skeptical about the testimony of one of the group, a New York minister, who told us that his dead wife has come to him in the night on several occasions in materialized form and has spoken to him, kissed him, and taken loving counsel with him about the children and about other matters. I am sure this minister was the victim of some kind of hallucination.
And I cannot believe a statement of Seraphine's regarding a Southern woman who is possessed by an evil spirit that forces her to drinking excesses so that she has spoiled her whole life. Seraphine described to us with ghastly vividness the appearance of this evil entity which she is able tosee, through her clairvoyant vision, with its hideous leering countenance, inside the lady. For my partI refuse to believe it.
I admit that I began to have creepy sensations when Seraphine went into an entranced condition in the cabinet. Then came the happenings that I do not understand and I know Dr. Owen does not understand them either, but that does not prove that they were supernatural. I distinctly saw two white shapes rise from the floor—one of them was so close to me that I could have touched it with my hand, but I did not because I was afraid. Besides, I was sitting in a semi-circle with the others and our hands were joined. Dr. Owen, however, was at the end of the line with one handfree, and I saw him reach out towards the apparition (it was about four feet high) and it seemed to me that his hand and arm passed right through the white shape. As he did this I heard a long sigh and a rustling sound and I was conscious of a chilling breath on my face. I asked Dr. Owen about this afterwards and he said that when his hand touched the shape it felt as if he was grasping thick smoke.
The appearance of the second white shape was more terrifying because Seraphine came out of the cabinet when she evoked it. She wore a loose white garment and moved about the room in the near darkness like a woman walking in her sleep. She repeated a beautiful prayer in a slow dreamy voice—I wish I could remember it, the idea was that a great disaster might be averted if God would open the eyes of two of His doubting children. I suppose she meant Dr. Owen and me.
Then the second white shape appeared and seemed to rise and grow into the likeness of a woman, but presently it wavered and dissolved. Seraphine reached out her arms towards it imploringly and I saw a woman's hand take shape clearly and rest on Seraphine's hand, but this presently faded away, like a thing of vapor, and was gone. I have no idea what those white shapes were, or why they came, or why they went; but neither have I any idea as to the operation of X-rays. These white shapes may in a few years turn out to be perfectly simple laboratory phenomena, no more mysterious than wireless phenomena weretwenty-five years ago.I refuse to believe that a living person can be possessed by an evil spirit!
Looking back at this séance, what troubles me is an utterance about myself that is supposed to have been made by a voice from the other side. This came at the very end when Seraphine went into an entranced condition again, with the lights up.
“I have a message for one who is tenderly loved by an exalted spirit,” she said, sighing heavily, her eyes closed, “one who would come to her, but there is a barrier. She can regain health and happiness if she will cleanse her soul of evil. She must confess a sinful purpose that she entertained in her heart on the night of June 14, 1914.”
June 14, 1914! I looked up this date in my diary and find that it was the occasion of Roberta Vallis' party when Seraphine made her prophecy about me. Now I remember. We were considering what a woman can do to satisfy her emotional nature if she has no chance to marry and longs for the companionship of a man. I said, according to my diary, that “there is a sacred right given by God to every woman who is born, a right that not even God Himself can take away—” Then I was interrupted by Seraphine and I did not tell them what that sacred right is or what use I personally proposed to make of it.
But I knew and know still, and the question that distresses me is whether an exalted spirit (could it be my mother?) really possesses this knowledge of my wicked purpose—if it was wicked—or whether this is simply a case of mind reading by Seraphine.
“She can regain health and happiness if she will cleanse her soul of evil—”That was the message. Is it true? Is there evil in my heart? Have I entertained a sinful purpose? Have I the courage to answer this question truthfully, even in these secret pages—have I?
Yes, I will put down the truth and justify myself in my own eyes. Then I will burn this book. I would die of shame if Christopher should ever read this confession.
As my chief justification, I dwell upon the frightful wrong that my husband did me when he took away my faith in men, my faith in their ability or willingness to be true to one woman. He did this by his words and by his acts. He assured me that sex desire in the male is so resistless that, when conflict arises between this desire and the teachings of religion, it is the latter which are almost invariably set aside; with the result that great numbers of men, brought up as Christians, either renounce Christianity (if they are honest) or find themselves forced into a life of hypocritical compromise in regard to sex indulgence. Julian told me this over and over again, no doubt to excuse his own delinquencies, until it was burned into my soul that, whatever happened, I would never marry another man, and expose myself to torments and humiliations such as I had endured with him—never!
After my husband died I had to face a problem that confronts thousands of high principled young women, widows, divorcées, in America and in all countries—how could I bear the torture of this immense loneliness? How could I adjust myself to life without theintimate companionship of a man? How could I satisfy my emotional nature? How?
There were two solutions, a second marriage and a lover. I rejected the first solution for reasons already given and the second solution because of evidence all about me that one lover usually means two, three, half a dozen lovers, since men grow weary and change and women, in loneliness or desperation, change also. Never would I let myself sink to the degrading level of sexcomplaisancethat is sadly or cynically accepted by many women, self-supporting and self-respecting, in many American cities, simply because they cannot combat conditions that have been created and perpetuated by the stronger sex.
Therefore I worked out a third solution that was to satisfy my emotional nature and at the same time give me a reason for existence. I would adopt a little waif as my child, a French or Belgian waif, and I would bring up this child to be a useful and happy man or woman. I would love it, care for it, teach it, and with this responsibility andsoulagement, I would be able to endure the loneliness of the long years stretching before me. I would find this child while I was in France working for the Red Cross and bring it home after the war, only—
My purpose was to adopt a child that should be born of my own body!
That is my sin, a sin never committed, save in intention, yet a sin that would have been committed, if things had happened differently. The arguments (based on the sacred right of motherhood and thelonging for a child) that led me to my original purpose still seem valid to me. It is terrible to say this now, but I must tell the truth and the truth is that, if I had not met Captain Herrick, I would have done this thing. My whole plan of life was changed because I loved Captain Herrick. What was previously impossible became possible, and what was previously possible became impossiblebecause I loved Captain Herrick.
That is the truth.