"If the storm abates just a little——" he began.
"It won't," declared Joshua. "It's a little mite less windy but this snowfall's only just begun. Itwon't quit for days,—lessen it turns to rain,—and then the goin''ll be a heap worse."
It didn't seem as if the going could be much worse. Already the men had difficulty in moving because of their wet, half-frozen clothing. Available wood was buried under the snow, their strength was becoming impaired, and all things pointed to even worse weather conditions.
Reluctantly Shelby and Blair agreed to Joshua's plans, realizing that Peter might be all right and on his homeward journey, and further delay might result in their own loss of life. For the outlook was menacing, and Joshua's knowledge and advice were sincere and authoritative.
And still it snowed. Steadily, persistently, uninterruptedly. There seemed a permanency about that soft, downward moving mass that foreboded danger and defeat to any one who remained to dare it further.
And so they started again, half glad to go, half unwilling to leave. It was the terrible uncertainty that told on them. They shrank from facing the thought of what it would mean if they didn't find Peter, and forced themselves to believe that they would meet him.
Their objective point was a trapper's log house on the shore of the lake.
They reached it, tired, footsore, but full of hope for good news. A quick glance round the tiny interior,consisting of but two rooms, showed no smiling-faced Peter.
A few words from Joshua to the trappers gave no cause for rejoicing, and further conversation and explanation revealed the fact that the experienced trappers had no doubt as to Peter's fate.
Nor did they blame Joshua in any way. Had he stayed for a longer search, they averred, there would have been four dead men instead of one.
And then both Shelby and Blair realized that Joshua's expressed hopefulness of finding Peter safe at the end of their journey was merely by way of urging them to move on, knowing the result if they did not.
They also realized that he was right. The opinions and assertions of the experienced trappers could not be gainsaid. The two came to know that there was but one fate that could have overtaken their comrade and that there was no hope possible.
If Shelby had a slight feeling that Blair ought to have looked back oftener, he gave it no voice, for he knew he himself had never looked back with any idea of watching over Blair. To be sure the last one of the four was in the most dangerous position, but Peter had come last by mere chance, and no one had given that point a thought.
They surmised something must have disabled him. Perhaps a cramp or a fainting spell of exhaustion. But it was necessarily only surmise, and one theory was as tenable as another.
Long parleys were held by Blair and Shelby as to what was best to be done. It proved to be impossible to persuade any one to start on a search for the body of Crane. The winter had set in and it was a hopeless task to undertake in the snows of the wild. No, they were told, not until March at the earliest, could a search be undertaken, and there was small chance of finding the body until later spring melted the snow. It was to be an especially bad winter, all agreed, and no pleas, bribes or threats of the men could move the natives from their decision.
Then, they debated, should they go home, or wait till spring?
The latter plan seemed foolish, for it was now nearly November and to wait there idly for five or six months was appalling. Moreover, it seemed their duty to go home and report Peter's loss to his father, even if they returned in the spring to search for the body of their chum.
The last boat left for Newfoundland the middle of November, and they concluded that if there was no news of Peter by that time they would sail on it. "I feel cowardly to go," said Shelby, whose brain was weary, working out the problem of duty. "Yet, why stay?"
"It's right to go," Blair said, gravely. "You see, Mr. Crane must betold,—not written to."
"One of us might go,—and one stay," Shelby suggested.
"No use in that," Blair said, after a moment's consideration; "the remaining one couldn't do anything."
"You men talk foolishness," said Joshua, gravely. "Mr. Peter Crane is by this time buried under eight feet of snow. You can do nothing. You'd both better go home."
So they went
The steamer from Newfoundland that brought Shelby and Blair to New York arrived during Christmas week.
The two men, however, were far from feeling holiday cheer as they reached the wharf and faced the hard trial of telling Mr. and Mrs. Crane of their son's death.
But it had to be done, and they felt it their duty to lose no time in performing the sad errand.
No one met them at the steamer, for its hour of arrival was uncertain and they had discouraged their friends from the attempt.
Indeed only telegrams from Newfoundland had apprised any one of their arrival, for letters would have come by the same boat they came themselves.
"Let's go straight to the Cranes' and get it over," said Blair; with a sigh. "I dread the ordeal."
"So do I," Shelby confessed. "I wish we could see Mr. Crane alone, first."
"We must do that, of course. It's only eight o'clock, and we're ready to start now. Come ahead."
They sent their luggage to their homes and took a taxi for the Crane town house, on upper Park Avenue.
By good fortune, Mr. Crane was at home and received them in his library. They had asked to see him alone, giving no names.
"My stars, if it isn't the wanderers returned!" exclaimed their host, as he entered and saw the two. "Where's my boy? Hiding behind the window curtain?"
But the expression on his visitors' faces suddenly checked his speech, and turning pale, Benjamin Crane dropped into the nearest chair.
"What is it?" he whispered, in a shaking voice. "I know it's bad news. Is Peter——"
"Yes," said Shelby, gently, but feeling that the shortest statement was most merciful. "The Labrador got him."
By a strange locution, Labrador, as we call it, is spoken of up there as The Labrador, and the phrase gives a sinister sound to the name. It personifies it, and makes it seem like a living menace, a sentient danger.
"Tell me about it," said Benjamin Crane, and his tense, strained voice told more of his grief than any outburst could have done.
"Lost in the snow! My little Peter Boots——" he said, after he had listened in silence to their broken recital. "Tell me more," he urged, andeagerly drank in any details they could give him of the tragedy and also of the doings of the party before that last, fatal day.
Blair looked at him in secret amazement. How could the man take it so calmly? But Shelby, a deeper student of human character, understood how the fearful shock of tragedy had stunned the loving father-heart. Slowly and quietly, Shelby related many incidents of the trip, drew word pictures of Peter in his gayest moods, told tales of his courage, bravery and unfailing good spirits.
But, though these things interested Crane and held his attention, there was no way to lessen the poignant sorrow of the last story,—the account of the terrible storm and the awful fate of Peter.
Shelby broke down, and Blair finished, with a few broken sentences.
The deep grief of the two, the sincere love of Peter and sorrow at his death proved better than protestations that they had done all mortal effort could do.
"I am not sure, sir," Shelby said, finally, "that we acted wisely, but it seemed the only course to take. We could not persuade any one to go for us or with us in search of Peter's body, until March at the earliest. To go alone, was mere suicide, and though I was tempted to do even that, rather than to return without him, it would not have been allowed."
"Oh, I understand perfectly," Crane said,quickly, "I wouldn't have had you do otherwise than just as you did. There was no use trying the impossible."
"But we will return in March——" began Blair.
"Perhaps," said Crane, a little preoccupied in manner, "or I will send a search party myself. There's no reason you boys should go."
This was a real relief, for though more than willing, the two men were far from anxious to undertake the gruesome errand.
"And now," their host went on, "if you agree, I'll send for Mrs. Crane. At first, I thought I'd rather tell her the news when we were by ourselves,—but, I know there are questions she will want to ask you, things that I might not think of,—and I know you'll be willing to answer her."
All unconscious of the scene awaiting her, Mrs. Crane came into the room.
A bewildered look on her sweet, placid face showed her inability to grasp the situation quickly.
Then, "Why, boys," she cried, "when did you come home? Where's Peter?"
To the others' relief Benjamin Crane told his wife of their mutual loss. Very gently he told her, very lovingly he held her hand and comforted her crushed and breaking heart. Shelby and Blair instinctively turned aside from the pitiful scene and waited to be again addressed.
At length Mrs. Crane turned her tear-stained face to them. Not so calm as her husband, she beggedfor details, then she wept and sobbed so hysterically she could scarcely hear them. Her thoughts flew back to the years when Peter was a lad, a child, a baby,—and her talk of him became almost incoherent.
"There, there, dear," Benjamin Crane said, smoothing her hair, "try to be quieter,—you will make yourself ill. Perhaps, boys, you'd better go now, and come round again to-morrow evening."
"No, no!" cried Mrs. Crane; "stay longer,—tell me more. Tell me everything he said or did,—all the time you were gone. Did he know he was going to die?"
"Oh, no, Mrs. Crane," Shelby assured her. "It was an accident, you see. The storm was beyond anything you can imagine. The wind was not only icy and cutting, but of a sharp viciousness that made it impossible to hear or to see. Almost impossible to walk. We merely struggled blindly against it,—againstit, you understand, so that if Peter, who was behind, had called out, we could not have heard him."
"Why was he last?" demanded Mrs. Crane.
"It happened so," replied Shelby. "I've tried hard to think if we were to blame for that,—but I cannot see that we were. Whenever we walked single file, we fell into line in any order. The subject never was mentioned or thought of. And so, that day, Peter was the last one. If Blair or I had fallen or been overcome by the cold,—whichis what we know must have happened,—we would have been seen by Peter, of course. But when he gave out, no one looked backward."
"You had been trudging like that long?" asked Crane.
"Oh, yes, for hours. We were all pretty nearly all in, but Joshua wouldn't let us stop,—dared not, in fact, for he knew the danger of that storm far better than we did. No, Mr. Crane, on the part of Blair and myself, I want to say that we had no thought other than our individual progress. That was all any one could think of, as Peter himself would say if he could speak."
"He has spoken," returned Crane, quietly; "he did say it."
"What!" exclaimed the two men together.
"Yes," the older man went on; "I think I will tell you, though I had half decided not to: What do you say, Mother?"
Mrs. Crane looked up. Her expression of dumb despair gave way to a look of quiet peace as she said, slowly: "Yes, dear, tell them. But let it be held confidential."
"You'll promise that, boys, won't you?" asked Crane, and only half understanding Blair and Shelby promised.
"Well, it was this way," Crane began, "You know we couldn't get letters from you chaps all the time you were away,—except the few early ones. Of course we knew that before you went, but wedidn't realize how lonely we would be without Peter Boots. Whenever he has been away before we could hear from him frequently. Julie is a dear girl, but she is a busy little butterfly, and many a time my wife and I are alone of an evening."
"And we're happy enough together," Mrs. Crane put in, gently; "but being alone, we naturally talked a great deal of Peter, and—and we couldn't help remembering the Gypsy's warning."
"Oh, I'd forgotten that!" exclaimed Blair. "What was it, now?"
"A prophecy that Peter would go on a long journey, and would meet with a terrible death. Now, the prophecy is fulfilled." Mrs. Crane's face, as she gazed upward, her eyes filled with tears, was like that of a seeress or prophetess. She appeared exalted, and unconscious of her grief for the moment.
"And there was further prophecy," Benjamin Crane continued, "that after his death, Peter would return. And when I say he has done so, I expect you to respect my story and not to doubt its truth."
"We shall most certainly respect your story, and no one could doubt your veracity, Mr. Crane," said Shelby, sincerely, though with a mental reservation that believing in Benjamin Crane's veracity did not necessarily mean subscribing to his hallucinations.
Blair's face showed his interest and curiosity, and Benjamin Crane went on with the tale to a breathlessly absorbed audience.
"It did come about, I've no doubt, because of our talks of Peter; and also, because we chanced to hear of some neighbors who had wonderful success with a Ouija Board."
A sudden, involuntary exclamation on the part of Blair was immediately suppressed by a warning glance from Shelby. It would never do to show scorn of the Ouija Board and all its works in the presence of this afflicted couple. If any comfort from its use had reached them or could reach them, it must be a blessing indeed.
"Yes," Crane said, catching the meaning of the look on Blair's face, "I know how you feel about such things, but just reserve judgment until you hear our experiences. We bought a Board, and mother and I tried to use it alone. We had no success at all. It would spell nothing coherent,—only meaningless jumbles of letters,—or simply refuse to move. Of course, you understand, we had no thought that our boy was—was in any danger,—but we had been told that sometimes living persons communicated by such means. So we persevered, but we never got a message."
"Then what happened?" asked Blair, eagerly, seeing from the faces of the older people that something had.
"Why then," Mrs. Crane spoke now,—"we found somebody to help us. I'd rather not tell the name,—it was a lady——"
"A medium?" asked Shelby.
"Oh, no! I mean, not a professional medium,—a lady we've known for years. She had had some experience with the Board, and she tried it with us. And then,—you tell it, father."
"Then," said Mr. Crane, speaking very seriously, "then we got a message from Peter. The message said that he had died in the snow."
"What!" cried Shelby, "incredible! When was this?"
"In November."
"Peter died the seventeenth of October."
"Yes, and it was the tenth of November that we had the message."
"Just what did it say?" asked Blair, his eyes wide with amazement.
"It was a little stammering and uncertain, as if hard to get it through. But the Ouija spelled out Peter's name, and when she—Miss—when the lady with us asked if it had a message from Peter, it pointed to 'yes.' Then she tried to get the message. But the words were a little mixed up. There wassnowandiceandstormand at last the worddead. When we asked if Peter had died in a snowstorm the Board said yes. So, we knew the prophecy was fulfilled at last. The news you brought us was corroboration, not a surprise."
Shelby restrained himself by an effort. His sharp glance at Blair made him keep quiet also. Neither was at all impressed at the story Crane told them, except to be moved to ridicule. Well theyknew how a Ouija Board will make glib statements as startling as they are untrue.
But this one happened to be true. Even so, the fact of its relation by such means was unbelievable to both the hearers.
Yet, they could not disturb the faith of the parents of their lost chum.
"I am glad, for your sakes, that you had a premonitory warning," said Shelby, in all sincerity. "Such things are indeed beyond our ken. Did you get any further details?"
"No," said Crane; "but, I learn, you have no further details yourselves. My boy perished in the snowstorm, alone and helpless. What more is there to know?"
"Nothing that we could tell," spoke up Blair, a little excitedly, "but surely, the spirit of Peter,—if it was he speaking to you,—could have told more!"
"It is clear you have had no experience in these matters," Crane said, mildly; "the messages are not easy to get, nor are they concise and clear, like a telegram. Only occasionally does one get through, and then if it is informative we are duly grateful,—and not dissatisfied and clamoring for more."
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Crane; I am inexperienced, but I assure you I am not a scoffer. And of course, I believe your statements."
"Of course!" exclaimed Mrs. Crane, a littlecrisply. "Surely we would not invent such a story!"
"No, indeed," said Shelby. "It is strange, you must admit. Have you had any further communications from Peter?"
"A few," Mr. Crane spoke a bit reluctantly, for he could see that the men were receptive from a motive of politeness, and not with sympathetic interest. "He has sent other messages, but they would not, I fear, convince you."
"Now, don't blame us, Mr. Crane," Blair broke out, impetuously; "remember, we're just from the place where we left Peter,—remember, we love him, too,—and remember, if we could be convinced that he had spoken we would be as interested as you are."
"Well put, my boy," and Crane seemed greatly mollified. "Now, merely as an admission of facts, do you believe that the Ouija Board gave the messages exactly as I have detailed the proceedings to you?"
"I do," said Blair, "that is, I believe you have told the exact truth of what you observed."
"Then, can you refuse to believe that the message came from the spirit of my dead boy? Who else knew of his death? How could any one know of it?"
"True enough," and Blair shook his head, noncommittally.
Crane sighed. "You don't believe," he said, butwithout annoyance. "Yet, remember, greater minds and wiser brains than yours believe. Are not you a little presumptuous to set your opinion against theirs?"
"I don't mean to be presumptuous, Mr. Crane," Blair spoke decidedly, "but I do think my opinion on this subject as good as any man's."
"Then you are condemning the matter, unheard, which you will allow is not strictly just."
"Come, come, Blair," said Shelby, distressed at his attitude, "don't discuss things of which you know nothing. Mr. Crane has gone deeply into the subject and must know more about it than we do." He gave Blair a positive glance of reproof, and tried to make him see that he must stop combating their host's theories, if only for reasons of common politeness.
"But I'm interested," persisted Blair. "If Peter came here and told his father he was dead,— I want to look into these things. You see, it's the first time I've ever been up against a real case of this sort. Own up, Shelby, it's all mighty queer."
Benjamin Crane looked kindly at Blair. "That's the talk, my boy. If you're really interested, come round some night, and with you here, Peter may talk through, all the better."
"Rubbish!" Shelby thought, silently, but aloud, he only said:
"Yes, Blair, do that. And drop the subject for the present. Is Julie at home, Mrs. Crane?"
"No; she's away for a few days. Poor child, she will be heartbroken. She adored Peter Boots," and Mrs. Crane again gave way to tears.
"What does Julie think about the messages?" asked Blair, thoughtfully.
"We didn't tell her," said Crane. "She's so emotional, and—well, of course, we couldn't help hoping that it mightn't be true. And, too, Julie hates all talk of spiritism."
"Sensible girl!" thought Shelby, as Mrs. Crane was saying:
"But Julie went to Sir Rowland's lectures and she was deeply interested."
"Lectures?" asked Blair.
"Yes; there have been a great many this season. I'm sorry you had to miss them. They're over now. But I can't see how any one could listen to that delightful man talk on such subjects in his beautiful way and not be convinced of the truth of it all."
"What did he say?" asked Shelby.
"That's too big a question to be answered in a sentence," and Crane smiled a little, "but he gave us incontrovertible proof that the spirits of the dead return and communicate with their friends who are still on earth."
"Through a Ouija Board?" Blair inquired.
"Yes; and by actual manifestation as well. I've never consulted a real medium, but now that I know Peter is gone, I shall do so."
"Don't!" Shelby said, quite involuntarily. Then,seeing the look in Crane's eyes, he added: "Forgive me, sir, I have no right to advise. But I've been told that all professional mediums are frauds."
"We are told many things,—both for and against," returned Crane, "but if Sir Rowland is willing to consult them, and believes in them, I'm ready to sail under his flag."
"Of course. And you've a perfect right to do so." Shelby felt he couldn't control his real opinions much longer, and wanted to go. "May I come to see you again, soon,—and talk over the matters of Peter's things,—which, of course, we brought home? And, I'd like to see Julie."
"She'll be home by to-morrow evening. Of course, we'll send for her. And I know she'll want to see you both. Perhaps not just at first, but after a few days. Please come to the house whenever you will,—just as you used to do."
"Yes, do," added Mrs. Crane, her lip quivering at the remembrance of the old days when the boys were jolly together.
"And Miss Harper, how is she?" asked Blair, who had been longing to put the question for some time.
"Well, as usual," replied Mrs. Crane. "She was here last night. She——"
"She's a dear girl," Crane interrupted his wife, and a peculiar look crossed his face. "You come round soon again, boys, but I fear we must let you go now. My wife is keeping up bravely, but——"he glanced at the little woman tenderly, and took her hand in his. "And I, too, don't feel like talking more now. So good-night,—and, thank you for all your good comradeship with my boy,—my Peter Boots."
"We want sympathy, too, Mr. Crane," said Blair; "Peter was very dear to us both. We're not given to spilling over, but we have lost a dear friend and chum whose place can never be filled by another."
"Right!" said Shelby, in a choked voice, and his handclasp with Peter's father said the rest.
But once on the street his exasperation broke forth in words. "I can stand any sort of idiots," he said, "except spook idiots! They make me want to go back to the Labrador!"
"Sort of queer, though, that message,—from Peter——"
"From Peter—nothing! Don't desecrate that boy's memory by even an implication that he'd fiddle with a Ouija Board! Ugh!"
"How do you explain it, then?"
"There's nothing to explain."
"You think Crane,—er—misstated?"
"Oh, I think he thought he had a message,—but he was duped. They all are. I know all about that Sir Rowland. I've read his books. He's dotty on the subject. Keep off the rocks, Blair. You've a leaning that way, and if you don't look out you'll fall for it, too."
"Wonder why Mr. Crane shut his wife up when she started to say something about Carly Harper."
"Oh, that was nothing particular. Anyway, you can see Carly for yourself. I expect she'll be hard hit by Peter's death. They were practically engaged."
"How'd you know?"
"Peter told me,—not in words, bless his heart! He just let it out when he was in a babbling mood. I mean, he let fall side remarks, and I just gathered the truth. I didn't tell him I knew. Open-hearted as he was, Peter was reserved in some ways."
"Dear old chap, so he was. Our great work will never materialize now. Unless I write it alone. I'd like to do that,—and publish it over both our names, and explain in a preface."
"Do," said Shelby; "it would please the old people a lot."
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,—whenI'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 Craneséances? 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 messagesfrom 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 aséancewith 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 realséance—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 anotherséance, 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 quitedecided 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 nextséance?"
"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 theséancewas 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 equallyhard-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!"
"Old man Crane's gone nutty," Shelby remarked.
"Been going for some time," agreed Blair, and McClellan Thorpe nodded his head decidedly.
The three sat in the studio apartment occupied by Blair and Thorpe, who had just returned from dining at their club.
Shelby had come home with them, but was soon to leave to keep an engagement.
"You'll scarcely believe what I'm up to to-night," Shelby went on, "I'm going to aséancewith Mr. Crane."
"I say, Kit," remonstrated Thorpe, "I don't think you ought to encourage him. He's daft enough on the subject now, and your approval makes him worse."
"I'm trying to stop him," Shelby said, quietly. "I think if I go to the fool thing I can see how she works it and tell Mr. Crane, and he'll be convinced of her trickery."
"Are you convinced of it?" asked Thorpe.
"I've never seen this one, but it's my opinion all professional mediums are fakes," Shelby replied, seriously; "it may not be so, but I believe I can tell after one investigation. I shall pretend to be greatly impressed and all that, but I'll keep my eyes open. And I'm not going to upset Mr. Crane unnecessarily. But if I think she's just fooling him along for the money that's in it, I'm going to tell him so."
"Even at that," Blair put in, "maybe it's worth the money to him to be fooled. He's rich enough."
"Maybe. But I hate to see a man swindled. However, I've agreed to go with him once, and I'm glad to go. Good-by, I'll report results later."
"You see," Blair said to Thorpe after Shelby had gone, "Kit and I can't help feeling a sort of responsibility for this fad of Mr. Crane's. It may be foolish and sentimental, but we feel an interest in Peter's father, and we watch over him as if Peter had asked us to do so, which, of course, he never did."
"But the medium business is such awful rubbish," objected Thorpe.
"It is and it isn't," Blair said, musingly. "It's six weeks now since we came home, and all that time Mr. Crane has been receiving messages from Peter, and every one of them that I've heard are sane and believable. Moreover, Carlotta Harper has almost convinced me there's something in it. That girl is a sort of medium herself. She deniesit, says she only uses her common sense, but I think she's clairvoyant."
"There's a heap of difference between being clairvoyant, in a common sense way, and being a fake medium! I don't care what Miss Harper does with a foolish Ouija Board, but I'm like Kit Shelby, I hate to see Benjamin Crane stung by a wily faker!"
Meantime Mr. Benjamin Crane was altogether enjoying the process that Thorpe called stinging.
Shelby, deeply interested, and looking innocently credulous, sat by while the medium conducted theséance.
Madame Parlato was, as Crane had asserted, a quiet-mannered, refined looking woman, of a gracious and pleasant personality. She was tall and fair, rather English in type, and spoke with a noticeable English accent. She frequently ended sentences of simple statement with a rising inflection and was addicted to the use of the wordvery, which she pronouncedvirry.
"You are a bit skeptical?" she said, with a careless glance at Shelby.
"Only by reason of lack of occasions for belief," he returned. "I am, however, open-minded and fair-minded enough to be willingly convinced. You may or may not know, this son of Mr. Crane's was one of my closest friends, and——"
"Don't advance information, please," she remonstrated, "lest I be thought to make use of it. I willask you both to be quiet, whilst I compose myself."
"Hush up, Shelby," growled Crane, and Shelby did.
The medium closed her eyes and leaned back in her armchair.
She did not seem to be asleep, but she breathed heavily and a trifle irregularly, and now and then gave a slight convulsive shudder.
At last she spoke, very slowly, and in a voice decidedly different from her own. Shelby couldn't quite make up his mind whether it seemed to him like Peter's voice or not.
The voice said, "I am here, father," and, after a moment's pause, repeated the words.
"Yes, yes," breathed Benjamin Crane, enthralled, as always, by the sound; "talk to me, Peter, tell me things."
"I can't talk much this time, father, it is hard to get through. There is some obstacle."
These words did not follow each other in natural succession, but came haltingly, with waits between. Madame Parlato seemed unconscious of the delays, and merely acted as a mouthpiece for the revelations.
"What sort of an obstacle?" asked Crane.
"An unbeliever is near," the voice hesitatingly asserted.
"Oh, I say!" exclaimed Shelby, "tell him who I am!"
"It's only Shelby," Mr. Crane said, "Kit Shelby.He's not really an unbeliever, only inexperienced."
"May I speak to him?" asked Shelby, as if permission were necessary.
"Go ahead," consented Mr. Crane.
"It's old Kit, Peter—Kit Shelby, who went on the trip with you."
"Oh, Kit—all right—all right, old fellow—can't say much to-night—something wrong——"
"Well, but Peter," Shelby begged, "give me some sort of a sign—a test, you know. I can't help wanting that."
"All right," very slowly, "what test."
"Let me see—well, tell me whose picture you carried in your watch case."
"Why, it was—Caroline—Caroline Harper."
Shelby looked dazed. True, they had never called Carly Caroline, but the Harper was undeniable, and the test quite near enough to the truth.
The medium sat still, save for frequent slight shivers. Suddenly she opened her eyes:
"Who is talking?" she said.
"I am," Shelby told her. "Please let me say a few more things."
Madame Parlato's eyes closed, and she was motionless.
"Are you still there, Peter?" asked his father, who was not at all pleased with the presence of Shelby. It seemed to interfere with the continuous talk he had hitherto enjoyed at theséances.
"Yes, father. Is Kit there?"
"Can't you see me, Peter?"
"Not—not clearly. There's a haze in the room."
There was no haze visible to the mortals present, but Shelby went eagerly on.
"Never mind seeing me, Peter, but do tell me this: What happened to you?"
"When?" asked the voice, with a far-away, fading sound.
"When—when you died, you know. Oh, Peter, don't go away until you tell us!"
"Tell you—tell you—what?"
"What killed you? How was it? Did you fall down?"'
"I—I fell down, yes."
"In the snowdrifts?"
"Yes, the snow was so cold—"
"But why couldn't you get up? What happened to you? Did any attack——"
"Yes, I was attacked. Attacked by a——"
"What!"
"By a wild animal of some sort."
"Oh, Peter! What was it? Are you sure?"
"No, not sure—but attack by——"
The voice grew fainter and more incoherent, and in a moment the medium sat up straight and shook her head.
"He was troubled," she said, "I could see him though you couldn't, and he was sad and worried."
"What about?" asked Shelby, abruptly.
"I'm not sure, but I think because he didn't want to tell the awful details of his death."
"What were they? Could you see them?"
"Yes," she pushed her loose hair back from her brow, as if exhausted. "Yes, I saw it like a picture, but like a clouded, indistinct picture. The poor chap was fighting a wild beast! Oh, it was fearful!" she shut her eyes and shook her head violently. "That's the worst of it, I see too clearly."
"Tell us more, then," begged Shelby. "How did Peter look?"
"Glorious, transfigured! His face was shining and his eyes sparkling."
"H'm—queer to look like that when he was so worried."
"Oh, that was before the anxious look came. It is, I fear, difficult for you to understand the conditions. The discarnate spirit has a sort of secondary personality, not unlike a hypnotic state, and sometimes this is jarred by any untoward influence and develops into a delirium, and the statements cannot then be relied on. A novice always expects a clear, definite style of speech from a spirit communicating through a medium. This is not always the case. And the medium must merely take what comes and repeat it without change or addition. If, therefore, you are disappointed, I cannot help it. Surely you would not wish me to embroider the messages I receive."
"Surely not," returned Shelby, "indeed, I think it wonderful that you succeeded in getting as much coherence and information as you did. It is something to know that Peter was attacked by a wild beast, for, horrible as is the news, it does explain why he couldn't proceed on the journey."
"Yes," agreed Mr. Crane. "And I am so avid for word from my boy, that even if the messages are disturbing and harrowing, I want them all. I have always told Madame Parlato not to spare me. I prefer to know the worst. For my boy is happy now. We have had several sittings; my wife has attended some, and they are always comforting because of Peter's assertions that he is now happy and contented."
At Shelby's urgent request, the medium endeavored to induce Peter's spirit to return for a further word.
Her success was only partial, but they did hear a message to Shelby direct.
"Persevere, Kit," Peter said, "you're doing right in that matter. Go ahead, Kit."
"Your voice sounds queer, Peter," Shelby said, frowning a little. "It used to be pitched in a higher key."
"It's the medium," came a reply, and the pitch was higher. "I don't mean the human medium, but the medium through which I must talk—the ether, I suppose it is. Good-by, Kit."
Madame Parlato then came out of her trance, or whatever term she used to designate her half-conscious state.
"The session is over," she said, pleasantly. "I fear, Mr. Crane, you did not get your usual degree of satisfaction from it, but that was because of a third party here. I don't think Mr. Shelby's antagonistic exactly, but he's—well, uncertain whether to believe what he hears or not."
"That's quite true, Madame," said Shelby, with due respect, "but you are doubtless accustomed to people in my frame of mind."
"Oh, yes," and the lady smiled a little, "but I trust, Mr. Shelby, you will come some time by yourself and let me see what I can do to help you make up your mind."
"I shall be glad to do that. You have a strange power, at any rate."
"Strange, yes; but by no means unique. There are minds tuned by nature to receive spirit messages, as wireless stations are tuned. I cannot explain my strange power, I marvel at it myself, but I recognize it, and I use it humbly and gratefully as a God-given treasure."
"And that's what it is!" declared Benjamin Crane. "I'm glad you came to-night, Shelby, but, after this, I admit I prefer to come alone, or with only my wife. The messages from Peter to his father are naturally more of a loving and domestic nature, and I revel in them."
"I don't wonder at that, Mr. Crane. And I congratulate you on having found such a capable and skillful medium."
Madame Parlato gave Shelby a quick glance, almost as if doubting his sincerity. But his frank, honest face reassured her, and she said:
"And, I'm proud to say, I'm not only a medium, but I am possessed of the power that is called impersonation or transfiguration. This is comparatively rare, and it enables me to perform what really seem like miracles. I am taken possession of by the departed subject, and I speak and act so perfectly with that other personality that sometimes I even resemble the person who is talking through me."
"It is indeed wonderful," Shelby said, and Benjamin Crane looked happily contemplative of theséancesin the future when Madame would utilize this miraculous gift of hers in his behalf.
Shelby did go alone to see the medium, and it happened also that, about a week later, going again, he chanced to meet Mr. Crane there. The younger man offered to leave, but Crane said, "No, come along. Madame is going to try to-night to materialize Peter's face, and I want you here to see it."
And so the strangeséancebegan.
Materialization, of course, called for a darkened room, and Shelby's naturally suspicious mind was alert for possible fraud.
But he could discover no chance for such. There was no cabinet, no tambourine, bell or trumpet, and no curtain was drawn or screen set up.
After they had sat in darkness and silence for a time, a face seemed to form in mid-air. It was a misty, vague countenance, and was wrapped about with a soft, floating drapery or veil, which exposed only the features.
"Peter!" exclaimed Benjamin Crane in a half-gasping voice. "My boy himself!"
"Peter Boots!" cried Shelby, and slowly the face vanished.
Not another word was spoken, and in a moment the lights were turned on. This was done by Madame Parlato, at whose elbow the light switch was.
"Did you see anything?" she asked, in an exhausted, harassed way, yet with an air of eagerness.
"Yes," cried out Crane. "I saw Peter, my own son!"
"I couldn't be sure," she went on, speaking wearily. "It always exhausts me utterly to induce a materialization, and I doubt if I can achieve anything more to-night."
"Nor do you need to," declared Mr. Crane. "That's enough for oneséance. Some time you may do that again, and also get speech from him."
"May be," she rejoined, with a gentle politeness, "and now I should be glad to say good-night."
The two men walked off, Crane in a tumult of delight, Shelby wondering at it all.
"You accept marvels very easily, Mr. Crane," the latter said.
"Because they are marvels," said the older man simply. "If they were fraud it would be no marvel. But being genuine, it is a marvel, it is a miracle, and I am glad, rejoiced to accept it!"
It was soon after this that Shelby, calling on Carlotta Harper, asked her what she thought of it all.
"Rubbish," she replied flatly.
Shelby looked at her. "But," he said, "I've been told that you can work the Ouija Board wonderfully!"
"Work the Ouija Board! What sort of talk is that? Do you mean push it, to spell what I want it to?"
"No; I spoke carelessly. I mean use the Board with results that are surprising."
"Who can't do that?"
"Lots of people—myself, for one. Let's try it now, Carly. Will you?"
"Certainly, if you like. And, if you'll give me your word of honor that you won't voluntarily or purposely urge the thing in any direction or toward any letter."
"Of course I promise that! Where'd be the fun if we cheated? You promise, too?"
"Yes, indeed. Like you, I've no interest if either pushes the least mite."
They placed themselves with the board between them on their knees.
It was but a short time before the little heart-shaped block began to move.
Carly, who was no novice, said in a sing-song way: "Is there a spirit present?"
The board slid quickly to the corner marked "yes."
"Will you spell out your name?" Carly went on in a very matter-of-fact voice.