Mrs. Lambert entered timidly, her gentle face sadder and its lip-line firmer than he had ever seen it. It was evident that the experiences of the last few days had touched her and shaken her.
Up to this time Morton had considered her as a genial but rather negative personality, a soul naturally subordinate to others, but she now rose to an importance in his life which made her real self of the highest significance. His first glance was one of sincerest admiration. Doubtless she had once been as slender and quite as tall as her daughter, and though increasing age and weight had combined to rob her of height and grace, she was, nevertheless, still a distinctly commanding figure. Her head was nobly fashioned, her eyes a candid blue, and her glance clear and unworn in its appeal.
Altogether he could not but acknowledge in her a mother of which no man need be ashamed, and in this spirit he met her and invited her to a seat. "Mr. Lambert and I have been talking of the mountains to-day," he began. "I wish we were on our way out there this moment, for I am tired of the city."
She brightened under his smile. "I wouldn't mind going home at once, but I know Viola would be disappointed. She has seen so little of the city, and then Mr. Clarke—" She broke off in some confusion as if in sudden recollection of the chasm which had opened between the young clergyman and her daughter.
He seized upon this allusion to say: "I did not think of including Mr. Clarke, Mrs. Lambert. I think you and your daughter have both had too much of him. I do not doubt his sincerity, but I am quite certain that he was leading you both into an abyss. I hope you will make the most of this chance to free yourself from his influence. I quite stand with your husband in that resolution."
Her face grew cold again. "As to that, I must wait for further illumination. These last few hours have been so disturbed we are quite cut off from our guides."
"You depend upon them—they are very real to you, are they not?" He spoke musingly.
"They are just as real to me as you are—or any one."
"Did you not doubt their wisdom to-day?"
She drew herself up. "Why should I?"
"They knew nothing of your husband's coming?"
"Oh yes, they did, only they couldn't communicate on account of Viola's mental condition." Then, with unshakable conviction, she added: "If I doubted them I should doubt everything."
"I am sorry to trouble you. I am not one toneedlessly destroy a comforting faith, and yet I confess I thought the time had come to invoke your husband's aid. It was in that spirit I sent the telegram."
"I am very glad you did, although I had no fear. I knew my father would find the right way when the time came. Let me tell you, sir," she replied, expanding in the warmth of his interest. "Before these revelations came to me I had no real faith in God or heaven. The world beyond the grave was dark and cold. It seemed to me as if my little boy and my husband were in the cruel, wet ground. I couldn't feel that they had gone to Christ. But now the tomb is but a portal to the light. The spirit-plane is as real as the earth-plane, and filled with joyous souls. I can hear them sing sometimes when I hold Viola's hand, and the sound is very beautiful and very comforting."
"I can understand that," he answered, but quietly, critically, still studying her face. "It has a warmer charm than any other religion I know."
She went on, eagerly: "I wish you could come to believe. Your sister said your mother and your uncle spoke last night. Why can't you accept the faith?"
The young philosopher gained, as she spoke, a new conception of her character, and chilled with a growing sense of the difficult and ungracious task which lay before him. He began to perceive that her awe of him had kept her silent, thus concealing from him the spirit of the evangelist which he now saw she possessed. She counted more largely in Viola'sdevelopment than he had hitherto granted. Her faith was solidly based on years of experience and was not to be easily moved. As she went on he perceived that her daughter's mediumship was much more than a theory in her thought; it was a fact, and a daily, almost an hourly, necessity. He lost his last suspicion of her, and caught a glimpse of the larger aspect of her relationship to his future. She was deceived, of course, but she was honest in every fibre. He could not accuse her of the slightest deceit or falsification.
In her lame way she tried to argue the question, quoting the platitudes of the "inspirational speakers," as well as the pompous phrases of her spirit-father, while he listened courteously.
When she paused, he said, gravely: "My dear Mrs. Lambert, I can't leave you in any doubt of my position. I cannot for a single instant accept what happened last night as the manifestation of the disembodied. I cannot think that the phenomena exist. I must rather think they were performed by Clarke, or my sister, or Weissmann, in joke." She looked at him with an expression of horror, of incredulity, and he went on, quickly: "Even if I admitted the fact of direct writing or the movement of the horn, I should not by any means be driven to accept your spirit-hypothesis. There are men, and very great investigators, who would say that your daughter's trances and all phenomena connected therewith were pathologic, explainable on the grounds of some obscure neural derangement. I do not say this is thecase, but I do say that if she persists in these practices she will lose control of her mental faculties. I have had a consultation to-day with Dr. Tolman, a man who makes a specialty of such cases, and when I had laid the whole matter before him, he and Dr. Weissmann both advised the immediate stopping of these trances."
"We can't do that. They come from the other side. My father induces the trance, and it is entirely in his hands."
He fixed a keen look upon her. "Did it ever occur to you that the words of your 'guides' were, in reality, but a reflex of the wishes of Pratt or Clarke?"
"How could that be when they came to me long before I even knew Anthony?"
"But was not the advice of a different quality at that time? Maybe your father yields to the will of living people when they are strong enough."
"Oh no, quite the contrary. He opposes Mr. Clarke often. Sometimes he opposes us all."
"I am perfectly sure that the voices that spoke to us last night were a subtle delusion, an emanation from our own bodies—or the work of a joker. My reason repels them as spirits."
She smiled a little. "I think you scientific people go a long way round to explain a very simple thing. I've read some of the explanations of the way in which you think these phenomena come, but they are harder to understand than the thing itself. My father, my husband, and my little son are alive. I know that. No one can destroy that faith in me."
"I do not wish to destroy that faith—only so far as it seems to threaten your daughter."
"I am perfectly sure they know better what we should do than any one on the earth-plane. I cannot see why you people oppose the idea of the spirit-world when it is so beautiful and could fill the world with hope. The Bible teaches it when you read it right. It is full of references to spirits. Did not Christ rise from the dead and manifest to His disciples?"
"And did He not cast out devils?"
She was momentarily at a loss, but soon recovered. "But if you admit there areevilspirits—"
"But I don't. I said that merely to show you that a sceptic can quote Scripture to his purpose. There is no place in my philosophy for the supernatural."
"That is what we believe," she eagerly responded. "I used to be frightened by the things that happened to Viola, but now I know they are natural, just as natural as anything else. My loved ones are not far away, they are very near, but, oh, so intangible. If I could only touch them!" In this was the cry of her soul. She deeply sighed. "I am growing old, and that means I live in the past more and more. When Waltie comes I can imagine myself as I was when we first went to the mountains. Robert means more and more to me, and all fear of 'the change' is gone. Really, if it were not for Viola I would like to go over to the other side to-night. The spirit-plane seems so much more care-free and bright. This life is but a preparatory school at best."
"That is all wrong," he decisively replied. "Very wrong. Even if your idea of the other world were right, you should not abandon your hold on this till your work was done. A general condition of mind like yours would stop all invention, all discovery, and especially all philanthropy. In fact, the only philanthropy would be murder. To end man's suffering here would be a duty. War would be a blessing, and disease a rescue. No, no. You must not talk like that."
"Oh, I'm not really thinking of going. I feel that I must stay a little while longer to see Viola settled in life."
"What do you mean by that? Do you mean married, and happy, or do you mean given over entirely to the trance?"
"I suppose she ought to marry—she is very unhappy as she is."
"Now, that is what I especially wanted to talk with you about. I have decided to ask your daughter to put herself into my hands, and I hope you will give your consent."
"I shall be glad to have you take charge of her, professor, and father, I know, is anxious to have you head the committee."
"Oh, I don't mean that! I mean something much more intimate, much more important." This brought him face to face with himself and the decision over which he had agonized for so long, and for an instant he hesitated, then took the plunge bravely. "I loveyour daughter, Mrs. Lambert, and I want your permission to tell her so."
She drew back into her chair with a gasp of surprise and a look of alarm.
"Oh, I didn't understand! I thought you meant—I don't know—I—" She was utterly at a loss for words, but he understood her.
"Your hesitation is not flattering to me. I hope you don't absolutely distrust me."
Her embarrassment was pitiful. "Oh no, indeed! But you are a sceptic. You don't believe in us—in her."
"Oh yes, I do!"
"And, besides, she has been promised for two years to Tony—Mr. Clarke."
He grew a little hard at mention of the preacher's name. "But she fears and hates Clarke. She has broken with him. She told my sister that she was done with him forever. You will not ask her to marry a man she distrusts?"
She flew to Clarke's defence. "That was only a mood, a lover's quarrel. He was all upset by Pratt and—and other things. I will not allow her to desert him when he is in trouble. He has been so much to us, and he is a noble character in spite of all."
"All this is very disturbing to me," he answered, more humorously than he felt. "But, nevertheless, I also claim to be a noble character."
She began once more to realize his place in the world and his kindness to Viola. "I know that,professor, I fully recognize the honor you do her and me, but she is not like other girls. She is set aside to do God's work, and ought not to marry at all. That is why the 'guides' have given her to Anthony; he, too, is consecrated."
"Dear Mrs. Lambert, you shock me when you say such things. I don't believe it is your daughter's duty to convert people to a belief in immortality. I don't believe in teaching men and women to depend upon an unseen world for guidance; and especially do I despise any faith which makes this life less important than some other just beyond. I love this life, and do not intend to trouble myself about what lies beyond the grave. That is really not my concern. To regard this world as a vale of tears leading to a shining heaven is a species of mediævalism from which I revolt."
She caught this up. "That is just the reason why Viola would be unhappy with a sceptic."
"But I am not a sceptic. I have the greatest faith. I am certain I can make her happy here and now. You surely would not permit her to go back to Anthony Clarke!"
She was troubled and confused. "I don't know. Perhaps it would be best, after all. A great deal of her 'power' comes from him." She brightened. "But I will leave all that to father."
Again he leaned to her with tender gravity. "You must not do that. Unless you deny the value of all life here on the earth, you are an unnatural motherto devote your child to such a career as Clarke holds out to her. I love your daughter because she is a beautiful girl, a charming personality, and I am able to give her security and comfort. I will be perfectly frank with you. I think these trances have been fastened upon her by those about her, and if she consents to come to me I shall stop them forever. My aim will be to delude her into thinking life with me of more value than the highest eminence as a 'medium.' Now, if this seems treason to you, I cannot soften it. I want you to fully understand my position. My schooling has been all in the exact sciences, and what skill I possess I am using to make the world a healthier and happier place to live in. Your way of life (and Clarke's philosophy of life) seems to me weak and morbid, and your treatment of your daughter mistakenly cruel. I intend to take her out of it, if I can. And, furthermore, dear lady, if you withhold your consent, which I profoundly hope you will not, I must proceed without it. If she comes to me, she ceases to be a psychic. If I can prevent it, she will never sit again."
The mother sat as if stunned by the weight of his will, the rush of his words, the decision of his glance. She fully understood the situation. She knew that Viola already leaned upon and trusted this man more than any other being in the world, and knowing this she felt the full force of the tragic situation. It was not a question of a temporary separation, that she foresaw as by some prophetic vision. Her baby, herclinging, loving girl-child was about to pass from her arms forever, carrying with her all interest in life and all means of communication with her dead. With her she was about to lose husband, son—and all the blessed music of the happy multitudes of those on the spirit-plane. It was as if the shining portals to the world of light were about to be closed to her forever, closed and barred by the hand of this implacable young lover, and with a sudden, most lamentable cry she sobbed forth: "Oh, I can't consent! I can't bear to think of it!"
The sight of that placid, motherly face breaking into lines of anguish while the gray old head bowed in weakness, completely unmanned the self-centred young scientist, and bending above her, he tenderly pleaded.
"Dear Mrs. Lambert, you wring my heart with your weeping. Don't cry, I beg of you! I didn't intend to be harsh. I only intended to be honest with you. I wish you would trust me. Let me be a son to you. Even if Viola does not care for me as I hope she does, I can help you, and even if she consents to my treatment, the separation will only be for a few months or a year."
"You would take my hope from me. You would rob me!" She challenged him with white and distorted face. "You are hard and cruel, and I will not give her up. I know her nature. She is necessary to the spirit-world and you have no right to destroy her power."
"I am sorry if I seemed to attack your faith. It has many beautiful things inwoven with its morbidities. I would believe it if I could, but I can't, and in my present state of mind I can only repeat that, however painful it may be to you, I see no other way to save your daughter from insanity. Yes, my dear Mrs. Lambert, the case is quite as desperate as that, to my thinking, and as I am beginning to centre my life in her also, you will see that I am quite as deeply concerned as any one. She has reached a danger-point. She must not go on in this way another month."
Again those lines of serene obstinacy came back into her face, and the gentle bigot looked from her eyes. "You are all wrong. These trances are as natural as sleep. They rest her, do her good—father says so. He treats her from that side and is watching over her. I admire you, Professor Serviss, I appreciate the honor you do me, but I cannot consent to have Viola go from me. I can't endure the thought. If you believed in the spirit-world and the guides consented, I would be glad; but you don't. You hate everything concerning our faith, and I am afraid of you. I wish my girl had never seen you." She rose in a panic of growing alarm. "Let me go to her!"
He detained her gently. "Just a moment. Remember I have not said a word of all this to her, and your alarm may be quite groundless. What do you fear if your 'guides' are so wise and powerful? Where is your proselyting zeal? Am I not worthy of beingconverted? Why not let Viola influence me towards your path?"
She sank back into her chair bewildered by his tone, and he went on: "You considered Mr. Clarke a most important instrument for spreading the light, but I am egotistic enough to say that my conversion would mean more to your cause than fifty Clarkes. You forget also that your father was very anxious to have me brought into the circle. You recall that?"
She faintly answered, "Yes."
"Well, then, let that count in my favor. You call me a sceptic, but I am really a slave to evidence. I will go wherever the evidence leads. I have no proof of the spirit-world, but I am of open mind. Can you ask any more of me than that? I have said that I intend to end Viola's career as a psychic, if I can; but if I can't, if the manifestations go on in spite of me, I will study them faithfully, glad of any revelation of a new world which they may bring. If you are so clear in your confidence, so certain of your faith, why not consent to let me speak to her?"
She rose again. "I can't do that. Imustnot."
He offered his hand with a smile. "Your lack of confidence in me I forgive, for I think I understand your feeling. Do not be deceived, my suit does not end here. I intend, at the earliest moment, to win your daughter's consent to my plan. There is only one thing I would like you to promise, and that is this: Don't prejudice her against me. Let me speak to her first. Will you promise that?"
She shook her head. "I must tell her, and we must sit for council."
"Well, then, will you promise to let me sit with you? Will you promise to put off that sitting till I can be present? It is only fair to me, as I am quite as vitally affected as any one in the result. Come! Will you promise?"
She bowed her head in sign of consent and hastened towards the door.
He stood aside to let her pass, pitying her because understanding her. "And please don't distress her to-night. Let her live this evening as a joyous girl, undisturbed even by my question."
She went out fear-stricken by the power of his glance, the persuasion of his voice. Her instinct at the moment was to take her child and flee, immuring herself far from those who would rob her of her only remaining interest in the world.
Viola, looking up from a piece of antique jewelry which Kate was displaying, was startled by the sadness of her mother's face, and directed her next glance upon Morton, in the wish to discover the cause of her trouble. That the interview had been very grave and personal was evident, and with a sense of having been the subject of discussion, she rose to meet them.
Kate did not permit any explanations, for dinner was waiting and time limited. "Go fetch Mr. Lambert, Morton: unless we want to be late at the play we must go out at once."
Morton was glad of the interruption, for he was eager to have his understanding with Viola before the mother could bring any adverse influence to bear upon her. As they went out into the dining-room, side by side, he found her nearness sweeter and more concerning than ever before; and with a realization of having in a very vital way staked his immediate future upon her word, he was unusually gay, masking his persistent, deep-hid doubt in jocose remarks. Lambert seconded him with quiet humor, and together they caused eventhe mother's face to relax its troubled lines, while Viola, yielding to a sense of freedom and of youth, shook off all constraint, responding to Morton's unspoken suggestion, thinking only of him and of the secure, bright world in which he dwelt (and in which he seemed so large and so handsome a figure), and in this confidence and comfort they came to the mixing of the salad, which Kate slangily explained to be Morton's "particular stunt." He had fully assembled his ingredients, and was about to approach the actual, delicate blending when the maid appeared at his elbow to say that he was wanted at the telephone.
"Well, tell them to wait," he replied, testily. "This is a very precise moment."
"I told them you were at dinner, sir, but they said it was important."
He rose with a sigh. "I hope my 'whiff of garlic' won't settle into a steady breeze. Be patient a moment, kind people."
With mild wonder as to what the news might be, he took a seat at his desk and put the receiver to his ear.
"Hello. Who is it?"
A hurried, eager, almost breathless boyish voice responded. "Is this Dr. Serviss?"
"It is."
"Can you tell me where Miss Viola Lambert and her mother are?"
"I cannot." By which he meant he was not empowered to do so.
"I was told they left Pratt's house with you sometime this afternoon."
"Have you inquired at the Courtleigh?"
"No. I was so sure—"
"Try either the Courtleigh or the Colorado," replied Morton, in the tone of authority.
The voice then asked: "Can you tell me where Clarke's Brooklyn relatives can be found?"
"I cannot. I know nothing whatever of Mr. Clarke's family."
"I must find them. Clarke has committed suicide, and it is necessary to notify his friends and—"
Morton's brain blurred with the force of this blow, "You don't mean it! When did it happen?"
"About an hour ago. We must find the Lamberts, and if you can give us any information—"
"Who are you?"
"I'm a representative ofThe Recorder. Can I see you for a few minutes, Dr. Serviss?"
"I am just starting for the theatre," hurriedly answered Morton, his voice as casual as he could make it; "and I fear it is impossible."
"It is very important, Dr. Serviss, for Pratt has told me that you know the Lamberts and all about their relationship to Clarke. If you—"
"It is quite impossible," replied Morton, with decision, and hung up the receiver. For a few moments he sat in deep thought, his mind leaping from point to point of this new complication. As he analyzed the far-reaching consequences of this tragic and terribledeed he bitterly exclaimed: "You've reached us now, Anthony Clarke! You have involved the woman you pretended to love and all her friends in a screaming sensation. Your name will be writ larger to-morrow than at any time during your whole life. You could not have hit upon a more effective revenge."
The situation grew each moment more satanic. "My name will be involved quite as prominently as hers. The mother, frantic with grief and remorse, will hate me and bitterly reproach us all. She will accuse us of causing his death. But, most important of all, what will be the effect of this news on Viola's mental condition?" His thought ran to her as he had just left her radiant with hope and new-found happiness, and it seemed as though the dead man had reached a remorseless, clutching hand to regain final dominion over her. His shadow hovered in the air above her head ready to envelop her.
"If I can only keep this from her for a few days, till my own control of her has strengthened. Imustkeep it from her. She must not see to-morrow's papers with their ghastly story." He chilled with a fuller sense of the suicide's power to torture her. "She must leave the city to-night. She will be called before the coroner, her mediumship and Clarke's control of her will be howled through the street—" He groaned with the shame and anguish of the scene his imagination bodied forth. "Pratt's hand will also be felt. He will have his own tale, his own method of evasion, and will not hesitate to dishonor her."
Furthermore, this threatening shame so far from arousing a new distrust and a desire to escape further connection with her, swept him into a profounder desire to serve and shield her. His heart filled with pity and love, and into his eyes a stern light—the light of battle—came. "She shall not be tortured so, if I can defend her or lead the way to escape. Lambert must leave the city at once and take them both with him."
He rose and walked about the room in order to recover command of his face and voice. "Truly the miserable fanatic has wrought well. He has promised himself that his spirit, freed from the body, will be able to possess and control his victim. The mother will understand and accept this. Will Viola?" The thought of her, dominated by this new and revolting delusion, filled him with dismay and horror. "She, too, will be smitten with remorse, and the scale may be turned against me and my influence." This was indeed the most disturbing consideration of all.
Realizing at length that every additional minute of absence made his explanation more difficult, he returned to his guests with impassive face and resolute determination to control his thought even from Viola's mind-reading power.
Kate saw at once that some dark thing shadowed him, "What is it, Morton?"
"One of my acquaintances has met with trouble—financial trouble—and wants my help. I'll tell you about it later," he curtly replied, attacking the salad again. She was silenced though not satisfied, anddinner was resumed in almost painful silence and in general depression.
Viola was especially troubled by the change in Morton's face, and with a desire to be of some comfort to him softly said: "Perhaps you would rather not go to the theatre to-night. Please don't do so on our account."
Her glance and her tone, both more intimately sympathetic than she had hitherto permitted them to be, touched him deeply, and with an effect of throwing off his gloom he cheerily responded: "We will not let any outside matter interfere with our happiness. There is nothing to be gained by staying at home. Please forget all about this interruption."
As he spoke she sat with hands before her, gazing straight at him with eyes that slowly lost their outward look. Her eyelids fell, she began to whiten and to droop, and her hands twitched and trembled.
Seized for an instant with an unreasoning fear—a belief that she had been able, after all, to penetrate his mind and read its dreadful secret, Morton sat irresolute, in the grasp of a blind despair, a palsy of the will. Clarke's dead hand seemed at the instant more powerful than the living man had been. This stupefaction lasted but a single second, for back to the young scientist's heart, like a swelling wave, came the red blood of his anger, his love, his mastering will. Rising swiftly but calmly, he caught her hands in his saying, gently: "You are forgetting your promise to me. Look at me. I want to see if you are really going to disobey my commands."
She slowly raised her face to him, but only faintly responded to his voice. "I cannot permit this," he went on. "You have left this behind you, I will not permit you to give way. It is a kind of treason to me—your physician. For my sake you must put this weakness aside and assert your real self." He spoke gently, tenderly, as the lover, rather than as the man of science, and the mysterious power of his hand, the passionate pity of his eyes restored her to self-mastery, and she murmured:
"Please forgive me. I didn't mean to do this."
"I know that. But you must not invite your trouble. You laid your hands upon the table. You must not do that. I'll order you to eat off the mantel-piece, if you do that again," he added, with intent to make her smile.
Mrs. Lambert, who had risen to go to Viola's relief, sank back into her seat with a sense of being forgotten at a time when she should have been her daughter's first thought. She was no longer necessary. Her place had been taken by another, a man and a stranger, hostile to her faith, and with this knowledge her heart grew cold and bitter with defeat and despair, the anguish and the neglect which are to be forevermore the darker side of the mother's glory had come to her at last with cruel force.
The entire attack lasted but a few minutes, but it served to bring Viola nearer to her lover than all the hours of their more formal intercourse, though the full revelation of his true relationship was yet to come.
She loved and trusted him, but as her friend, her defender. She rose at last to demonstrate that she was entirely herself again. "I am ashamed of myself," she said, humbly. "Please don't look so concerned." She turned to Kate. "I assure you it was only a little faintness. You see I didn't sleep very well last night."
"Let's not try to go out," interposed Kate. "You're tired."
"Oh no; please,pleasedon't let me spoil the evening. I will never forgive myself. Truly I want to go."
Morton's glance instructed Kate, and she said: "Very well. We will go dress while the men finish their coffee. Come, Mrs. Lambert."
Mrs. Lambert rose silently and the three women left the room together with an effect of haste.
No sooner were they out of the room than Morton turned to his guest with most serious look and tone. "Come to my study, Mr. Lambert, I want a few very private words with you."
The miner followed his host with mild wonder expressed on his face, and as the door closed behind them and they were secure of being overheard, he remarked, with a chuckle: "You headed off old Daddy McLeod out there. First it was Clarke and then Daddy. I thought he had her this time."
Morton ignored this remark and, with most decisive utterance, said: "You must take your wife and daughter out of town by the very next train. Clarke has killed himself, and Viola will be the centre of aflaming sensation to-morrow morning. She must be taken away to-night."
Lambert remained standing, perfectly rigid, for a few moments then slowly seated himself. "Was that your trouble over the 'phone?"
"Yes."
"Who told you?"
"A reporter 'phoning from Pratt's house apparently."
"When did it happen?"
"He said an hour ago. That may mean more or less—A fiend could not have planned a more inclusive revenge. We will all be involved in it. If he died by poison we may even be accused of killing him. They are already in pursuit of you, and the police may arrive at any moment. At the least we will all be summoned before the coroner." He paused a moment. "But that isn't all. I fear the effect of this news on Viola's mind."
Lambert's eyes lost their keen glitter, and his facial muscles fell slack. He spoke in a low voice weighted with deepest conviction. "He will manifest." Then, as a light came into his eyes, he exclaimed: "He was trying to control her just now!"
Morton ignored this remark. "If we can keep this news from her for a few days, I defy any of her so-called 'controls' to affect her."
Lambert stirred uneasily in his chair. "I don't know about that. Clarke had a strong hold on her."
"He is dead. He has done his worst," respondedMorton. "I tell you, it is your business to get as far from the city to-night as you can and keep ahead of the news if possible."
"That won't do any good. She is clairvoyant. She'll know of it."
"She didn't know you were coming to-day, did she?"
"No."
"And she has no knowledge yet of Clarke's death. Her attack at the table may have been, as she says, only a feeling of faintness. Besides, he's been dead two hours, and these manifestations always take place at the exact moment of death, do they not?"
Lambert brightened. "That's so! But I'm scared of what'll happen if heshouldmanifest."
"Be assured. He can no more 'manifest,' as you call it, than a dead dog. Keep the newspapers from your wife and daughter, and it will be a long time before they learn of his death through any occult channel. I stake my reputation on that."
"I wish I felt as certain of that as you do," the miner answered. "I've seen so many impossible things happen. I'm kind o' shaky. I wish I could have your help." He rose with a shiver of dread. "You're right. I see that. We've got to get out of here, but it won't do to go back home."
"Take ship and go abroad."
"I can't do that. I can't leave my business so long." He paced up and down. "Suppose I had a telegram to meet a man in Montreal—a mining man."
"A good idea!" exclaimed Morton. "You could cross the border before the news could overtake you. The Canadian papers will make little of the suicide. But will your people go?"
"They'll have to go," replied Lambert, firmly. "Leave that to me." He took a telegram from among several old ones in his pocket. "I've just received this, you understand?"
Kate knocked, and called; "We're all ready, Morton?"
He opened the door. "Come in, Kate, I want to talk with you. I'm afraid our theatre-party is off. Mr. Lambert has received a very important message which may take him out of town."
"Oh, I'm so sorry!" cried Kate. "Can't you wait till to-morrow?"
"I'm afraid not," replied Lambert. "Looks like I'd have to go to-night, and I want the girls to go along with me." And so saying, with the telegram open in his hand, he went out into the sitting-room where Viola and her mother were standing dressed for the carriage. "Girls," he called, persuasively. "Don't you want to go to Montreal?"
"When?" inquired Viola.
"To-night."
"Oh, not to-night! We want to go to the theatre. Wait till to-morrow."
Kate was about to join in this protest when Morton drew her into his study and shut the door. "Don't stop them!" he said, almost fiercely. "They must go."
"Do you mean to escape Clarke?"
"Yes, Clarke, or rather his ghost."
"His ghost! What do you mean?" she asked, with startled eyes.
"He has killed himself—hush, now! they must not know it, and they must flee. Don't you see that this may undo all my plans for the girl's redemption and may enslave her more deeply than ever? The papers will be full of Clarke to-morrow morning. Pratt's wealth, my connection, with an institution, insures a tremendous scare-head. The mother will be conscious-wrung, and the whole weight of the infernal tragedy will crush down on Viola. The only possible respite for her is to cross the border into Canada, outrun the newsmongers, and trust in time to heal her mental derangements."
Kate's eyes expanded with the same fear that filled Lambert. "You don't suppose he will be able to haunt her? Was that what happened at the table?"
"No, not in the sense you mean. He is dead, and I have no fear of his ghost, but the memory of him will torture her soul; and if shebelievesthat he is able to come to her, the belief will be almost as tragic as the fact."
"Morton, it is a test!" she exclaimed, with breathless solemnity. "If there is any truth in spiritualism, he will manifest himself to her and you cannot prevent it."
"I know it is a test and I welcome it! I stake all that I am on the issue. She was at her merriestwhen he was dying. She has no hint of his deed at this moment, and with all her clairvoyance I am perfectly certain she will not be able to read what is in our minds if you can restrain your tongue. If you can't do that, I beg of you to stay in your room." He was harsh and curt in his tone; and she shrank from him. "Her mental health, her sanity, may be in peril."
"I can keep silence," she replied, "But, oh, Morton, think of that poor girl—up there in some bleak hotel in Canada, with only these two old people! Supposehe doescome to her there, what can they do? Wouldn't it be better to keep her here—let her learn it here—where you can help her?"
"And be haled before the coroner, to be charged perhaps with poisoning Clarke, or some other equally monstrous thing? No, I have been all over the ground, and I tell you there is no other way. She must go to-night. The police may arrive at any moment."
"Then you must go with her," she retorted, with a decision almost equal to his own. "She needs you."
"No, no. I can't do that," he replied, impatiently, almost angrily. "I would be accused of abducting her. It is utterly out of the question."
Kate, knowing that she was asking a good deal, went resolutely on: "She has no one but you to lean upon. She trusts you, and she ought to have some strong, sane person on whom to rely. I would be worse than useless up there. I am scared out of my wits at thought of Clarke's possible revenge uponher!Besides, by going with her you will escape some of the notoriety about to thrust upon you."
He was plainly vacillating. "Think of the fat news-items my flight will add to the stew."
Kate shuddered. "Oh, I know! I hope you don't blame me.—It's true, Iamto blame. Ididinsist on your going to see her." She was beginning to suffer with this thought, when he put out his hand and drew her to him with affectionate wish to comfort her.
"Don't assume that worry, Kit. She profoundly interested me from the first, and I do not regret my acquaintance with her—even at this moment. I believe she is essentially untouched by this business and that she can be cleansed of all Clarke's influence. His death removes her worst enemy; and if I can persuade her parents to leave her with us, I am perfectly certain I can root out the deepest of her delusions."
"Then go," she said, in final surrender. "Conventions ought not to count against saving a sweet, good girl. Go and help her, and if you bring her back here, I'll receive her gladly."
Morton opened the door, and while Kate went to Viola he said: "Mr. Lambert, if you will add me to your party, I will be glad to go with you."
Lambert seized his host's hand and wrung it hard. "My boy, you save my life! I thought of asking you, but I couldn't find the nerve. We'll all need you—the girl worst of all." Tears were in his eyes as he added, huskily; "Yes, we need you."
Viola, with shining face, came running towardsthem, "Oh, Professor Serviss! Is it true? Are you going?"
"Yes, if you will let me."
"Let you! Oh, you don't know what it means to have you with us."
He looked down upon her with a smile whose full message she could not read, but it expressed something very tender and disconcerting. "You can't know what it means to me to go. You see, I daren't quite trust you alone with these indulgent parents and as your physician it is my duty to see that my prescriptions are fully carried out."
During the bustle of preparation for the journey, he found opportunity to reassure Kate: "Thus far, she has no inkling of what is in our minds." He closed his fist as if shaking it in the face of an implacable foe, and, through his set teeth, added: "I accept the challenge! I welcome you and all your dark band to the utterance!"
Kate turned pale. "Don't say that!" she whispered. "It's like tempting Providence."
"I fear neither Providence nor demons; but I am afraid of you. Keep away from Viola as much as you can. If there is any truth in mind-reading she is likelier to divine your thought than mine."
Kate's eyes suddenly grew dim. "Morton, I brought this on you, and I'm beginning to doubt. I don't believe I want you to go with her, after all." She put her hands on his shoulders and gave way to a feeling of loss and loneliness. "I've always hoped—I'vealways looked forward to your having a splendid, dignified wife; and though I like her. I don't believe—she's up to you."
"Now, don't trouble about that, sis. The important thing to me is, am I worthy of her? She entered my heart the first time I saw her, and has never left it. She came at a time when I was certain no woman would ever move me again. I am indebted to her—now, that's the truth. And so"—he stooped and kissed her—"if she decides to come to me, I shall feel grateful to you. If she decides not to come—you can be grateful to her!"