CHAPTER XIIA NEW MEDIUM
“My dear Mrs. Lucien—why, what is the matter?�
Mrs. Wylie ran hurriedly to her friend’s side, but stopped, frightened at the unseeing, vacant stare which met her. During the fortnight intervening since the seance she had met her friend daily, but never had seen her as now.
Mrs. Lucien sat by a small sewing-table, her hands resting upon it, her eyes gazing vacantly into space. Her expression was uncanny in its fixity, and her hands moved restlessly over the smooth surface before her. Her aspect was that of one whose outer senses were locked and all thought and sight turned inward.
The little Dolores, who had opened the door to Mrs. Wylie, resumed her position by her mother, her hands resting in her mother’s lap, her troubled eyes searching her mother’s face.
Mrs. Wylie, unable to win any response or recognition, stood silent and frightened, watching the entranced woman. Then her eyes fell upon the swiftly moving fingers. What was she doing? Surely she was forming letters—writing. Was it possible? She seemed to see her own name spelled from the ends of those fingers. Mrs. Wylie had seen such things before from professed mediums. Suddenlya thought came to her. She detached the little gold pencil from her watch guard and laid in with her shopping-tablet on the table before the woman. In a moment Mrs. Lucien seized the pencil and was writing rapidly, her eyes still fixed and unseeing.
When she at last relinquished the tablet Mrs. Wylie took it up, and read in letters scrawling and unlike the chirography of her friend, the following:
“My dear friend:
“My dear friend:
“My dear friend:
“My dear friend:
“Why do you hesitate on the dark borders of prejudice and ignorance? Why not come into the full light of the truth? Our hands would gladly lead you if you would take them. There is much to believe that is truth; there is much to reject that is untruth. You accept much untruth. But you shall soon know all.
“E. M. B.�
“E. M. B.�
“E. M. B.�
“E. M. B.�
What did this meaningless missive prove? That Mrs. Lucien was other than she seemed? Mrs. Wylie could think of no one having those initials. Ah, yes. She did have a friend, long ago, by the name of Emma Boyleson. She could not remember her middle name, or if she had one. It might have been “M.� But she was dead, died a long while ago, when only a little more than a child. And why, if it came from her,—Mrs. Wylie’s instincts denied the possibility,—why should she write such stuff as this? Simply to mystify her? Could she be mistaken in Mrs. Lucien? Could it be possible that she was one of those dreaded charlatans? But if so, how could she have known anything about EmmaBoyleson? She had never mentioned her, so far as she could remember, even to Mr. Wylie.
She would arouse Mrs. Lucien and sift this affair thoroughly.
“Mrs. Lucien! Mrs. Lucien!� she said imperatively.
She was gratified to see a change pass over the woman’s face. Mrs. Lucien started, shivered, pressed her hands to her forehead.
“What is the matter, Mrs. Lucien,� again demanded Mrs. Wylie, bending over her.
The dazed woman brushed her eyes and looked about her.
“Have I been asleep?� she asked plaintively.
“Yes, and writing me a letter in your dreams,� chirruped her visitor gaily. “Now you may arouse yourself and interpret it for me.�
Mrs. Lucien shook her head, while the look of awe deepened in her face.
“Ah, can it be possible,� she murmured, “that Dr. Lyman told me the truth, and that I am really a medium? How strange it seems, and yet he promised me it should be.�
“You a medium?� Mrs. Wylie shrank from her hostess involuntarily.
“Yes, Dr. Lyman told me I was mediumistic, and that if I would sit down at just the same time every evening, and allow myself to become entirely passive I would soon be made the instrument to take and convey the words of the invisible to the visible. I did not think, however, to obtain this so soon.�
“O Mrs. Lucien, how could you lend yourselfto such experiments? You would not deceive me, would you? Tell me truly, did you know what you were doing when you wrote that message to me?�
“No more than I know what I do in my sleep. I have a feeling that I have had dreams, but I cannot recall them.�
“Did this ever happen before?�
“I have had this feeling and a partial remembrance of dreams, but I do not know what I have ever written.�
“Do you think Dr. Lyman had anything to do with this?�
“No, only so far as he has assisted in developing me.�
“What do you mean by that?�
“I think he exercised some—mesmeric power or influence over me, while in attendance at his lectures.�
“You horrify me! And would you continue to go and hear him, when you knew this?�
“Why, yes. I hoped he might develop me into a medium. Why should I not?� Mrs. Lucien’s innocent, dark eyes looked up inquiringly.
“I think it is dreadful—dreadful! I would not be under his influence for anything.�
“But it is not his influence. It is—Oh! I cannot tell you. It is a power from beyond. Why should I fear to speak to those I love?�
“I cannot bear to think of it,� Mrs. Wylie said, shivering. “We do not know to whom we are talking. We have no proof of their identity, and know not if the power be good or evil.�
“What, not when we see, as we did a short time ago, the faces of those we have known and loved here on earth?�
Mrs. Wylie shook her head.
“A delusion of the senses!� she said positively.
Mrs. Lucien gazed pityingly upon her.
“I am sure, dear Mrs. Wylie, that when we see a photograph taken of a spirit face we can not doubt its genuineness. Cameras do not lie.�
“Don’t they? I am not sure. I have heard that people have tried to get pictures of materialized spirits, and failed. The camera plate revealsnothing, proving the delusions. Did you ever see an authentic spirit-photograph?�
“My father did, and I have often heard him tell the story, although he does not profess to believe in spiritism. He is a member of the Masonic fraternity, and while in the West, a number of years ago, one of his brother knights sickened and died. The family had no good portrait of the man, and my father, who was superintending the funeral arrangements, obtained permission to get some one to take a picture of the corpse.
“There was a young lady photographer a few doors away and she was called in. She told them she was out of negative plates (they were in a country town where supplies were not readily obtainable) but that any glass would do. Accordingly she found a pane of window glass, and cut it to the required dimensions and prepared it otherwise for the holder. My father propped the man upon pillows as well as he could, and the artist focused upon him with care.Removing the plate she took it to a dark closet, previously prepared, to apply the developing solution, and then brought it forth to show to my father. He looked at it, and exclaimed in surprise, for instead of the dead man alone, there were three figures upon the negative, a very good portrait of the corpse, and on either side a man and a woman, their faces growing more distinct as they looked. The artist was as much surprised as my father, and could not account for the phenomenon. At last they called in a friend of the family, who at once recognized and pronounced the portraits to be those of a deceased brother and sister of the dead man. The widow corroborated their statements, recognizing them and calling them by their names. My father ordered the artist to take another picture, as he wanted to keep this, and she did so, obtaining one of the dead man alone. I have not only my father’s word for this, but that of others who were present at the time and acquainted with the facts. Certainly, dear Mrs. Wylie, that could have come only from actual materialized spirits before the camera.�
“Unless the images were already stamped upon the plate by some natural process before the picture was taken. The glass might have been some old cast-off negative from a studio; or I have read of breath pictures stamped upon window-panes by natural, if not well-understood, forces. There might have been a mirror behind the dead man, which reflected your father and the artist as the picture was being taken. Of course it is very mysterious, but might have a simple explanation if we could find it.The orientals believe they have astral bodies which they can project at will. I am willing, I think, to believe inanything, rather than spirits; for, my dear friend, even if we grant that the spirits of our dear departed are near us, and acting as guardian-angels to us, do you think it would be necessary for them to resort to so much that is unpleasant and almost ludicrous in order to make us aware of their presence? And even if they are able to make themselves visible to the eye of the camera, is it well for us to try to communicate with them and to seek to discover that which God has hidden from us?�
“My dear, we are told to seek for thetruth. And why, then, is it not well? Surely, if the presence of my children was dear to me on earth, it is dear to me now.�
“Yes, if you were in heaven with them; but I cannot believe such doubtful converse as this, gotten through mediumistic agency, can be well for any one.�
“I can see no possible harm in it,� returned Mrs. Lucien, with an air of conviction. “Even Christ materialized after his crucifixion.�
“But He didn’t have a cabinet and a medium to assist Him,� replied Mrs. Wylie, with some asperity. “There is really so much that is despicable and demoralizing connected with the history of this belief that I confess I have little patience with the followers of it.�
“My dear, wrong has been done in all sects and societies. Any new belief is apt to draw to itself many who are no honor to it.�
“But think of all this buffoonery of materialization in a cabinet, and table-rappings, and tying with cords, and so forth. I cannot believe in it. Hermann can surpass it by his magic.�
“Did not Moses and Elijah materialize?�
“Not in a cabinet. Besides, the days of miracles are passed.�
“I cannot think so,� said Mrs. Lucien, clasping her hands and looking upward with a rapturous glance.
“Well,� said Mrs. Wylie, rising, “I am sorry you are so much interested in the subject. I have never seen anything but sorrow come of it.�
“Is there not sorrow everywhere, Mrs. Wylie? This day is, I think, symbolical of life, or of many lives.� She threw open a window, and the two stepped out upon a small balcony above the street.
A heavy calm was over and about all nature. The whistle of the oncoming train, the rattle of the car over the pavement was louder and more discordant than on brighter, sunnier days. Even the voices of the people on the street grew distinct and harsh, as the air, damp with the approaching storm, bore their words with clearness to the twain above them.
Little gusts of wind caught up the dust from the trampled pavement, and whisked it over, in tyrannous derision, and a dusky, yellow hue shone upon the faces of humanity. The swinging signs before the shop creaked and groaned ominously, and the flag upon the tall pole in the park shook out its folds, then wound them about the halyards and hung limp and spiritless.
The faint muttering of a cloud skirting the horizon was at times heard, when the sound of busy humanity was for a moment hushed.
Mrs. Lucien stood, leaning over the railing of the veranda, her pale cheek resting in the soft upturned palm of her hand, and her eyes fixed on the moving panorama before her.
“I feel as though listening to the voice of God coming from yonder storm-cloud,� she said. “How responsive is all nature to the ominous warning there. Even the trees seem to be holding their breaths and waiting for the presence to pass by. Notice how different is the quiver of the leaflets now from their usual merry, rollicking dance in the wind and sunshine at other times.�
“I suppose the atmosphere is more dense and heavy,� said Mrs. Wylie, determined not to be betrayed into sentimentality.
“I like to think they understand the portent of the thunder and are afraid,� replied the other. “They are saying their prayers now, and asking that they may survive the blows and buffeting of the coming tempest. Hear the sparrows chirp to call their families together. To me there is no time so grand, so inspiring as this.�
“But if you were in the West, where cyclones are common, what would you feel?� asked the practical Mrs. Wylie.
“Fear, terror, and trembling like the leaves, no doubt,� replied Mrs. Lucien. “The anger and fury expressed in a tornado must be dreadful. I shudder at the thought of it. But after the wind comes astill small voice. Ah, how can people who live and breathe the beneficent air of heaven, who witness the wonderful phenomena of nature, say or believe there is no grand, marvelous unity controlling it all? Truly, itisthe fool who sayeth in his heart, there is no God.
“We can feel His wonderful love and care in the beautiful earth and flowers about us, can perceive His righteous law in the retributive justice of all nature, and His might and omnipotence in the thunder-storm and cyclone. Ah, it is a wonderful thing to live, to know that in a little while we shall have crossed to the other side, beyond time and eternity. And then we may see and know the Law-giver, this Almighty One, who carries worlds in his hands, yet deigns to note a sparrow’s fall.�
“Yes,� assented Mrs. Wylie, “it is a wonderful thing to live.� But she sighed. She could not forget the scene that presented itself to her eyes earlier in the morning, and she bade her friend good-by abstractedly, and passed out into the hurrying world upon the street, her mind heavy and oppressed.