Part 4 (1/2)
The preacher's sneer broke forth. ”I can't see but you scientists are quite as dogmatic, quite as bigoted as the theologians.”
Serviss laughed. ”It does look a little that way. However, I'm not as uninformed as I seem. It happens that I am in close personal contact with men whose specialty is the study of morbid psychology, and I know the quality of those who act as mediums for the return of the dead.”
The intensity of the interest on the part of the little group before him was astonis.h.i.+ng, not to say appalling. ”It is evident that the mother and her pastor are both of the new dispensation or worse,” was his thought, but his natural courtesy led him to say, placably: ”There are mysteries in the world, I admit--in chemistry as in biology--but they seem to me to be different in very essence from the 'mysteries'
of spiritualism and all allied 'psychic phenomena,' which appear to me essentially absurd, ign.o.ble--'ratty,' to use a slang phrase--a faith founded upon things done in the dark, always in the dark.”
The preacher flamed out at this. ”I knew you would get round to that; that is the reason why I began by drawing you out on the X-ray. How little do we know of motion! The X-ray moves in straight lines, I understand, while light has a wave motion. Hence they are antagonistic. May it not be that the spirits of those gone before manifest by means of an unknown force which light neutralizes? May this not be the explanation why the phenomena of the spirit world require darkness?”
”It may,” answered Serviss, dryly; ”but there is a far easier explanation--But, see here,” he returned to his boyish humor, ”this is my vacation. I came out here to escape 'shop,' and here we are wasting time on X-rays and spiritism, and boring our patient hostess besides.
Miss Lambert, won't you play for us and clear the air of our controversial dust?”
The girl, who had been sitting during this conversation in rigid immobility, intent on every word, now turned towards Clarke as if asking his consent. The mother, too, seemed to wait anxiously for the minister's answer, as if wondering whether he would willingly cut short his interrogation.
His eyes were still glowing with the heat of controversy, but he gravely said: ”I hope you will give me another opportunity to discuss this matter. It is very important to me.”
”Certainly, with pleasure,” answered Serviss, glad to rid himself of the discussion of the moment.
As Viola stood slowly turning the leaves of her music, three loud knocks sounded upon the inner door, as if an insistent neighbor had entered and signalled for help. The mother rose and went out hurriedly, but the clergyman merely glanced after her, and said to the girl:
”You would better play, Viola.”
The girl dashed into a stormy Polish march, which she played very well, but with a mechanical precision which seemed to offend Clarke, who rose and laid his hand on her arm. ”Wait, you're not in the mood yet.” He turned to Serviss. ”The spirit of our discussion is upon her.
She is very sensitive to such things. I will sing first--if you don't object,” he added, in a new tone, a touch of apology in his voice, and he gave out the effect of addressing an unseen auditor--some one in the inner room.
”I shall be delighted,” replied Serviss, with formal politeness, though he began to apprehend something morbidly forbidding in the minister and in his influence on the girl. An extraordinary intimacy was revealed, not so much in the words he spoke as in the tones he used. ”Here is the girl's lover,” he decided.
There was no timidity or hesitation in Viola's manner as she struck the first chords of an old ballad, and Clarke, transformed by a new and lofty mood, sang, with notable beauty of phrasing, ”The Banks o'
Ben Lomond.” Something in the melancholy of the lover's cry seemed to fit with this singular young preacher's mood. His voice searched the heart, his eyes misted with feeling, and when he finished Serviss applauded most fervently, ”Bravo!” and impulsively offered his hand.
”My dear fellow, you have a wonderful voice. _You_ are the one to go to New York; you'd make Carolus look to his laurels. Sing something else--something of Strauss. Do you know Strauss?”
Clarke smiled with wistful sadness. ”I sing very few ballads. My voice was given me to use in Christ's service, not for the gratification of my pride.”
Serviss recoiled before this sanctimonious speech, and the light went out of his face. A disgust which he could not entirely conceal crossed his lips. ”My dear sir, you can't serve the Lord better than by singing beautiful songs to the weary people of this earth. To wear out a voice like that on pinchbeck hymn tunes is a crime.” Then, as if becoming conscious of a neglect of the girl, he added: ”Now that you are in the mood, Miss Lambert, you must try that sonata again.”
The girl seemed not to be offended by his enthusiasm over the minister's singing, and with a word in a low voice to Clarke, who placed a sheet of music before her, she began to play, opening the composition with unexpected breadth and dignity of phrasing. Serviss listened with growing amazement. Her hands were not large, but they had ample spread and were under perfect control. There was power in the poise of her head and in the rhythmic swaying of her body, but her playing was curiously unfeminine. There was no touch of girlish grace, of sentiment, in her performance, and with a sudden enlightenment Serviss inwardly exclaimed: ”Aha! A clerical Svengali! This musical preacher has trained his pupil till she plays as _he_ would play if he had the digital facility. It's all fine, but it is not the girl,” and the question of their relations.h.i.+p again engaged him.
[Ill.u.s.tration: ”SERVISS LISTENED WITH GROWING AMAZEMENT”]
When the final stormy note was still, Viola remained on her stool, as though waiting for her critic to applaud.
Serviss broke the silence by exclaiming: ”See here, you people are making game of me. You are both professionals in disguise. Come now, 'fess up,” he challenged Clarke. ”You are Senor Del Corte, barytone of the Salt-Air Opera Company; and you, Miss Lambert, belong to the Arion Ladies' Orchestra. I have found you both out!”
The girl smiled with pleasure, but Clarke remained so una.s.sailably serious that Serviss was moved to further deeps of audacity. ”Don't tell me you are a comedian, also! You certainly have me guessing. Who are you, really?”
Clarke answered, resentfully: ”I am the pastor of the Presbyterian church in this village, as Miss Lambert has told you, and she is my organist.”
Again that thump three times repeated sounded upon the door. Serviss, baffled and silenced by Clarke's impenetrable gravity, and by something inexplicably submissive, yet watchful, in the face of the girl, felt himself confronted by an intangible, sinister, and inescapable influence. The young clergyman seemed to darken and oppress both women. It was as if they were all leagued in a conspiracy to deceive and cajole. This bewilderment lasted but a moment, and he rose from his chair with a spring. ”Well, now, play something else--give us a bit of rag-time; that last piece has left us all a little dashed--try a cake-walk.”