Part 10 (1/2)
”Then I said: 'Viola, you have given me the most wonderful moment of all my life. You brought my Adele and put her hand in mine. Through you I heard her voice again. G.o.d has chosen you for a great work; I feel it. You should not repel these powers; your gift may mean the most exquisite comfort to thousands--nay, millions--of bereaved souls.'
”I was amazed at the vehement unreason of her reply. 'I don't want it!' she cried. 'I hate it! I won't sit again!' Then I tried to persuade her of her great mission, to no result. The following night I came, and we pleaded with her to act again with us, but she still pa.s.sionately refused. 'Why don't they come to you or to mother,' she complained, 'instead of to me?' To this I said: 'There is no answer.
They have made you their instrument, and it is your duty to do their will.'
”That night the little parlor became a battle-field. Mrs. Lambert had invoked the aid of Donald McLeod, her father, the girl's 'control.'
Viola resisted almost to the death. It seemed as if a strong hand clutched her throat, commanding obedience. I feared she would be torn to pieces, and at last I protested. 'She is suffering too much; let us give over the sitting.' But Mrs. Lambert said, quietly: 'It is her own fault. She is being punished for her obstinacy. Father is disciplining her--he will not harm her.' In the end the power conquered, and the girl lay back in slumber so deep, so dead, that her breath seemed stilled forever--her hands icily inert, her face as white as marble.”
”Why didn't you interfere?” asked Britt, sternly.
”How could I, when the mother and the girl's 'controls' were minded otherwise? Besides, I began to believe in the girl's mission--I began to understand the enormous value of her work. My G.o.d, Dr. Britt, had I that girl's gift I would engross the world. I would write such words across the tomb that death would seem as sweet as baby slumber. I would make the grave a gateway to the light. I would eliminate sorrow from the earth. The Bible no longer satisfies me. I want something more than cold, black letters on a printed page. I want to know! I want to thrill the world with a new message; and here, now, at my hand, is a medium. I can never have this power--perhaps it is only given to babes and to sucklings, but I can spread the light. You, Dr.
Britt, shall help me. Let us study this wonderful gift. Let us concentrate our energies upon this supreme problem. I will note all that comes to us, and I will write a burning book--a revelation that shall go round the globe, guiding and gladdening every human soul.
Think of it! There is no mightier mission on earth. This girl can be, and must be, made a savior, a hope-bringer, to thousands of despairing souls!”
To this fervid appeal Britt remained impa.s.sive and coldly critical--till, chilled and repelled, Clarke had withdrawn his confidence. The two still met occasionally in Mrs. Lambert's home, but their antagonism had deepened to actual hatred. Britt, impotent to help, had long since ceased to protest, even to the girl herself; for he had learned that every revolt on her part brought keener pain and deeper humiliation in its train. He entered upon a study of the subject, and thus far had found little to encourage the hope of the girl's redemption from her maladies.
Clarke, too, had surrounded himself with every available book which bore upon these baffling phases of human experiences, and had put himself in touch with every society organized for the investigation of occult phenomena--and in his dark little den brooded day and night over the dimly apprehended laws of the unseen universe. He left his studies only to be with Viola, who had become as necessary to him as his daily food--as indispensable as air. She was at once his hope and his very present help. How to keep her, how to mould her to his will, how to use her to his great purpose of ridding the world of the fear of death--these became his hourly care, his only interest.
To these ends he strove to enthrall her by his singing, by his oratory, and by his love of poetry, knowing well that to drum constantly upon the harsh string of her ”mission” would revolt her; and she, thus beset, thus beleaguered, gave over her rebellion, resigning herself to her guides till this ruddy and powerful young man of science came into her world to fill her with new determination to escape from her mental slavery.
Clarke loved this girl, not as he had loved Adele, of course, but quite as humanly. Her mediums.h.i.+p, so vital to the world, so sacred in his eyes, had but added to her allurement. ”All that I am, and all I hope to be, is bound up in the possession of that sweet, wonderful child,” he said, in acknowledgment of his discovery. In a very subtle way he now apprehended a change in the girl, and, realizing how utterly his aims, his daily happiness, his future depended upon her, he rose from his seat resolved not merely to advise against her going away, but to claim her as his own--his wife.
”My wife!” At this deeply significant word Adele's pleading face rose vividly before him. Writhing with shame before her reproachful glance, he cried out: ”But I cannot live alone! And then consider--I shall be able to meet you each day, perhaps each hour, and as I myself develop in grace of soul I may come to you without any medium. I am not disloyal to you, Adele. I love this girl, I confess that; but not as I loved you. You were my true wife, the only spouse I can ever have--you filled my soul. My love for this girl is that of a father--a teacher.
I need her for--Oh, my Adele, I will confess, before you came back to me through this child I was weary of the earth, ready to violently end my anguish. Viola put your hand again in mine--she gave me to hear your voice. I cannot bear to lose those priceless moments, and yet I must do so if she goes from me. Am I not justified in desiring her presence? Come to me; tell me, to-night, what you would have me do. Be merciful, my angel spouse. Remember my empty, desolate heart. Remember the greatness of the work I have set myself to do. Oh, my sweet spirit, if you could only put an arm about my neck _now_, without any other interposing soul! Come to me, whisper to me--now! Let me know your presence here as I sit alone and despairing--”
He ceased to pray, and bowed his head upon his desk and waited in an agony of hope--waited while the darkness deepened and the splendid eternal song of the river proclaimed the futility and folly of man. A cricket sang with heart-piercing cheer, as if to say, ”I die to-morrow, but I never despair.” But no silken rustle, no whispering voice came to still the agony welling in bitter sighs from the lips of the tempted man.
X
CLARKE'S WOOING
Mrs. Lambert was face to face with a decision of almost equal moment--was, indeed, in the midst of formulating the question which perplexed her, in order that she might lay it before her invisible guides for their consideration. She had just written upon a slate these words: ”Shall I take Viola and go East, or shall I send her on alone?” when Clarke's foot was heard outside her door. Hastily hiding the slate, she rose to meet her visitor.
He was very pale, and something in his glance made her aware that his call was of no ordinary intent.
”Where is Viola?” he asked, abruptly.
”She has gone to the street with a friend. She will return soon.”
”I am glad you are alone; I want to talk with you. I don't like the condition of mind Viola is in to-day. The coming of this Eastern professor seems to have stirred her to another fit of restless desire to go away. I can't think of this, Julia; she is too precious to me to lose. She has become a part of my very heart's blood, and I am afraid to let her go out of my sight. She is young and very impressionable.
If she goes away into the city we may both lose her forever. The time has come to tell you that I love her--not precisely as I loved Adele, but deeply, pa.s.sionately. I want her as my wife. I ask your consent to tell her so--to-night. Will you give that permission?”
Mrs. Lambert gazed up at him with such fixity of surprise that the rush of his forthright appeal weakened towards its end. She was overwhelmed by the intensity of pa.s.sion in his voice, as well as by surprise that he, so soon after his bitter loss, could turn to another--to her daughter, a child. And, at last, she whispered, ”What will _they_ say, Anthony?”
This question he had antic.i.p.ated, and his reply was ready. ”_They_ will advise it, I am sure. For does it not fit to their purpose? Does not my great book depend on Viola's daily co-operation? I have no fear of _their_ answer; I fear what she will say.” He began to pace up and down the room. ”What, from _their_ point of view, does her musical education signify? Think of it! She holds the key to the gates of death. On her the hopes of millions hang. She is the most wonderful organism in this world--so normal in all other ways, so trustworthy.
She will convince all who come into her presence; and then, have not her 'controls' chosen me to publish their discoveries to the world? It is ordained that we work together in this way. She must not go to New York, that vast caldron which destroys all that is spiritual. She should go only when closely guarded by those who love her and understand her exquisite nature, her gifts. Some day I will take her there. Alone she will be prevented from her grand mission, her message lost, her faith destroyed. Can't you see she must not go?”