Part 26 (1/2)
His anger and contempt dissolved into compa.s.sion. He recalled her youth, her inexperience. ”I will at least see her again,” he decided, deep in the night. ”I will talk with her. I will draw her out. I will study her. All will depend upon her att.i.tude towards me and towards her own soul.” And in that softened mood sleep came to him.
IX
VIOLA'S PLEA FOR HELP
Morton went to his work next morning quite unfitted for an especially delicate piece of dissection which he had in hand. He bungled it, and Weissmann transfixed him with a glare of disapproval. ”My boy, these social gayeties do not consort well with science.”
The young man smiled to think how wide of the mark his chief was. He held up both hands. ”I swear, it shall not happen again.” Then, moved by a desire to secure a comment on the curious phenomena of the seance, he related the story of his brief interview with his uncle Ben's ghost. ”Now, do you suppose that Clarke, or the 'medium,' could dig around among the dusty, forgotten lumber of my mind and get hold of a queer fact like that nickname?”
”Why go so far round?” inquired Weissmann. ”Why not say it was your uncle Ben who spoke?”
”You are joking.”
”I am _not_ joking. If the facts are as you say, then one explanation is as reasonable as the other.”
Serviss was amazed. ”You don't really mean it!”
”If you say it was an illusion of the sense of hearing, I agree; but do we not stagger among illusions? Who so well as we know the illusory nature of every fact? Nothing is stable under our hands. Of what avail to reduce the universe to one substance, as the monists do?
We pry, we peer into that substance--it fades like smoke. Forty years I have probed among the cells of the body--the final mystery remains insoluble. Why? Because the atom, the thing once demonstrated 'the final division of matter,' is itself an illusion, made up of the intangible and the imponderable. This I have given my whole life to discover. Life is an illusion--why not death? Shall we dogmatize, especially on the one thing of which we know nothing? The spirit world is unthinkable, but so, at the last a.n.a.lysis, is the world of matter.”
The young man, believing this to be only the mocking mood of one who knew the argument of the dualists better than they knew it themselves, remained silent, and Weissmann composedly resumed: ”The dogmatism of Haeckel is as vain as the a.s.sumption of Metchnikoff. We shall forever discover and forever despair. Such is the life of man.”
When he went home Morton found a note from his sister saying that she had received a message from Viola and that she would be at home at five. ”Now don't fail to go. I have to pour tea for Sally, or I would go with you. I'm crazy to see the girl again. I spent the morning talking the whole thing over with Doctor Safford. She thinks as I do, that the girl is exactly what she claims to be, a _medium_, and that while it is her duty to go on, she ought to be protected from the vulgar public. We both want you to take her in hand. Certainly there _ought_ to be no disgrace in standing as interpreter between the living and the dead. Isn't it just our foolish prejudice? If the girl _can_ bring messages from the other world, she ought to be honored above all other women. Seriously, Morton, her plea the other day wrung my heart. I don't want you to get _too_ interested in her, of course, but what we call a _disease_ may be a G.o.d-given power. Think of the way we run after a foolish, vulgar woman who has married into millions, and then think of the way we sniff at this girl because she has some gift which science doesn't understand. If one teenty, tiny bit of what they claim about her is true, science ought to cherish her. As Marion said, if she had discovered a star so far off and so faint it wouldn't matter in the least to any one but a few cranks whether it existed or not, she would be honored all over the world; but as she claims to have discovered something vital to every human soul, she is despised. It is your duty to help her. I had her over the 'phone just now, and her voice was trembling with eagerness as she said, 'Do tell him to please come and see me.'”
This note, so like his sister, so full of her audacities, touched Morton on the quick. It was plain that she was more than half-seas over towards faith in the girl, and quite ready to take her up and exhibit her among her friends. Her use of the word ”disease” was intended as a mockery of his theories. He knew that she was quite capable of talking over the 'phone precisely as she had written (reserve was not her strong point), and that she had undoubtedly given Viola reason to expect him. However, having concluded on his own account to see her once more, Kate's exhortation merely confirmed him in a good intention, ”I will confront Clarke, and try to pluck the heart out of this mystery, but I will keep clear of any personal relation with the girl and her mother,” he said, as if in answer to his sister's admonition.
It was about five o'clock of the afternoon as he again mounted to Pratt's portico, recalling, as he did so, the dramatic contrasting scenes of the evening before--on this side of the brick wall a communion with the dead, on that the throbbing, gay life of a ballroom. Truly a city street was a microcosm.
A solemn-visaged colored man--not the officious usher of the night before--took his card and led him into a gorgeous, glacial reception-room on the left. The house was very still and cold and gloomy, for the day was darkening and the lights were not yet on. It impressed him as a vast and splendid tomb, and with a revived knowledge of Simeon Pratt's tragic history he chilled with a premonition of some approaching shadow. ”What a contrast to the sunlit cabin of the Colorow!” he inwardly exclaimed, and the thought of the mountain girl housed in this grim and sepulchral mansion deepened his wonder.
A gruff voice above inquired: ”Who is it? Let me see the card.
Serviss, eh? Tell him--No, wait, I'll go down and see him myself.”
Morton smiled grimly, realizing perfectly the manner in which Pratt had intercepted his card. ”The old watch-dog,” he exclaimed.
A heavy tread descending the stairs announced the approach of his host, whose sullen face was by no means engaging as he entered. ”Are you Professor Serviss?”
”I am.”
The flabby lips curled in scorn. ”You are one of those scientific gentlemen who know it all, aren't you?”
”I sent my card to Miss Lambert,” replied Serviss, with cutting formality.
Pratt's face darkened. ”_I_ am the master of this house.”
”But not of your guests, I hope.”
”I have a right to know who calls, and I intend to protect Miss Lambert from such as you. You were not invited here last night.”