Part 28 (1/2)
Clarke's resounding voice had drawn Mrs. Lambert from her room, and she now hurried down the stairway with intent to calm him.
Serviss turned to her. ”Again I beg of you, Mrs. Lambert, to consider well before you consent to this plan. Your daughter's name will be a jest from one end of the country to the other. It doesn't matter how sincere and earnest you are, the public will regard this challenge as a seeking for notoriety. Your daughter is about to be flung to the beasts.” Seeing something unyielding in her eyes, he added, with such intensity his own heart responded: ”Will you stake your daughter's reputation, her health, her reason, upon the issue of a voice in the dark?”
”Yes, when the voice is that of her own father. He knows the future.
He will protect her. I have no fear.”
There was such conviction, such immutable faith in her gentle voice, that Serviss was confounded. When he spoke, in answer, his voice was lower in key, with a cadence of hopeless appeal.
”How do you know these advisers are your husband and your father? You must be very certain of them.”
”I am certain. I believe in them as I believe in my own existence.”
The line of her mouth lost something of its sweetness, and Serviss, seeing this, took another tack.
”Granted these voices are genuine, they may be mistaken--rash with zeal. You wouldn't say that they have gained infallibility--a knowledge of both past and future--merely by pa.s.sing to the shadow world?”
To this Clarke made answer: ”That is precisely what we do believe.
They have predicted our future, they have laid out all our plans.
Their advice has brought us to our present high place, and we shall continue in our course, despite you or any other doubter.”
”They have brought you to a very dubious sort of success,” Serviss cuttingly replied, ”But what about your victim? I know this city and its ways. I realize, as none of you seem to do, the wasting injustice you are about to inflict. Let me intercede--let me arrange some other plan--”
On Clarke's face a sneering, one-sided smile crept as he answered: ”You are too late. Our plans are made, our programme published.”
”What do you mean?”
”The reporters have just been here. The notice of my speech and a broad hint of the nature of my challenge will appear in four of the leading papers to-morrow morning--”
”But Viola's--Miss Lambert's name! You surely haven't used that?”
”Oh no. That is to follow. The challenge, with her name and defiance, form the climax to my oration.” He swelled with pride as he spoke, as if visualizing himself on the platform, the centre of thousands of eyes, the champion of reviving faith.
”Thank G.o.d for your vanity! There is still time for some one to intervene,” responded Serviss, minded to thrust him through.
Pratt shouldered in again. ”What have you got to do with it, anyway?
Who asked you to interfere?”
”The chief person concerned--Miss Lambert herself.”
Pratt was about to utter some further insult when Clarke diplomatically interposed. ”We want you to have a part in the work, Dr. Serviss. We will welcome you to a committee of investigation, but we cannot permit you to interfere with our plan. The 'Forces' are bent on the work, and they are inexorable.”
”It is you who are inexorable,” replied the young scientist--”you and this deluded mother.”
This rapid dialogue had taken place in the wide hall just beneath the huge chandelier whose light fell on Serviss's white forehead and square, determined face. Pratt was confronting him with lowering brow, a bear-like stoop in his shoulders, and the muttering growl of his voice was again filling the room as Viola appeared upon the great stairway. She came slowly, with one slim hand on the railing, as though feeling her way, and at every step mysterious, jarring sounds came from beneath her feet and from the walls; her eyes were shut, her chin lifted, and on her face, white and tense, lay the expression of a sorrowful dreamer. Her mouth, drooping at the corners, was pitiful to see. All her vivid youth, her flaming rebellion, had been frozen into soulless calm by the implacable powers which reigned above and beneath her in the dark.
In horror and fierce, impotent rage, Serviss watched her descend. It was plain that she was again in the grasp of some soul stronger than herself; and he believed this obsession, close akin to madness, to be due to a living, overmastering magician--to Clarke, whose voice broke the silence. ”There is your answer!” he called, and his voice rang out, with triumphant glee. ”Her 'guides' have brought her to show you the folly of human interference. She is only an instrument like myself--clay to the hands of the invisible potters.”