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Moon-Face and Other Stories-Part18_JACK LONDON(1876-1916)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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try Planchette. There may be a further message."

"No, no, I beg of you," Aunt Mildred interposed. "It is too uncanny. It surely



is wrong to tamper with the dead. Besides, I am nervous. Or, better, let me go

to bed, leaving you to go on with your experiments. That will be the best way,



and you can tell me in the morning." Mingled with the "Good-nights," were

half-hearted protests from Mrs. Grantly, as Aunt Mildred withdrew.



"Robert can return," she called back, "as soon as he has seen me to my tent."

"It would be a shame to give it up now," Mrs. Grantly said. "There is no



telling what we are on the verge of. Won't you try it, Miss Story?"

Lute obeyed, but when she placed her hand on the board she was conscious of a



vague and nameless fear at this toying with the supernatural. She was

twentieth-century, and the thing in essence, as her uncle had said, was



mediaeval. Yet she could not shake off the instinctive fear that arose in

her--man's inheritance from the wild and howling ages when his hairy, apelike



prototype was afraid of the dark and personified the elements into things of

fear.



But as the mysterious influence seized her hand and sent it meriting across

the paper, all the unusual passed out of the situation and she was unaware of



more than a feeblecuriosity. For she was intent on another visioning--this

time of her mother, who was also unremembered in the flesh. Not sharp and



vivid like that of her father, but dim and nebulous was the picture she shaped

of her mother--a saint's head in an aureole of sweetness and goodness and



meekness, and withal, shot through with a hint of reposeful determination, of

will, stubborn and unobtrusive, that in life had expressed itself mainly in



resignation.

Lute's hand had ceased moving, and Mrs. Grantly was already reading the



message that had been written.

"It is a different handwriting," she said. "A woman's hand. 'Martha,' it is



signed. Who is Martha?"

Lute was not surprised. "It is my mother," she said simply. "What does she



say?"

She had not been made sleepy, as Chris had; but the keen edge of her vitality



had been blunted, and she was experiencing a sweet and pleasing lassitude. And

while the message was being read, in her eyes persisted the vision of her



mother.

"Dear child," Mrs. Grantly read, "do not mind him. He was ever quick of speech



and rash. Be no niggard with your love. Love cannot hurt you. To deny love is

to sin. Obey your heart and you can do no wrong. Obey worldly considerations,



obey pride, obey those that prompt you against your heart's prompting, and you

do sin. Do not mind your father. He is angry now, as was his way in the



earth-life; but he will come to see the wisdom of my counsel, for this, too,

was his way in the earth-life. Love, my child, and love well.--Martha."



"Let me see it," Lute cried, seizing the paper and devouring the handwriting

with her eyes. She was thrilling with unexpressed love for the mother she had



never seen, and this written speech from the grave seemed to give more

tangibility to her having ever existed, than did the vision of her.



"This IS remarkable," Mrs. Grantly was reiterating. "There was never anything

like it. Think of it, my dear, both your father and mother here with us



tonight."

Lute shivered. The lassitude was gone, and she was her natural self again,



vibrant with the instinctive fear of things unseen. And it was offensive to

her mind that, real or illusion, the presence or the memorized existences of



her father and mother should he touched by these two persons who were

practically strangers--Mrs. Grantly, unhealthy and morbid, and Mr. Barton,



stolid and stupid with a grossness both of the flesh and the spirit. And it

further seemed a trespass that these strangers should thus enter into the



intimacy between her and Chris.

She could hear the steps of her uncle approaching, and the situation flashed



upon her, luminous and clear. She hurriedly folded the sheet of paper and

thrust it into her bosom.



"Don't say anything to him about this second message, Mrs. Grantly, please,

and Mr. Barton. Nor to Aunt Mildred. It would only cause them irritation and



needless anxiety."

In her mind there was also the desire to protect her lover, for she knew that



the strain of his present standing with her aunt and uncle would be added to,

consciously" target="_blank" title="ad.无意识地；不觉察地">unconsciously in their minds, by the weird message of Planchette.



"And please don't let us have any more Planchette," Lute continued hastily.

"Let us forget all the nonsense that has occurred."



"'Nonsense,' my dear child?" Mrs. Grantly was indignantly protesting when

Uncle Robert strode into the circle.



"Hello!" he demanded. "What's being done?"




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