cannot help it. As my body is trembling, so is my soul. This speech of the
grave, this dead man reaching out from the mould of a
generation to protect me
from you. There is reason in it. There is the living
mystery that prevents you
from marrying me. Were my father alive, he would protect me from you. Dead, he
still strives to protect me. His hands, his
ghostly hands, are against your
life!"
"Do be calm," Chris said soothingly. "Listen to me. It is all a lark. We are
playing with the subjective forces of our own being, with
phenomena which
science has not yet explained, that is all. Psychology is so young a science.
The subconscious mind has just been discovered, one might say. It is all
mystery as yet; the laws of it are yet to he formulated. This is simply
unexplained
phenomena. But that is no reason that we should immediately
account for it by labelling it spiritism. As yet we do not know, that is all.
As for Planchette--"
He
abruptly ceased, for at that moment, to
enforce his remark, he had placed
his hand on Planchette, and at that moment his hand had been seized, as by a
paroxysm, and sent
dashing, willy-nilly, across the paper,
writing as the hand
of an angry person would write.
"No, I don't care for any more of it," Lute said, when the message was
completed. "It is like witnessing a fight between you and my father in the
flesh. There is the savor in it of struggle and blows."
She
pointed out a
sentence that read: "You cannot escape me nor the just
punishment that is yours!"
"Perhaps I visualize too
vividly for my own comfort, for I can see his hands
at your
throat. I know that he is, as you say, dead and dust, but for all
that, I can see him as a man that is alive and walks the earth; I see the
anger in his face, the anger and the
vengeance, and I see it all directed
against you."
She crumpled up the scrawled sheets of paper, and put Planchette away.
"We won't
bother with it any more," Chris said. "I didn't think it would
affect you so
strongly. But it's all subjective, I'm sure, with possibly a bit
of
suggestion thrown in--that and nothing more. And the whole
strain of our
situation has made conditions
unusuallyfavorable for
strikingphenomena."
"And about our situation," Lute said, as they went slowly up the path they had
run down. " What we are to do, I don't know. Are we to go on, as we have gone
on? What is best? Have you thought of anything?"
He debated for a few steps. "I have thought of telling your uncle and aunt."
"What you couldn't tell me?" she asked quickly.
"No," he answered slowly; "but just as much as I have told you. I have no
right to tell them more than I have told you."
This time it was she that debated. "No, don't tell them," she said finally.
"They wouldn't understand. I don't understand, for that matter, but I have
faith in you, and in the nature of things they are not
capable of this same
Implicit faith. You raise up before me a
mystery that prevents our marriage,
and I believe you; but they could not believe you without doubts arising as to
the wrong and ill-nature of the
mystery. Besides, it would but make their
anxieties greater."
"I should go away, I know I should go away," he said, half under his
breath.
"And I can. I am no weakling. Because I have failed to remain away once, is no
reason that I shall fail again."
She caught her
breath with a quick gasp. "It is like a bereavement to hear you
speak of going away and remaining away. I should never see you again. It is
too terrible. And do not
reproach yourself for
weakness. It is I who am to
blame. It is I who prevented you from remaining away before, I know. I wanted
you so. I want you so.
"There is nothing to be done, Chris, nothing to be done but to go on with it
and let it work itself out somehow. That is one thing we are sure of: it will
work out somehow."
"But it would be easier if I went away," he suggested.
"I am happier when you are here."
"The
cruelty of circumstance," he muttered savagely.
"Go or stay--that will be part of the
working out. But I do not want you to
go, Chris; you know that. And now no more about it. Talk cannot mend it. Let
us never mention it again--unless . . . unless some time, some wonderful,
happy time, you can come to me and say: 'Lute, all is well with me. The
mystery no longer binds me. I am free.' Until that time let us bury it, along
with Planchette and all the rest, and make the most of the little that is
given us.
"And now, to show you how prepared I am to make the most of that little, I am
even ready to go with you this afternoon to see the horse--though I wish you
wouldn't ride any more . . . for a few days, anyway, or for a week. What did
you say was his name?"
"Comanche," he answered. "I know you will like him."
*******