PLAYING WITH FIRE

What happened on the last day, or rather the last night, of Mrs. Wells'

psychological crisis may be regarded either as a purely subjective phenomena, a dream or a startling experience of the soul, or as something that came from without, a telepathic or spiritualistic manifestation. In any case note must be made of the testimony of Dr.

William Owen, an extremely rational person, that after midnight on this occasion he distinctly _saw_ scarlet lights moving about the darkened room near Penelope's couch.

The patient pa.s.sed the day quietly (after sleeping late) and was advised not to see her lover, although Dr. Leroy did not insist upon this. Mrs.

Wells agreed, however, that any conversation with Christopher might be harmfully agitating, and was content to send him a loving message, together with a sealed communication that was not to be opened unless--unless things went badly.

"Do you think I am going to pull through tonight, doctor?" she asked tremulously about three in the afternoon.

"I am sure you will, Mrs. Wells, if you will only trust me and do what I have told you to do. Your fate is in your own hands--entirely."

Dr. Leroy spoke confidently, but she shook her head in distress of mind.

"I wish I could believe what you say. I would give anything to feel sure that my mother is watching over me, trying to come to me; but I can't believe it. If she wants to come, why doesn't she do it? Why didn't she come to me last night when I needed her so terribly?"

"Seraphine has told you why, she says the conditions are not right. Is that so surprising? Take a telephone--you can't talk over it unless the connections are right, can you? Take a telescope or a microscope--you can see nothing through them unless the instruments are in focus, can you? Take an automobile--it will not move an inch unless all the parts are properly adjusted, will it? You may have the finest photographic camera in the world, yet you will get no picture unless you expose the sensitive plate in just the right way--isn't that true? Suppose a savage refused to believe in photography, or in the telephone, or the telescope, or in any of our great inventions, unless they would operate according to the fancy of his ignorant mind, regardless of scientific laws? What results would he get? The very same kind that we get in the psychic world if we refuse to obey psychic laws."

The fair patient moved wearily on her pillow with signs of increasing discouragement.

"I have not refused to obey psychic laws, I don't know what the laws are. How can I believe in something that is entirely unknown to me? I can't do it, I can't do it."

"But, Mrs. Wells, when so much is at stake, when everything is at stake, can't you take an open-minded att.i.tude toward these mysteries? Why not submit to the indicated conditions and see what happens? If there is only one chance in a hundred that your mother can really come to you and help you, why not take that chance? You believe that your mother is an exalted spirit, don't you?"

"Oh, yes. I am sure she is."

"You don't doubt that she would be glad to help you in your present trouble, if she could, do you?"

"No, of course not, but what can I do? I say my prayers, I try to have good thoughts--what else can I do?"

The spiritual healer answered with sudden impressiveness.

"Penelope, you must cleanse your soul of evil. There is something you are keeping back--perhaps you do not know what it is yourself. I can only tell you to think, to look into the past, to search into your soul--just as if you were coming before a great, wise, loving Judge who cannot be deceived. He wants you to confess something--I don't know what it is, you must find that out for yourself--but when you have confessed, I _know_ that help will come to you through your mother. Now close your eyes. Don't speak. Think! Think of your mother."

He laid his hands gently on her forehead and for some minutes there was silence.

"Now I shall leave you alone. In an hour I will send Seraphine to you."

Then he left her.

At four o'clock Mrs. Walters came in with an armful of flowers from Christopher and the two women talked of indifferent things over their tea. Then they went for a drive in the park and Penelope returned blooming like a lovely rose; but not one word did she breathe of her deeper thoughts. Seraphine waited.

Seven o'clock!

At last the barrier of pride and reserve began to crumble. Penelope turned to her old friend, trying at first to speak lightly, but her troubled eyes told the story of tension within. Then came the confession--in broken words. There were two things on her conscience--one that she had done, but it wasn't exactly her fault, one that she did not do, but she meant to do it. She supposed that was a sin just the same.

Mrs. Walters smiled encouragingly.

"It can't be so serious a sin, can it? Tell me everything, Pen."

With flaming cheeks the young widow told how she had meant to adopt a child--in France--that would really have been--her own child. She did not do this because she met Captain Herrick, but--she would have done it. The other thing was what happened on the Fall River steamboat--with Julian. On that tragic summer night, she had finally yielded to him and--_she had wanted to yield!_

To which Seraphine made the obvious reply: "Still, my dear, he was your husband."

"But I had sworn that never--never--it was so--ign.o.ble! I despised him.

Then I despised myself."

The medium listened thoughtfully.

"You trust me, don't you, Pen? You know I want to do what is best for you?" She pa.s.sed her arm affectionately around her distressed friend.

"Oh, yes. You have proved it, dearest. I'll never be able to repay your love."

Mrs. Wells began to cry softly.

"Please don't. We need all our courage, our intelligence. It doesn't matter how wrong you have been in the past, if you are right in the present. The trouble with you, dear child, is that you cannot see the truth, although it is right under your eyes."

"But I am telling the truth," Penelope protested tearfully. "I am not keeping anything back."

"You don't mean to keep anything back--but--"

The psychic's deep-set, searching eyes seemed to read into the soul of the fair sufferer.

"You showed me parts of your diary once--what you wrote in New York after your husband died--before you went to France. There were four years--you remember?"

"Yes."

"How would you interpret those four years, Pen? You were not worried about money--Julian left you enough to live on. You had no children, no responsibilities. You were in splendid health and very beautiful. What was in your mind most of the time? How did you get that idea of adopting a child in France? It must have come gradually. How did it come? _Why_ did it come?"

"Because I was--lonely."

"Is that all? Think!"

There was silence.

"Why did you dance so much during those four years?"

"I like dancing. It's good exercise."

"And all those allurements of dress--clinging skirts, low-cut waists, no corsets--why was that?"

"I hate corsets. I don't need them. I can't breathe in corsets."

"And those insidious perfumes?"

"I don't see what that has to do with it."

"Those are little indications. But take the main point, your desire to have a child--of your own. Do you really love children, Pen? Have you ever shown that you do? Did you try to have children when you were married?"