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JEWELS

If this were a conventional novel and not simply a statement of essential facts in the strange case of Penelope Wells, there would be much elaboration of details and minor characters, including the wife of Dr. William Owen and an adventure that befell this lady during a week-end visit to Morristown, N. J., since this adventure has a bearing upon the narrative. As it is, we must be content to know that Mrs. William Owen was an irritable and neurasthenic person, a thorn in the side of her distinguished husband, who was supposed to cure these ailments. He could not cure his wife, however, and had long since given up trying. It was Mrs. Owen who quite unintentionally changed the course of events for sad-eyed Penelope.

It happened in this way. Dr. Owen received a call from Mrs. Seraphine Walters on the day following Seraphine's talk with Penelope and was not overjoyed to learn that his visitor was a trance medium. If there was one form of human activity that this hard-headed physician regarded with particular detestation it was that of mediumship. All mediums, in his opinion, were knaves or fools and their so-called occult manifestations were either conjurers' trickery or self-created illusions of a hypnotic character. He had never attended a spiritualistic sÉance and had no intention of doing so.

But in spite of his aversion for Seraphine's mÉtier, the doctor was impressed by the lady's gentle dignity and by her winsome confidence that she must be lovingly received since she herself came armed so abundantly with the power of love. Furthermore, it appeared that the medium had called for no other reason than to furnish information about her dear friend Penelope Wells, so the specialist listened politely.

“You are the first spiritualist I ever talked to, Mrs. Walters,” he said amiably. “You seem to have a sunny, joyous nature?”

Her face lighted up. “That is because I have so much to be grateful for, doctor. I have always been happy, almost always, even as a little girl, because—” She checked herself, laughing. “I guess you are not interested in that.”

“Yes I am. Go on.”

“I was only going to say that I have always known that there are wonderful powers all about us, guarding us.”

“You knew this as a little girl?”

“Oh, yes, I used to see Them when I was playing alone. I thought They were fairies. It was a long time before I discovered that the other children did not see Them.”

“Them! Hm! How long have you been doing active work as a medium?”

“About fifteen years.”

“What started you at it? I suppose there were indications that you had unusual powers?”

“Yes. There were indications that I had been chosen for this work. I don't know why I was chosen unless it is that I have never thought much about myself. That is the great sin—selfishness. My controls tell me that terrible punishment awaits selfish souls on the other side. I was so happy when I learned that the exalted spirits can only manifest through a loving soul. They read our thoughts, see the color of our aura and, if they can, they come to those who have traits in common with their own.”

“If they can—how do you mean?”

“My controls tell me that many spirits cannot manifest at all, just as many humans cannot serve as mediums.”

At this moment a maid entered the office and spoke to Dr. Owen in a low tone saying that Mrs. Owen had sent her to remind the doctor that this was Saturday morning and that they were leaving for Morristown in an hour to be gone over Sunday. No message could have been more unfortunate than this for Dr. Owen's equanimity, since he abominated week-end invitations, particularly those like the present one (which Mrs. Owen revelled in) from pretentiously rich people.

“Very well. Tell Mrs. Owen I will be ready,” he said, then turned with changed manner to poor Seraphine, whose brightening chances were now hopelessly dissipated.

“Suppose we come to the point, Mrs. Walters,” he went on. “I am rather pressed for time and—you say you are a friend of Mrs. Wells? Have you any definite information bearing upon her condition?”

“Oh, yes,” she replied and at once made it clear that she was fully informed as to Penelope's distressing symptoms.

“She is suffering from shell shock,” said the doctor.

“No, no!” the medium disagreed, sweetly but firmly. “Penelope's trouble is due to something quite different and far more serious than shell shock.”

Then earnestly, undaunted by Owen's skeptical glances, Seraphine proceeded to set forth her belief that there is today in the world such a thing as literal possession by evil spirits.

“You mean that as applying to Mrs. Wells?” the doctor asked with a weary lift of the shoulders.

“Yes, I do. I can give you evidence—if you will only listen—”

“My dear lady, I really cannot go into such a—purely speculative field. I must handle Mrs. Wells' case as I understand it with the help of means that I am familiar with.”

“Of course, but, doctor,” she begged, “don't be vexed with me, I am only trying to save this dear child, I love Penelope and—I must say it—you are not making progress. She is going straight on to—to disaster. I know what I am saying.”

For a moment he hesitated.

“What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to have a consultation with Dr. Edgar Leroy.”

“Dr. Edgar Leroy? Who is he? I never heard of him.”

“He is a New York doctor who has had great success in cases like Penelope's—cases of obsession or—possession.”

“Oh! Does he believe in that sort of thing? Is he a spiritualist?”

Seraphine felt the coldness of his tone and shrank from it, but she continued her effort, explaining that Dr. Leroy had been a regular practitioner for years, but he had changed his methods after extended psychic investigations that had led him to new knowledge—such wonderful knowledge! Her deep eyes burned with the zeal of a great faith.

“I see. Where is his office?”

“In Fortieth Street—it's in the telephone book—Dr. Edgar Leroy. If you only knew the extraordinary cures he has accomplished, you would realize how necessary it is for Penelope to have the help he alone can give her.”

She waited eagerly for his reply.

“How do you happen to know so much about this doctor?”

“Because I have been allowed to help him. He uses me in diagnosis.”

“You mean that Dr. Leroy relies upon information that you give him as a medium in treating cases?” He spoke with frank disapproval.

“Yes.”

Dr. Owen thought a moment. “Of course, Mrs. Wells is free to consult anyone she pleases, but I would not feel justified in advising her to go to Dr. Leroy.”

“But you must advise it, you must insist upon it,” urged Seraphine. “Penelope relies entirely upon you, she will do nothing without your approval, and this is her only hope.”

“My dear lady, you certainly are not lacking in confidence, but you must realize that I cannot advise a treatment for Mrs. Wells that involves the use of spiritualistic agencies when I do not believe in spiritualism. In fact, I regard spiritualism as—”

Seraphine lifted her hand with a wistful little smile that checked the outburst.

“Don't say it—please don't. Will you do one thing, doctor, not for me but for poor Penelope? Come to my house Monday night. I have a little class there, a class of eight. We have been working together for three months and—we have been getting results. You may be allowed to witness manifestations that will convince you. Will you come?” she pleaded.

“You mean that I may see a spirit form? Or hear some tambourines playing? Something of that sort?” His tone was almost contemptuously incredulous.

The anxious suppliant was gathering her forces to reply when the hall clock struck solemnly, bringing back disagreeably to the specialist's mind his impending social duty, and this was sufficient to turn the balance of his decision definitely against Seraphine. He shook his head uncompromisingly.

“I cannot do it, madam. I am sorry to disappoint you, but I have strong convictions on this subject and—” He rose to dismiss her. “Now I must ask you to excuse me.”

In spite of this disappointment Seraphine did not lose faith. “Dear child,” she wrote to Penelope that night, “I am like a man in the darkness who knows the sun will rise soon and is not discouraged. Before many days Dr. Owen will listen to me and be convinced.”

Firm in this confidence, the medium returned to Dr. Owen's office the following Monday morning, but she was coldly received. A rather condescending young woman brought out word that the specialist was exceedingly busy and could not see her.

“But it is so important,” pleaded Mrs. Walters with eyes that would have moved a heart of stone. “Couldn't you ask him to give me a few minutes? I'll be very grateful.”

The office assistant wavered. “I'll tell you why you had better come back another day, madam,” she began confidentially; “Dr. Owen is very much upset because his wife has just lost some valuable jewelry. You see, Mrs. Owen went to Morristown for the week-end and took a jewel box with her in her trunk—there was a pearl necklace and some brooches and rings; but when she came to dress for dinner last night—”

“Wait! I—I hear something,” Seraphine murmured and sank down weakly on a chair. She closed her eyes and her breathing quickened, while the young woman bent over her in concern; but almost immediately the psychic recovered herself and looked up with a friendly smile.

“It's all right. You are very kind. I am happy now because I can do something for Dr. Owen. Please tell him his wife is mistaken in thinking that she took the jewels with her. The jewels are here in this house—now.”

“What makes you think that?”

“My control says so.” The medium spoke with such a quiet power of manner that the office assistant was impressed.

“Suppose I tell Mrs. Owen?” she suggested.

“Very well, tell Mrs. Owen. Ask her if I may go to the room where she last remembers having her jewel box?”

The young woman withdrew with this message and presently returned to say that Mrs. Owen would be glad if Seraphine would come up to her bedroom. A few minutes later Seraphine faced a querulous invalid propped up against lace pillows.

“I am positive I put my jewel box in the trunk,” insisted Mrs. Owen. “It is foolish to say that I did not, it is perfectly useless to look for the jewels in this house. However—what are you doing? Why do you look at me so strangely?”

“The jewels are—in this room—in a chintz sewing bag,” the psychic declared slowly, her eyes far away.

“Absurd!”

“I see the sewing bag—distinctly. There are pink roses on it.”

“I have a sewing bag like that,” admitted the doctor's wife, “it is on a shelf in the closet—there! Will you get it for me, Miss Marshall? We shall soon see about this. Now then!” She searched through the bag, but found nothing. “I told you so. My husband is quite right in his ideas about mediums. I really wish you had not disturbed me,” she said impatiently.

But the medium answered pleasantly: “I have only repeated what my control tells me. I am sorry if I have annoyed you. I advise you to search the house carefully.”

“I have done that already,” said Mrs. Owen.

Whereupon Seraphine, still unruffled, took her departure, with these last words at the door to the office assistant: “Please tell Dr. Owen that I beg him most earnestly to have the house searched for his wife's jewels. Otherwise one of the servants will find them.”

And Dr. Owen, in spite of his scientific prejudices, in spite of his wife's positive declaration that the jewels had been stolen during her visit, and that the house had been thoroughly searched, acted on this suggestion and had the house searched again. And this time the missing jewel box was found, with the necklace, rings and brooches all intact, in a chintz sewing bag covered with pink roses!

It seems that Mrs. Owen had two chintz bags, one for ordinary sewing, one for darning, and in the latter bag, hanging on a nail behind the bureau, where the doctor's wife had absent-mindedly hidden it, the missing jewel box was discovered.

“This beats the devil!” exclaimed the doctor when he heard the good news. And an hour later he sent the following telegram to Seraphine: “Jewels found, thanks to you. We are very grateful. I have reconsidered the matter and accept your invitation for tonight. Will call at eight o'clock.”