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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 passed 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 attitude 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—ignoble! 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 passed 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?”

“Not his children! God forbid!”

Seraphine hesitated as if dreading to wound her friend.

“I must go on, dear. We must get to the bottom of this. Suppose you had done what you intended to do? And had come back to America with an adopted child? And suppose no one had ever known the truth, about it—do you think you would have been happy?”

Penelope sighed wearily.

“Is a woman ever happy?”

“Wait! Let us take one point. You have always loved men's society, haven't you? That's natural, they're all crazy about you. Well, do you think that would have changed just because you had a child? Do you?”

“No—no, I suppose not.”

“You would have been just as beautiful. You would have gone on wearing expensive clothes, wouldn't you? You would have kept up the old round of teas and dinners, theatres, dances, late suppers—with a train of men dangling after you—flirting men, married men—men who try to kiss women in taxicabs—you know what I mean?”

Penelope bit her red lips at this sordid picture.

“No,” she said, “I don't think I would have done that. I would have changed, I intended to change. That was why I wanted a child—to give me something worthy of my love, something to serve as an outlet for my emotions.”

The medium's eyes were unfathomably sad and yearning.

“Is that true, Pen? A child calls for ceaseless care—unselfishness. You know that? Did you really long for a child in a spirit of unselfish love? Did you?”

But Penelope was deaf to this touching appeal.

“Certainly,” she answered sharply. “I wanted a child to satisfy my emotional nature. What else do you think I wanted it for?”

Mrs. Walters' face shone with ineffable tenderness.

“That is what I want you to find out, my darling. When you have answered that question I believe the barrier that keeps your dear mother away will be removed. Now I am going to leave you to your own thoughts. God bless you!”

At ten o'clock Dr. Leroy directed Mrs. Wells to prepare herself for the night and told her she was to sleep in a different room, a large chamber that had been made ready on the floor below. As Penelope entered this room a dim light revealed some shadowy pieces of furniture and at the back a recess hung with black curtains. In this was a couch and two chairs and on the wall a familiar old print, “Rock of Ages,” showing a woman clinging to a cross in a tempest.

“Please lie down, Mrs. Wells,” said Leroy with cheerful friendliness. “You don't mind these electrics?”

He turned on a strong white light that shone down upon the patient and threw the rest of the room into darkness. Then Penelope, exquisitely lovely in her white robe, stretched herself on the couch, while the doctor and Seraphine seated themselves beside her.

“This light will make you sleep better when I turn it off,” explained the physician. Then he added: “I will ask Dr. Owen to come in a little later.”

Eleven o'clock!

Not yet had the patient spoken and time was passing, the minutes that remained were numbered. Mrs. Walters essayed by appealing glances to open the obstinately closed doors of Penelope's spiritual consciousness, but it was in vain.

Half past eleven!

The spiritual healer rose, his face set with an unalterable purpose.

“I will turn down the light, Mrs. Wells,” he said quietly. “I want you to compose yourself. Remember that God is watching over you. You are God's child. He will guard you from all evil. Hold that thought strongly as you go to sleep.”

Penelope closed her eyes. Her face was deathly pale in the shadows. The minutes passed.

“I—I am afraid to go to sleep,” the sufferer murmured, and her hands opened and closed nervously as if they were clutching at something.

“Think of your mother, dear,” soothed Seraphine. “Her pure spirit is near you, trying to come nearer. Oh God, keep Penelope, Thy loving child, under the close guardianship of her mother's exalted spirit in this her hour of peril.”

Twelve o'clock by the musical, slow-chiming bells!

Then at last Penelope spoke, her face transfigured with spiritual light and beauty.

“Doctor,—I—I know I have only a few minutes,” she began haltingly, but almost immediately became calm, as if some new strength or vision had been accorded her. “I realize that my troubles have come from selfishness and—sensuality. I have deceived myself. I blamed my husband for encouraging these desires in me, but—I knew what kind of a man my husband was before I married him. There was another man, a much finer man, who asked me to be his wife, but I refused him because—in a way I—wanted the kind of husband that—my husband was.”

She went on rapidly, speaking in a low tone but distinctly:

“In the years after my husband's death I was—playing with fire. I craved admiration. I wanted to go as near the danger point—with men—as I dared. I deceived myself when I said I wanted a child—of my own—to satisfy my emotional nature. What I really wanted was an excuse—to—give myself—to a man.”

Some power beyond herself upheld the penitent in this hard ordeal. Her eyes remained fixed on the Cross to which she seemed to cling in spirit even as the woman pictured there clung to the Cross with outstretched arms.

There was an impressive silence, then the spiritual teacher, his voice vibrant with tenderness and faith, spoke these words of comfort:

“Penelope, you have cleansed your soul. You can sleep without fear. When your dream begins you will know that the powers of love are guarding you. You are God's child. No harm can befall you, for you will reach out to the Cross, you will reach out to the Cross!”

“Yes,” she murmured faintly. Her eyelids fluttered and closed. She drew a long sigh of relief, then her breathing became regular and her face took on an expression of lovely serenity. She was sleeping.

And then the dream!

Penelope was in that tragic stateroom once more. She heard the throb of engines and sounds on the deck overhead—the echoing beat of footsteps, while the steady swish of the waters came in through the open window. She turned restlessly on her wide brass bed trying to sleep.

How oppressive was the night! She looked longingly at the stateroom door which she had fixed ajar on its hook. If she could only go out where the fresh breezes were blowing and spread her blanket on the deck—what a heavenly relief!

Penelope sat up against her pillows and looked out over the sighing waters illumined by an August moon. In the distance she watched the flashes of a lighthouse and counted the seconds between them....

Suddenly she froze with terror at the sight of a black sleeve, a man's arm, pushed in cautiously through the door, and a moment later Julian entered. She saw him plainly in the moonlight. He wore a dinner coat. He looked handsome but dissipated. His face was flushed, his dress disordered. He came to her bed and caught her in his arms. He kissed her. He drew her to him, close to him. She remembered the perfume of his hair. He said she belonged to him. He was not going to let her go. Promises did not matter—nothing mattered. This was a delicious summer night and—

“Oh God, let Thy love descend upon Penelope and strengthen her,” prayed Seraphine, kneeling by the couch.

The dream moved on relentlessly toward its inevitable catastrophe. Penelope tried to resist the intruder, but she knew it was in vain. She wept, protested, pleaded, but she knew that presently she would be swept in a current of fierce desire, she would wish to surrender, she would be incapable of not surrendering.

“Oh God, let the spirit of the mother come close to her imperilled child,” prayed Seraphine.

In her dream Penelope was yielding. She had ceased to struggle. She was clasped in her husband's arms and already was turning willing and responsive lips to his, when her eyes fell upon the porthole, through which the distant lighthouse was sending her a message—it seemed like a message of love and encouragement. She saw the mighty shaft towering serenely above dark rocks and crashing waters, and watched it change with beautiful gradations of light into a rugged cross to which a woman was clinging desperately. The waves beat against her, the winds buffeted her, but she cried to God for help and—then, as she slept Penelope recalled Dr. Leroy's words and, still dreaming, stretched out her hands to the Cross, praying with all her strength that her sins might be forgiven, that her soul might be cleansed, that she might be saved from evil by the power of God's love.

Instantly the torture of her dream was relieved. The brutal arms that had clasped her fell away. The ravisher, cheated of his victim, drew back scowling and slowly faded from her view, while from a distance a white figure with countenance radiant and majestic approached swiftly and Penelope knew it was the pure spirit of her mother coming to save her, and presently on her brow she felt a kiss of rapturous healing.

“My child!” came the dream words, perfectly distinct, although they were unspoken. “God will bless you and save you.”

Penelope smiled in her sleep and her soul was filled with inexpressible peace.

“I saw the mother's exalted spirit hovering over her child,” Seraphine wrote of this clairvoyant vision. “I saw the evil entity, leering hideously, go out of Penelope in a glow of scarlet light. I knew that the wicked dream was broken. My darling was saved.”

An hour passed, during which the two doctors and the medium watched anxiously by the sleeping patient.

Finally the young woman stirred naturally and opened her eyes.

“Oh, Dr. Leroy!” she cried joyfully. “It is true—what you said. It stopped—the dream stopped. And my mother came to me in my sleep. She kissed me. She blessed me. Oh!” Penelope glanced eagerly about the room.

Leroy greeted her with grave kindness.

“Your troubles are all over, Mrs. Wells. You need never have any more of these fears.”

“Is that really true?”

“Yes, I am quite sure of what I say.”

“How wonderful!”

He bowed gravely.

“God's love is very wonderful.”

Again the radiant eyes seemed to search for some one. Penelope glanced appealingly at Seraphine.

“I understand, dear,” beamed Mrs. Walters. “He is waiting outside. He will be so happy,” and a moment later Christopher entered.