'For a while, at least,' she pleaded.
'Ridiculous!' he cried. 'What's the matter? Aren't you well?—you who are always so abominably and adorably well!'
'No, it's not that,' she answered. 'I know it is ridiculous, Chris, I know it, but the doubt will arise. I cannot help it. You always say I am so sanely rooted to the earth and reality and all that, but—perhaps it's superstition, I don't know—but the whole occurrence, the messages of Planchette, the possibility of my father's hand, I know not how, reaching, out to Ban's rein and hurling him and you to death, the correspondence between my father's statement that he has twice attempted your life and the fact that in the last two days your life has twice been endangered by horses—my father was a great horseman—all this, I say, causes the doubt to arise in my mind. What if there be something in it? I am not so sure. Science may be too dogmatic in its denial of the unseen. The forces of the unseen, of the spirit, may well be too subtle, too sublimated, for science to lay hold of, and recognize, and formulate. Don't you see, Chris, that there is rationality in the very doubt? It may be a very small doubt—oh, so small; but I love you too much to run even that slight risk. Besides, I am a woman, and that should in itself fully account for my predisposition toward superstition.
'Yes, yes, I know, call it unreality. But I've heard you paradoxing upon the reality of the unreal—the reality of delusion to the mind that is sick. And so with me, if you will; it is delusion and unreal, but to me, constituted as I am, it is very real—is real as a nightmare is real, in the throes of it, before one awakes.'
'The most logical argument for illogic I have ever heard,' Chris smiled. 'It is a good gaming proposition, at any rate. You manage to embrace more chances in your philosophy than do I in mine. It reminds me of Sam—the gardener you had a couple of years ago. I overheard him and Martin arguing in the stable. You know what a bigoted atheist Martin is. Well, Martin had deluged Sam with floods of logic. Sam pondered awhile, and then he said, 'Foh a fack, Mis' Martin, you jis' tawk like a house afire; but you ain't got de show I has.' 'How's that?' Martin asked. 'Well, you see, Mis' Martin, you has one chance to mah two.' 'I don't see it,' Martin said. 'Mis' Martin, it's dis way. You has jis' de chance, lak you say, to become worms foh de fruitification of de cabbage garden. But I's got de chance to lif' mah voice to de glory of de Lawd as I go paddin' dem golden streets—along 'ith de chance to be jis' worms along 'ith you, Mis' Martin.''
'You refuse to take me seriously,' Lute said, when she had laughed her appreciation.
'How can I take that Planchette rigmarole seriously?' he asked.
'You don't explain it—the handwriting of my father, which Uncle Robert recognized—oh, the whole thing, you don't explain it.'
'I don't know all the mysteries of mind,' Chris answered. 'But I believe such phenomena will all yield to scientific explanation in the not distant future.'
'Just the same, I have a sneaking desire to find out some more from Planchette,' Lute confessed. 'The board is still down in the dining room. We could try it now, you and I, and no one would know.'
Chris caught her hand, crying: 'Come on! It will be a lark.'
Hand in hand they ran down the path to the tree-pillared room.
'The camp is deserted,' Lute said, as she placed Planchette on the table. 'Mrs. Grantly and Aunt Mildred are lying down, and Mr. Barton has gone off with Uncle Robert. There is nobody to disturb us.' She placed her hand on the board. 'Now begin.'
For a few minutes nothing happened. Chris started to speak, but she hushed him to silence. The preliminary twitchings had appeared in her hand and arm. Then the pencil began to write. They read the message, word by word, as it was written:
There is wisdom greater than the wisdom of reason. Love proceeds not out of the dry-as-dust way of the mind. Love is of the heart, and is beyond all reason, and logic, and philosophy. Trust your own heart, my daughter. And if your heart bids you have faith in your lover, then laugh at the mind and its cold wisdom, and obey your heart, and have faith in your lover.—Martha.
'But that whole message is the dictate of your own heart,' Chris cried. 'Don't you see, Lute? The thought is your very own, and your subconscious mind has expressed it there on the paper.'
'But there is one thing I don't see,' she objected.
'And that?'
'Is the handwriting. Look at it. It does not resemble mine at all. It is mincing, it is old-fashioned, it is the old- fashioned feminine of a generation ago.'
'But you don't mean to tell me that you really believe that this is a message from the dead?' he interrupted.
'I don't know, Chris,' she wavered. 'I am sure I don't know.'
'It is absurd!' he cried. 'These are cobwebs of fancy. When one dies, he is dead. He is dust. He goes to the worms, as Martin says. The dead? I laugh at the dead. They do not exist. They are not. I defy the powers of the grave, the men dead and dust and gone!
'And what have you to say to that?' he challenged, placing his hand on Planchette.
On the instant his hand began to write. Both were startled by the suddenness of it. The message was brief:
BEWARE! BEWARE! BEWARE!
He was distinctly sobered, but he laughed. 'It is like a miracle play. Death we have, speaking to us from the grave. But Good Deeds, where art thou? And Kindred? and Joy? and Household Goods? and Friendship? and all the goodly company?'
But Lute did not share his bravado. Her fright showed itself in her face. She laid her trembling hand on his arm.
'Oh, Chris, let us stop. I am sorry we began it. Let us leave the quiet dead to their rest. It is wrong. It must be wrong. I confess I am affected by it. I 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 be 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 unusually favorable for striking phenomena.'
'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
