“Conceive such a soul as that, Mr. Baxter. She desires to communicate with one she loves on earth, with you or me, and it is a human and innocent desire. Yet she has lost that connection, that machinery of which we have spoken—that connection of which we know nothing, between matter and spirit, except that it exists. What is she to do? Well, at least she will do this, she will bend every power that she possesses upon that medium—I mean matter—through which alone the communication can be made; as a man on an island, beyond the power of a human voice, will use any instrument, however grotesque, to signal to a passing ship. Would any decent man, Mr. Baxter, mock at the pathos and effort of that, even if it were some grotesque thing, like a flannel shirt on the end of an oar? Yet men mock at the tapping of a table! …
“Well, then, this longing soul uses every means at her disposal, concentrates every power she possesses. Is it so very unreasonable, so very unchristian, so very dishonoring to the love of God, to think that she sometimes succeeds? … that she is able, under comparatively exceptional circumstances, to reestablish that connection with material things, that was perfectly normal and natural to her during her earthly life. … Tell me, Mr. Baxter.”
Laurie shifted a little in his chair.
“I cannot say that it is,” he said, in a voice that seemed strange in his own ears. The medium smiled a little.
“So much for a priori reasoning,” he said. “There remains only the fact whether such things do happen or not. There I must leave you to yourself, Mr. Baxter.”
Laurie sat forward suddenly.
“But that is exactly where I need your help, sir,” he said.
A murmur broke from the ladies’ lips simultaneously, resembling applause. Mr. Jamieson sat back and swallowed perceptibly in his throat.
“You have said so much, sir,” went on Laurie deliberately, “that you have, so to speak, put yourself in my debt. I must ask you to take me further.”
Mr. Vincent smiled full at him.
“You must take your place with others,” he said. “These ladies—”
“Mr. Vincent, Mr. Vincent,” cried Lady Laura. “He is quite right, you must help him. You must help us all.”
“Well, Sunday week,” he began deprecatingly.
Mrs. Stapleton broke in.
“No, no; now, Mr. Vincent, now. Do something now. Surely the circumstances are favorable.”
“I must be gone again at six-thirty,” said the man hesitatingly.
Laurie broke in. He felt desperate.
“If you can show me anything of this, sir, you can surely show it now. If you do not show it now—”
“Well, Mr. Baxter?” put in the voice, sharp and incisive, as if expecting an insult and challenging it.
Laurie broke down.
“I can only say,” he cried, “that I beg and entreat of you to do what you can—now and here.”
There was a silence.
“And you, Mr. Jamieson?”
The young clergyman started, as if from a daze. Then he rose abruptly.
“I—I must be going, Lady Laura,” he said. “I had no idea it was so late. I—I have a confirmation class.”
An instant later he was gone.
“That is as well,” observed the medium. “And you are sure, Mr. Baxter, that you wish me to try? You must remember that I promise nothing.”
“I wish you to try.”
“And if nothing happens?”
“If nothing happens, I will promise to—to continue my search. I shall know then that—that it is at least sincere.”
Mr. Vincent rose to his feet.
“A little table just here, Lady Laura, if you please, and a pencil and paper. … Will you kindly take your seats? … Yes, Mr. Baxter, draw up your chair … here. Now, please, we must have complete silence, and, so far as possible, silence of thought.”
II
The table, a small, round rosewood one, stood, bare of any cloth, upon the hearthrug. The two ladies sat, motionless statues once more, upon the side furthest from the fire, with their hands resting lightly upon the surface. Laurie sat on one side and the medium on the other. Mr. Vincent had received his paper and pencil almost immediately, and now sat resting his right hand with the pencil upon the paper as if to write, his left hand upon his knee as he sat, turned away slightly from the center.
Laurie looked at him closely. …
And now he began to be aware of a certain quite indefinable change in the face at which he looked. The eyes were open—no, it was not in them that the change lay, nor in the lines about the mouth, so far as he could see them, nor in any detail, anywhere. Neither was it the face of a dreamer or a sleepwalker, or of the dead, when the lines disappear and life retires. It was a living, conscious face, yet it was changed. The lips were slightly parted, and the breath came evenly between them. It was more like the face of one lost in deep, absorbed, introspective thought. Laurie decided that this was the explanation.
He looked at the hand on the paper—well shaped, brownish, capable—perfectly motionless, the pencil held lightly between the finger and thumb.
Then he glanced up at the two ladies.
They too were perfectly motionless, but there was no change in them. The eyes of both were downcast, fixed steadily upon the paper. And as he looked he saw Lady Laura begin to lift her lids slowly as if to glance at him. He looked himself upon the paper and the motionless fingers.
He was astonished at the speed with which the situation had developed. Five minutes ago he had been listening to talk, and joining in it. The clergyman had been here; he himself had been sitting a yard further back. Now they sat here as if they had sat for an hour. It seemed that the progress of events had stopped. …
Then he began to listen for the sounds of the world outside, for within here it
