The Heart Line 45

The Heart Line 45

He did so. Suddenly she turned her head to one side and spoke as if to

an invisible person beside her.

 

"Oh, she’s here, is she? What is it? She says she can’t find him?

Well, what about him? What? Shall I tell him that?"

 

She opened her eyes and drew a long breath.

 

"Luella is here and she says to tell you that Felicia wants to give you

a message. Do you understand who I mean?"

 

"Yes, I know. She’s the lady you spoke to me about before, with the

white hair."

 

"Would her name be Felicia Grant?"

 

He assented timidly, as if fearing to acknowledge it.

 

"Well, Felicia says she has found the child—child, the one that was

lost. Do you understand?"

 

"Yes, yes. Go on!"

 

"Really, I don’t like to tell you this, Mr. Payson—"

 

"Tell anything."

 

Madam Spoll dropped her voice, as if fearful of being overheard. "You

was in love with her.

 

"Yes." He eyed her glassily.

 

"And you was the father of the child?"

 

He nodded, still staring.

 

Madam Spoll smiled complacently. "Well, Felicia says she has found the

boy, and she’s going to bring him to you as soon as conditions are

favorable. She can’t do it yet; the time ain’t come for it. That’s all

I can get from her. But Luella says you’re worried about a book, and

she wants to help you."

 

"How can she help?"

 

"Wait a minute." Madam Spoll smoothed her forehead with both hands for

a while, then went on: "It seems that she can’t work through me so well,

it being what you might call a business affair, and she recommends that

you try some one else, while I’ll try to get the boy. I think a

physical medium could help you more. There’s Professor Vixley; he’s

something wonderful in a business way. I confess I can’t comprehend it.

Are you selling books?"

 

"Not exactly."

 

"Well, whatever it is, Vixley’s the one to go to. He’ll do well by you

and you can trust him. I’ll just write down his address; you go to see

him and tell him I sent you, and I guarantee he’ll give satisfaction.

About the child, now, we’ll have to wait. I shouldn’t wonder if you

could be developed so you could handle the thing alone. You’ve got

strong mediumistic powers, only they’re what you might call asleep and

dormant. If you could come to me oftener we might be able to produce

phenomena, for you’re sensitive, only you don’t know how to put your

powers to the right use. You could join a circle, I suppose, but the

quickest way is to have sittings with me, private."

 

The old man took off his spectacles and wiped off a mist. His hand was

trembling. "I might want to try it later," he said at last, "but I’m

not quite ready to, yet—I want to think it over. If you really think

that this Vixley can help about the book, I’ll look him up first. I

want it to be a success, and I am a bit worried about it."

 

 

When he reached home he went into the living-room, to find Blanchard

Cayley sitting there at ease, bland, suave and nonchalant. Clytie had

not yet returned for dinner. Mr. Payson shook his hand cordially.

 

"I’m glad to see you, Blanchard. Been looking over that last chapter of

mine? What do you think of it?"

 

"I haven’t had time to read it yet. I’ve been expecting Cly home any

minute."

 

"How are you getting on with her? Is she still skittish?"

 

"Oh, it’ll come out all right, I expect," the young man said carelessly.

 

"I hope so! She’s a good girl. I know she’ll see it my way in the

end—you just hold on and be nice to her. You know I’m on your side.

I’d give a good deal to see Cly married to a good man like you. Strange,

she doesn’t seem to take any interest in my work at all. If I didn’t

have you to talk to, I don’t know what I’d do. Suppose I read you that

last chapter while we’re waiting for her. I’d like to get your

criticism of it. That trade dollar material has helped me immensely."

 

For half an hour, while Mr. Payson read the driest of dry manuscripts,

Blanchard Cayley yawned behind his hand or nodded wisely, with an

approving word or two. The old man had pushed up his spectacles over

his forehead and held the sheets close to his eyes. He read in a mellow,

deep voice, but it was the voice of a pedant.

 

"There," he said at last, stacking up the scattered papers. "I guess

that will open their eyes, won’t it?"

 

"It’s great; that book will make a sensation."

 

"Well, it isn’t finished yet, and what’s to come will be better than

what I’ve done. I’m on the track of something that may help it a good

deal."

 

"What’s that?" said Cayley perfunctorily.

 

"See here," Mr. Payson drew his chair nearer and shook his pencil at the

young man. "I’ve had some wonderful experiences lately. You may not

believe it, but I tell you there’s something in this spiritualistic

business. I’ve been investigating it for a month now all alone, and I’m

thoroughly convinced that these mediums do have some sort of power that

we don’t understand."

 

"Really?" Cayley was beginning to be interested. "I knew you had always

been an agnostic, but I had no idea that you had gone into this sort of

thing. Have you struck anything interesting?"

 

"I certainly have. I went into it in a scientific spirit, as a skeptic,

pure and simple, but I’ve received some wonderful tests. Why, they told

me my name the very first thing and a lot about my life that they had no

possible way of finding out. The trouble is, they know too much."

 

Cayley laughed. "Found out about your wild oats, I suppose?"

 

Mr. Payson frowned at this frivolity. "There are things they’ve told me

that no one living could possibly know. Whether it’s done through

spirits or not, it’s mysterious business. You ought to go to a séance

and see what they can do."

 

"I’d hate to have them tell my past," Cayley said jocosely, "but I don’t

take much stock in them. They’re a gang of fakirs."

 

"They’re pretty sharp, if they are. I haven’t lived fifty years in the

West to be taken in as easily as that. I ought to know something about

men by this time. Why, see here! You know what trouble I had with my

leg? It was something pretty serious. Well, look at me now. You’ve

noticed the change yourself. I went to a medium and now I’m completely

cured. That’s enough to give any one confidence, isn’t it? It’s genuine

evidence."

 

Cayley agreed with a solemn nod. "But what about the book?"

 

"Why, if they can influence the right forces so that it’ll be a success,

why shouldn’t I give them a trial? Look at hypnotism! Look at wireless

telegraphy! For that matter, look at the telephone! Fifty years ago no

one would believe that such things were possible. It may be the same

with this power, whatever it is, spirits or not. I’m an old man, but I

keep up with the times. I’m not going to set myself up for an authority

and say, because a thing hasn’t seemed probable to me, that I know all

about the mysterious forces of nature. I’ve come to believe that there

are powers inherent in us that may be developed successfully."

 

The incipient smile, the attitude of bantering protest had faded from

Cayley’s face, as the old man spoke. He listened sedately. Oliver

Payson was a rich man. He had an attractive, marriageable daughter.

Blanchard Cayley was poor, single and without prospects.

 

"Of course, there’s much we don’t yet understand," he said gravely.

"One hears all sorts of tales—there must be some foundation to them."

 

"That’s so—why, just look at Cly! She’s had queer things happen to her

ever since she was a child."

 

"Yes, I suppose that’s why she’s so interested in this palmist person;

though I confess I don’t take much stock in him."

 

"What do you mean?" Mr. Payson demanded.

 

"Why, I thought of course you knew. Granthope, the palmist—you know,

the fellow everybody’s taking up now—he has been here, hasn’t he? I had

an idea that Cly had taken rather a fancy to him."

 

"He was here?" Mr. Payson seemed much surprised.

 

"Why, I wouldn’t have spoken of it for the world if I had known you

didn’t know—but I’ve seen her with him several times, and I thought, of

course—" Cayley threw it out apologetically in apparent confusion at his

indiscretion.

 

Mr. Payson stared. "Granthope, did you say? I believe I have heard of

him. Cly and a common palmist? I can’t believe it. What can she want

of a charlatan like that?"

 

"I was sorry to see it myself," Cayley admitted, "but I suppose she

knows what she’s doing. The man’s notorious enough. Only, she ought to

be careful."

 

"I won’t have it!" Mr. Payson began to storm. "Reading palms for a lot

of silly women is a very different thing from spiritualism. I don’t

mind her going to see him once for the curiosity of the thing, but I

won’t have him in the house. I’ll put a stop to that in a hurry. You

say you’ve seen them together? Where?"

 

"Oh, I think it was probably an accidental meeting," he said. "I wish

you wouldn’t say anything about it, Mr. Payson. Very likely it doesn’t

mean anything at all. Tell me about this fellow you spoke of going to.

Do you think he’s all right?"

 

"I’ll soon find out if he isn’t—trust me!" Mr. Payson wagged his head

wisely. "His name is Professor Vixley, and I’ve heard he’s a very

remarkable man. I’m going to see him next week and see what he can do

for me. I’m not one to be fooled by any claptrap; I intend to sift this thing to the bottom."