PART SECOND

VIII A STUDIO FOR IMPRESSIONS

THE voyage across the Atlantic from New York to the Gibraltar proved a constant series of sapphire days. Skies light azure often cloudless, the ocean a richer shade with enough wind to curl the sea-foam into delicate lace-like patterns. When the billows rose into the domain of direct sunlight, myriads of brilliant points scintillated like sparkling gems decorating the wave crests,—the sea-foam not unlike flossy embroidery or ruffles of lace upon silk of blue.

Adele’s first experience of things as they are in the great motion constant, onward, ever forward, in the very being of the boundless deep; also her first impressions of the ways and means amid a cosmopolitan crowd on board an ocean-flyer. Nature and humanity, each in constant movement, the former with majesty and potency profound, the latter on the grand rush, often to obtain something to eat.

Towards sunset she stood with the Doctor watching the crimson disk grow less and less in brilliancy, and finally through a veil of luminous atmosphere disappear in the mysterious beyond.

They spoke little, as if under some fascination. The varied movements in the sky and unstable water-foundation were indeed somewhat hypnotic in effect, but a psychologist would have been puzzled to detect the outcome of their meditations. While they gazed, a passing breeze crossed the surface immediately before them, changing the delicate traceries in nature’s handiwork. The Doctor at once responded, for the complications appealed to him, and most naturally he spoke in terms of his own previous experience of similar impressions.

“Those changes in the wave curves are not unlike harmonic modulations, and I can actually hear the difference.” Adele seemed surprised.

“Yes,” continued the Doctor, “the slow, dignified progression is certainly symphonic in character, yet the infinite variety in less melodic forms piles up little by little until the greater movement is itself influenced. How wonderful, majestic, yet exceedingly subtle, and always refined! It is certainly sound-color or color as sound, and the drawing of the design—well, ’pon my soul, the drawing is too quick for me. I can’t see how it is done, it flits from me, is gone, living only in memory, not unlike the technical element in the rendition of music. But the sound-color, the real harmony. Ah! that I hear in my mind’s ear and see in my mind’s eye for long afterwards.” Adele, much younger than the Doctor, was also working out her own impressions according to previous experience, the experience of youth.

“Oh, yes! I see what you see,—very artistic,—you can talk about it in that style if you choose, but——” and she seemed in doubt how to describe what she really felt. The Doctor waited till she was ready.

“It’s so awfully real! It’s alive!”

“H’m!”

“Yes, a great real picture, that which I like in pictures.”

“No doubt an original,” remarked the Doctor, smiling. “The original of many marines.”

Adele called attention to the magnificent contour lines which themselves swayed to and fro over the curved surface.

“Don’t you see, it’s alive; the whole thing moves, it’s so true; and you and I with it, we’re all going. Isn’t that just glorious!”

“Oh!” exclaimed the Doctor, “in Him we live and move and have our being,—that’s what you mean?”

“Just so,” and she paused before continuing: “He was the Artist, and it is a living picture, a real one, just ready to be painted.”

It was the apparent living earth, the breathing of the deep sea which had impressed Adele, the suppressed emotion of the planet, ever existing, ever apparent to those who had eyes to see and ears to hear for observation; and this over the whole vast expanse.

“Of course,” whispered Adele, “a living picture, by so great an Artist, must be sublimely artistic.”

“True,” mused the Doctor, “the greater will include the less,—a masterpiece, an original, to lead the artistic sense onward and upward.”

But there were few on board who gave even a passing thought to this physical breathing of the earth, nor to the invisible moisture ascending by evaporation. The majority thought no more of it than they did of their own individual breathing; they took it as a matter of course, no more, no less. They had, however, other impressions, quite as mundane, and equally apparent. Some sought impressions from watching card-sharpers in the smoking-room; others by listening to fluent talkers who really abused good natural endowments by promiscuous discussion of any and every subject that came up; men who did not hesitate an instant to suggest what they considered to be improvements upon nature. The conceit of some seemed indeed colossal, especially when they, too, waved their arms about, forming contour lines over curved ideas, to carry their impressions far beyond the briny deep. Even such, however, were really small harmless game compared to what Mrs. Cultus soon encountered.

IX A BUDGET OF NEW SCIENCES

PREVIOUS to leaving home Mrs. Cultus had flattered herself she was taking the Professor abroad to obtain rest from his arduous scientific pursuits—alas! only to find herself at once in a very vortex of new sciences and arts, so-called. Authorities discussed Ping Pong as an art, also skittles, and the nomenclature of golf was quite enough in matter of differentiations to establish it as a science. Then there were new methods in the practice of medicine. Thoughts warranted to cure were for sale under the title of Mental Science;—and even a religious science, said to be popular and quite new to the orthodox Science of Religions. All were on board and much in evidence.

None of these things would have much troubled the Professor, but to Mrs. Cultus they afforded a glorious opportunity to pick up odd bits of information. She herself was certainly not suffering from fatigue from the perusal of scientific publications, so when the book of experience opened a chapter new to her, written by folk who prided themselves upon the especial efficacy of their own mental efforts, why, that appealed as the sort of science and art quite in her line rather than the Professor’s. Having no lack of worldly wisdom in her own mentality she at once took her stand. With regard to any new phase of religious science, so-called, she would be very inquisitive, not opinionated, much less dogmatic; but as to any mental racket, scientific or otherwise, she thought she might venture further. In fact ought to have some opinion of her own, being entitled to it, ex-officio, as a Professor’s spouse. Such was Mrs. Cultus’ point of view.

Matters were soon brought to a focus. She overheard repeated remarks about patients who had been healed simply by receiving new mental impressions easily obtained, generally by correspondence, fixed charge, five dollars for epistolary impression. Some one who had been victimized had told her of a bushel-basket full of impressions shipped by mail each day from a single office.

“There must be some good ones in the lot,” thought Mrs. Cultus. “We must investigate a little.”

Then she heard of others cured by thought-transference, either with or without faith,—and finally of cures which tax credulity to extreme limits of sanity, namely, by the persuasive efficacy of belief, even in spite of the Creator Father’s natural laws to the contrary, as if natural laws were inadequate to suit the Creator’s purpose. Surely enough this to excite Mrs. Cultus’ curiosity. “What’s the use of travelling unless you take things in, without being taken in yourself?”—and she determined to caution her daughter. “Adele, my dear, when your father and I first crossed the ocean together, some time since, before you appeared, the ship’s company contained many pilgrims from a sacred shrine, very sacred and very profitable. We then heard much about cures. If I mistake not I have yet a bottle of the sacred water from that European shrine, stowed away in our medicine closet, warranted to be very efficacious to the faithful.”

“Did you ever test its efficacy?” asked Adele.

“Well, to be frank, I never saw it used except just previous to funerals, which struck me as rather late in the day. It certainly acted like a sedative upon those who administered it, but that’s another matter. What I was going to remark is, that to-day the tide of curative waters seems to flow all the other way. America does the quick-cure business whether the patient is faithful or not.”

“Well, that’s certainly great gain for the medicine,” remarked Miss Winchester. Mrs. Cultus continued:

“Yes, indeed; one might have guessed Americans would introduce improvements in the system. I always did believe in practical science, practical metaphysics they call it now, and all that sort of thing, specially when the thing looks a little mysterious to begin with,—it clears out the system.”

“Whose system? What system?” wondered Miss Winchester, “the medicine’s or the patient’s?” but she said nothing, and smiled inwardly as Mrs. Cultus continued her drolling.

“But tell me, are the new medicines proprietary, patented, or merely bottles for sale, duly authenticated like the old bottles? I wonder if it would be safe to put some of this new wine, beg pardon, curative water, into the old bottles?”

“Oh, dear no!” exclaimed Miss Winchester, promptly. “All medicines are quite out of date. All you have to do is to think you think, pay the price, and there you are—cured. I was cured myself.”

“Why, bless me, child! of what?”

“Nothing serious—merely of my former impression.”

“What was your impression of an impressionist, Frank?” said Adele, laughing. “I don’t believe all of them are quacks, certainly not until I first hear what they have to say.”

Now Miss Winchester, being of the literary craft, indulged in methods not unlike those practiced by the Doctor in connection with his palmistry pranks. They both were much given to observing individuals whose outward appearance suggested a personality from whom they could learn something. Studying types, the Doctor called it; studying human nature, Miss Winchester considered it. All was grist that came to their mill, good, bad, and even the indifferent, cranks and amiables included. It so happened that in the course of her study of human nature Miss Winchester had encountered a pronounced specimen of the genus Professoress, said to occupy the chair of Thought-Cure in a would-be Sanitorium-University. This had been some time ago. What was her surprise now to find said Professoress on board, occupying a deck-chair among the innocents abroad. Not wishing to claim any acquaintance (having already written her up in an article upon “The Inside Cure”) unless forced to do so, she had avoided a meeting. It had been this same individual of whom she had thought when telling Mrs. Cultus of her own cure; and as luck would have it, there the healer appeared,—on deck, in a chair, quite near them when Adele innocently asked for an impression of an impressionist.

Not wishing, however, to disclose this coincidence until she could lead up to it after her own fashion, Miss Winchester kept one eye upon the occupant of the chair, and the other upon Professor Cultus, and yet answered Adele at the same time; all of which goes to show that she herself was somewhat of an expert in impressions, and in leading others up to them; observing others while not herself perceived. When she was ready she replied:

“No, Adele, I do not believe they are all quacks; but I do believe in nerves and hysterics. There is such a thing as self-deception;—the little tin-Solomon within the most of us does sometimes assert himself;—you know the saying, ‘Everybody’s crazy except you and me, and you’re a little off!’ I certainly believe in nerves and hysteria.”

“What has that got to do with it?” asked Mrs. Cultus, curious.

“May I refer to the Professor?” quoth Miss Winchester, blandly.

Professor Cultus thus unwillingly drawn in, gave some points simply as the quickest way to get rid of the talking. “There is a class of disease known as hysteria, nervous, yet involving no recognizable anatomical hurt, wound or injury. The nervous system plays a very important part in the problem, and nerves, you know, affect mentality.”

“No doubt of it, my dear,” interrupted Mrs. Cultus; “a pinch always makes me start up as nervous as a witch, and I never could talk sense during an electric storm. I feel nervous now just to think of it.”

The Professor continued: “To meddle unadvisedly with the nervous system is dangerous; yet with shrewd sense based upon clinical observation it is possible to perfect cures.”

“Not without some smelling salts,” chimed in Mrs. Cultus, laughing. “But bless me! are these new doctors experts like that?”

“Specialists in the shrewd-sense department,” remarked Miss Winchester. “Please go on, Professor Cultus.”

“When mental science encounters cases of hysteria, it is quite possible a cure may be accomplished now and then, but from the standpoint of what you would call orthodox treatment, mental derangement of any kind requires most careful consideration and perhaps prolonged treatment in the full light of scientific research. To attempt such practice irregularly is to court the consequences of ignorance, or perhaps worse, really to injure the patient.”

“Oh, I understand it perfectly!” exclaimed Mrs. Cultus. “I might be accidentally cured by irregular treatment, but would not stay cured. My dear, I prefer to be orthodox. Adele, where are my salts? Look in that bag, please,—I haven’t used them for some time.”

“Nonsense, Mother! You’re cured already and don’t want any salting, the sea air is quite enough;—nor do I believe that all mental scientists have the hysterics, I mean their patients haven’t.”

“No, indeed!” said the sprightly Frank Winchester; “it is those who are cured who had the hysterics or something equivalent; and the practitioners who now have the shrewd sense and cash perquisite,—I know from experience.”

“What! Oh, my!” exclaimed Adele, “you have the hysterics! Frank, I should never have accused you of such accomplishments,” then, as if musing: “Isn’t it strange that when you begin to describe an ache, so many others soon find they have the same thing. Mild case I suppose, Frank?”

Miss Winchester enjoyed immensely this little rap; but having been caught concluded to make the next sensational remark more specific.

“I’m thankful to say, in my case there was no hysterics;—but I did visit a mental science center, where ‘vibrations’ were said to radiate marvellously. I went there on strictly professional business, to hunt up a case, and on arriving was received by—by——”

The speaker came to a sudden halt, her eyes fixed upon a remarkable individual, the Professoress, now standing by the deck-rail, overlooking the sea;—a short, very stout personage under a broad-brimmed hat decorated with enough feathers to have plumed a male ostrich in the month of January. Her attendant, a tall, slender man with long neck, sharp eyes, and gold eye-glasses. Fortunately the couple stood far enough away to be out of hearing, or Miss Winchester would not have continued:

“Speak of angels! there she is herself! She of the winged thoughts! the redoubtable Angelica Thorn, popularly known as ‘Madame,’ the honorary title conferred exclusively by the Sanitorium-University. You may not believe it, but that impressive angel with wings in her hat and honorary degree on her own University register, is gifted with a marvellous power of radiating thoughts,—her words fly up but thoughts remain below, credited with realizing thousands of dollars per annum by giving and taking mental impressions, sent and received by the bushel-basket full, all by mail.” Mrs. Cultus put up her lorgnette to see if any ships were passing in that direction—then whispered:

“You surely don’t mean that person with flowing tresses and all those waving plumes? She’s Milesian Frinch, not Parisian French. You can’t deceive me. And what is she here for?”

Mrs. Thorn had taken off her hat; the tall, slim attendant held it; while she, resting both elbows on the rail, and her chin on her wrists, gazed out o’er the mighty deep.

“The pose is certainly cherubic,” remarked Mrs. Cultus, cynical.

“No doubt she is radiating now,” remarked Frank Winchester. Adele noticed her hair parted on one side, and plastered flat over the temples, also wavy ringlets round her neck.

The Doctor, who thus far had not taken any part in this impressionistic séance, no sooner observed her hands exposed to display an unusual assortment of rings glistening in the sunlight, than he concluded his turn for investigation had arrived. Possibly here palmistry might be in order,—and diamond cut diamond. There might be some real sport in it. Before the others noticed, he sauntered off towards the couple. Little did he then realize the consequences.

X PALMISTRY POSES AS MENTAL SCIENCE

IT was not difficult for the Doctor to obtain an interview, and this without really introducing himself, simply by some casual remark suggested by the surroundings. He soon succeeded in directing conversation away from the immediate vicinity and called attention to objects at a distance, of course interjecting the highly original remark that distance lends enchantment. Mrs. Thorn at once appreciated the enchantment part of the proceedings, and pointed with her forefinger at certain objects as not being exactly what they seemed,—thereby illustrating what was really more important for the Doctor to find out, namely, that she had no real objection from refinement of feeling to specify given objects by pointing at them. If she did appreciate enchantment, so-called, she was certainly very practical in its application. From the Doctor’s point of view this was simply “delicious” on her part, and made him more blandly-persuasive-appreciative than ever. Within five minutes more he had Mrs. Thorn and her attendant both pointing at various features, clouds, waves, ripples, a passing ship, the capstan and the captain’s signals, anything, in fact, that would cause them to use their hands; even soiled spots on the hand-rail and some very sticky tar on a rope he made them avoid touching by withdrawing their hands, any movement, in fact, that would show both the form and action of their hands in connection with the spoken words,—the hands suiting the action to the word (thoughts). Mrs. Thorn was, in fact, betraying herself by every word and action, and the expert Doctor reading “the natural tendencies of the individuals” as if an open book.

The Cultus group privately watched these proceedings. Paul and Adele, with heads rather close together, having their own fun, Paul imitating the Doctor, and interjecting the platitudes-of-humbuggery he had often heard the Doctor use before in similar palmistry cases.

“You are a person with strong social instincts,” remarked Paul, wise as an owl.

“Yes! not a hermit,—thanks!” said Adele.

“Very popular. Lot of fellows might fall in—h’m!—admiration of you.”

“Thanks again, but don’t look at me, watch the Doctor.”

The Doctor was peering into Mrs. Thorn’s hand, which she held out to him with evident satisfaction. Of course Paul seized Adele’s hand while watching.

What was the Doctor examining with such apparent interest? In general terms, a short fleshy hand, soft, with thin skin, and ruddy color easily suppressed or caused under pressure. Fingers only slightly tapering, with tips of the well known “useful” curve when viewed from the under side, yet curiously suggestive of the spatulate when seen from the back. Thumb well proportioned and turning back spontaneously with considerable self-assertion. But most noticeable of all, where the roots of the fingers joined the palm, materialism developed to an exceptional degree, almost of the “elementary” type. A combination more curious than rare, designating certain womanly instincts likely to operate by methods presumably masculine in character. It was not easy to formulate a specific diagnosis until after hearing such a person converse on subjects about which she had had an interested experience, for no mortal could reasonably conjecture, not even she herself, how things would go eventually. Certainly a woman of the world with strong emotions, no doubt loquacious at times, yet a very clear head when it came to action; and material results never lost sight of. Strange to say, however, the hands themselves were soon forgotten, attention being drawn to their adornment. The woman had an inordinate passion for precious gems. Mrs. Thorn wore upon each hand exquisite rings, superb stones set in excellent taste, but rather a mixture when displayed together. The usual solitaires, also set with sapphires of peculiar peacock hue; a changeable alexandrite, and a ruby amid emeralds as leaves, evidently some color-scheme taken direct from nature; not a topaz nor white sapphire among the lot, and evidently the wearer knew cat’s-eyes from Norwegian opals, even if others did not. Even these, however, were secondary to a fire-opal of true Indian iridescence. A cleft-opal, that mysterious gem so suggestive to mystics in all climes. The light came from within the stone, through an irregular cleft, the exterior still rough;—by no means a conspicuous ornament, but when the eye upon close examination penetrated the cleft, the mysterious interior was ablaze with variegated colors. It was this fire-opal the Doctor was examining when Adele caught him holding the impressionist hand. The Cultus group saw little more of the Doctor until after-dinner-promenade on deck; he was occupied with Mrs. Thorn. Then Miss Winchester at once applied at the bureau of information.

“What are the probabilities, Doctor Wise? mystic, or merely gymnastic? One must never judge by appearances, of course, but——” and Miss Winchester gave a little cough to suggest her impression.

“Oh, a very interesting case,—very intelligent and thoroughly practical. She talks mysticism like a California theosophist, but acts like a cool-headed politician. Her thoughts are about mysticism in its useful aspects; her words mystical because a good business method for her; and her acts businesslike, very, from the mystical point of view. How do you like that for a type?”

“Evidently interesting to talk to,—also good to keep clear of, in business,” thought Miss Winchester.

“So that’s what you palm-cranks call a mixed type!” exclaimed Mrs. Cultus. “I call her variegated.”

“Oh, of course she is bound to be contradictory, in appearance at least, at odd times,” said the Doctor. “Moody as a mystic, dogmatic as a sectarian theologian, and will take risks like a Wall Street speculator. She is made that way, she is constitutionally so. Oh, yes, she is a bundle of mystical impressions held together by very clear ideas of what she wants, also has fearless business methods to obtain it. The seeming contradiction is more apparent than real, however.”

“How about those rings?” quizzed Adele, when Paul’s back was turned.

“Well, only one thing worth remembering. She wears her largest upon her forefinger, the most conspicuous position possible, a sure sign of—but let that pass.”

“No, Doctor! no passing allowed in this game—just tell me, but please don’t tell Paul, or I shall never hear the end, no matter what it is;” and she put her arm in the Doctor’s, drawing him off for a deck promenade.

“Well, my dear, if you must know, the woman can’t help advertising herself,—a most unrefined quality in woman, to my notion. Men, you know, no matter how much they may do it themselves, generally detest that sort of thing in women. That’s one way in which her feminine instinct for appreciation takes a somewhat masculine form in action. I could only find it out surely by conversation with her. Now I expect to hear of her some day as President of the International Impressionists’ Mental-Mystic Board of Trade. She will make a good thing of it and possibly then disappear, mystically.”

Adele shuddered. The Doctor felt the motion on his arm. Evidently that sort of talk was antipathetic to Adele.

After a little while she asked quietly:

“Does she presume to practice when travelling?”

“I should not be surprised if she were at it now. She told me there was a patient on board whom she knew she could cure, whether he had faith or not.” Adele twitched again.

“That sort of thing ought to be counteracted in some way. I’ve not served in a hospital without learning at least that much. But here! Oh, what can we do?”

XI AMATEUR MENTAL SCIENCE

MANY on board had noticed an invalid who took his airing in a rolling chair. It seemed very natural that he should appear melancholy at times, for he was said to be partially helpless, in fact paralyzed on one side. This was the unfortunate Mr. Onset, whom Mrs. Thorn desired to treat according to the impressionistic methods of the Mental-Mystic University-Sanitorium.

How it came to be rumored that she had obtained his consent and that he was already acting under her direction is really of little moment, for the fact soon became evident,—Mr. Onset himself willingly alluded to it. He explained that after trying many regular physicians he was about to visit certain baths on the Continent when he incidentally met Mrs. Thorn, and was only too glad to avail himself, in passing, of any hopeful aid; especially since “the method required no medicines which might interfere with subsequent treatment at the Spa, and demanded no faith,”—of the latter commodity he had little left to give to any system whatsoever. Mr. Onset was certainly trying conscientiously to be frank with himself.

The next thing known was that Mrs. Thorn had held a good orthodox business-mystic interview properly to diagnose the case; and had given the patient some published articles to read, the wording of which was most dexterously adapted to excite curiosity for—what next; and later on some manuscript letters to be perused when alone, the lights turned low so that no one else could read them by looking over his shoulder, nor find out how he kept them next the fifth-rib-covering of his heart. These latter letters must be made mysterious, simply because they communicated to the patient the mystical line of thought he was to follow while the Commandant of the Thought Center sat in her state-room meditating.

“Oh! I know exactly how it works!” exclaimed Mrs. Cultus.

“How? What?” asked Miss Winchester, laughing.

“Why, lying in your state-room bunk, meditating. I know the whole business, so does the steward. He brings me champagne in one hand and porridge-mush in the other. He reads my thoughts perfectly.”

What the printed matter given to Mr. Onset contained was soon known all over the ship,—an excellent advertisement; what the written pages contained Onset kept to himself, as if the subject-matter was rather too personal for discussion in either the men’s or women’s smoking departments.

Mutual meditations continued, however; mental impressions were presumably radiating, the vibrations presumably acting in a marvellous manner, having been promised to take a straight course direct from the state-room bunk to Mr. Onset’s legs and none other, which certainly was a vast improvement upon the expansion method of wireless telegraphy in communicating thoughts. And this even if the paralysis did remain as evident as before.

Yet curious to relate, these mysterious vibrations certainly did expand with most positive effects upon others; Mrs. Cultus continually on the lookout for substantial results, Frank Winchester jotting down absurd notes as they flew by, Paul continually vibrating between Adele and what she wanted. This until Adele asked if there was any book in the library upon “Practical Metaphysics.” Then Paul flunked, and sat down beside her. As to the Doctor——

One morning he and the Professor inquired of the patient how he was progressing:

“Slowly,” said Mr. Onset. “I still have little hope, but I certainly caught a new idea.”

Onset’s voice was unquestionably melancholy, from his own point of view,—but not of that peculiar timbre, nor in any degree involved, as might reasonably be expected from a partially helpless paralytic.

“There is something strange about that fellow,” remarked the Doctor.

“I think so myself, but have not defined it as yet,” added the Professor.

“Did you ever observe a man paralyzed on the right side who could speak as he does, to say nothing of his power to talk and converse connectedly and with ease?”

Their conversation naturally became more technical than is desirable in this record, but it may be remarked that Professor Cultus’ mode of thought displayed an insight into the nature of mental processes in general, from the standpoint of the modern psychology; whereas the Doctor accentuated certain facts he had observed in Mr. Onset in particular. The Professor, very careful in what he stated and very cautious as to conclusions; the Doctor intensely appreciative, and ultra sanguine as to results. The Professor much better informed as to how details of anatomy were supposed to work; the Doctor understanding how they actually had worked in cases he had observed. They were, each of them, truth-seeking;—the Professor exceptionally explicit as to the anatomy, nerves, nerve-centers; especially clear as to “a veritable nerve-center having a strange domination over the memory of articulating words.” The Doctor insisted that Onset ought to manifest phenomena different from what he did if he suffered from veritable paralysis. Both being sure that paralysis of the right side of the body is undoubtedly connected by the nervous system with the left side of the brain; the careful Professor would not commit himself further as to Onset’s case; the sanguine Doctor did so at once:

“Onset is paralyzed on the right side. The organs of speech in his case are not affected, yet if speech should be affected, and is not, what becomes of the paralysis?”

A twinkle in the Doctor’s eye as he said this was noticed by the Professor.

“You seem to have discovered something,” said the Professor, smiling.

Another twinkle in the Doctor’s eye. “Rather! I think it must be another opportunity for the palmistry humbug. Mrs. Thorn and he are a pair, complementary, positive and negative. He a good subject, for her, perhaps a medium and all that sort of thing.”

“Go tell it to the marines on board,” said the Professor, laughing, as the Doctor hurried off to find Onset.

Onset’s hands amused the Doctor greatly. He found vitality much stronger than he had expected, but much less vivid characteristics of health:—color thin, action weak; texture smooth, fingers pointed; palm hollow and much crossed; groups of little lines on certain mounts (versatility); a fine development of a certain part of the hand (imagination, Mount Luna); thumb lacking in force of will, just the opposite to Mrs. Thorn; in fact, a number of details which in combination might be read several ways, but invariably showing marked susceptibility to fleeting impressions, mental-sensitiveness,—an active mind yet unstable characteristics, a liability to vagaries of some sort;—the natural tendencies of the individual also suggested in certain directions,—but let that pass.

Yes. Onset’s hands were amusing. The Doctor would not assert that the man was actually hipped then and there, but there was ample chance that he should be if circumstances led that way, the conditions favorable. He was just such a patient as Mrs. Thorn might succeed in curing. And then came the gist of the whole situation:

If Mrs. Thorn, why not anyone else? provided a counter-impression was given, vivid and forcible enough to convince the patient in spite of himself.

That afternoon found the Doctor, Miss Winchester, Adele and Paul, putting their heads together, mysteriously cogitating; evidently a plot on hand to give Mr. Onset another new idea.

“It can do no harm and may do the poor fellow some good,” whispered the optimistic Doctor. “Adele, your father will find it out soon enough himself, so we needn’t bother him just yet. In case of a rumpus the Professor will be just the one to fall back upon. He told me to go to the marines; we’ll make him our guardian angel,—our marine.”

Adele, laughing, wondered how angelic her father would appear acting as a marine.

“Remember!” whispered the Doctor, “all at your stations when the invalid is brought down to his state-room to retire at nine o’clock this evening,—now don’t forget. You see we’ve got to catch an idea before it gets away from us,—quick work;” and the chief conspirator bustled off to find Onset.

“There’s nothing like having a patient toned up previous to an operation,” said the Doctor, musing. “If we can succeed in directing the mind previously, and put him in a proper mood to receive the impression, the work will be well under way before he himself is aware of it. Mrs. Thorn seems quite an adept at preliminary work,—correct, but the preliminaries may reasonably include a counter-irritant. If we can produce premonitory suggestions leading up to an idea, the impression will have a better chance to operate, the idea to cure in its own way.”

“How are you this afternoon, Mr. Onset?” and he took a seat near the invalid.

“Not much encouraged. No doubt Mrs. Thorn is thinking the thing out in her room;—can’t say I feel any worse, and that may be her doings; but really this arm and leg are still so helpless that possibly when I retire to-night I ought to remain in my berth to give her a better chance.”

“Not if I know it,” thought the Doctor; then audibly, “Would you oblige me by attempting to stand up, if only on one foot, and allow me to support your weak side,—just for the effort?”

“It’s no use, my dear sir, not the slightest; I can’t move, for the life of me. I only wish I could.”

“Then let me roll your chair for a turn or two,” and without waiting for a reply he gently moved Onset to a place where both could observe some steam issuing from an aperture.

“What complicated machinery!” remarked the Doctor. “This ship must be a network of pipes, steam here at the side, and also from the top of the funnel, no doubt both connected with the boilers—boilers and live steam, live boilers and steam everywhere! Fortunately, explosions seldom occur.”

“What terrible things accidents must be,” quoth Onset, evidently interested and nervous; “terrible when one is helpless.”

“Sometimes not fatal,” quoth the dismal-cheerful Doctor; “it frequently depends upon one’s own exertions at the critical moment. I was myself once in a collision of passenger trains, our car turned upside down—thrown twenty feet. I lit head-foremost in one of those overhead parcel baskets which had been above my seat and was now below. Fortunately, I was able to pick himself up by the seat of another fellow’s breeches, and scrambled out through a window. If I hadn’t scrambled out that window I should certainly have been burnt alive!”

“Heavens!” exclaimed Onset, “there’s not even a window on this ship downstairs to crawl through. I should never get my leg through a port-hole, and probably be caught head out and legs in. Do you think there’s any danger, Doctor?”

“Well, there’s a good deal of live steam under high pressure about here; I really don’t know much about steam-fitters’ work, but if it were plumbing I should certainly say, yes. Thank fortune, it is not plumbing, Mr. Onset.”

“But it is steam-fitting,” quoth Onset, now becoming positive, his mental process very inconsequent, as with many of his type. “Now, Doctor, I’d like to ask you just one question, seriously you know, strictly private. I ought not to ask it but I really must, under the circumstances. Mrs. Thorn has told me considerable about vibrations; now any fool can see that vibrations are not good for steam pipes, yet here we are. Now tell me frankly, do you think Mrs. Thorn’s meditations can affect or be affected by all this around us. She told me, most positively, that her meditations vibrating to me must not leak out—— Oh I wish she would accelerate a little if any good is to come of it.”

The Doctor at once made a plunge for his handkerchief, and blew his nose, enough to create more vibrations; then,

“Well, Mr. Onset, your perspicacity is remarkable; I never met anyone who detected possibilities, aye, even probabilities, more quickly than you do.” Onset felt flattered, the Doctor gave him time to pat himself on the back, and then,

“But there’s nothing like having one’s mind prepared for emergencies. If anything should happen, why, just call on me, Mr. Onset. Fact is, I’m now so accustomed to accidents both mental and physical that when not killed in the first crash I generally pull through.”

“Thanks awfully, I certainly shall. Doctor, my man James is good enough in ordinary emergencies, but I doubt his use in accidents. James! Jamie! here, Jimmy! take me back where I won’t see this steam, the odor and its suggestions are both unpleasant. Good-bye, Doctor, I must now take a rest.”

Onset’s organs of speech were certainly all right, but his mental apparatus decidedly leaky, and something the matter with his legs.

“I trust the preliminary tonic may not lose its effect before nine P. M.,” mused the Doctor as he went to report to the other conspirators.

XII AMATEUR TACTICS—A FRIGHTFUL CURE

DINNER served, the conspirators enjoyed a promenade on deck, keeping an eye upon Mr. Onset and Mrs. Thorn as they sat conversing. No doubt vibrations were at work, the most approved methods of the wonderful Mystic Department of the Sanitorium Universitasque making some sort of an impression; because, as Mrs. Thorn remarked afterwards, “Mr. Onset was already oscillating between the old and the new, and whenever that condition arose she felt sure that the preliminary tendencies of the occult influences towards a cure were already taking effect.” Mrs. Thorn could be quite as perspicacious as the Doctor when she chose, her theories decidedly new as well as lucid, in fact unique.

At last James appeared, to take the patient to his state-room; this was the signal for the Doctor’s party to fly to their stations. The rolling chair was brought to one of the narrow gangways leading directly to Mr. Onset’s quarters below; the passage entered through a door at the top, the short flight of steps down closed by partitions on either side. The chief conspirator noticed that when James went off with the patient Professor Cultus was engaged in conversation with Mrs. Thorn; evidently one of those curious coincidences most opportune, which occult influences often exert in favor of the one conspired against. “Good!” exclaimed the Doctor. “I now know where our marine-angel is to be found when I want him; now for an impression less occult.”

When James reached the head of the gangway, there stood the Doctor, apparently by accident; and of course he offered to assist in carrying the invalid down the steps. Onset appeared more helpless than usual when, the Doctor supporting his shoulders and James his feet, the trio began to descend. If ever a subject for treatment had weak legs, it was Onset at that moment.

All progressed favorably until they reached the bottom, and were about to make the turn into the state-room passage; “Look out for that awkward corner, James.”

“All right, sir! Keep his head up, I’ll take his feet round first.”

“Go ahead!” exclaimed the Doctor. (The signal.)

No sooner said than a brilliant flash of light burst forth, a little way ahead down the passage, accompanied by a hissing noise not unlike an explosion.

Onset gave a start. “What’s that? Look there! Oh, Lord!” replied to by shrieks from female voices, and a cloud of white smoke with pungent odor. In an instant the passage seemed filled with frightened voices and smoke.

It was merely some of Paul’s photographic flash-light powder, accompanied by very realistic exclamations in consequence, but in such close quarters it seemed much more serious.

“God help us!” cried Jimmy, dropping Onset’s legs and turning around to discover what had happened. Through the smoke he saw Paul violently beating back flames which came from one of the cross-passages.

It was only Miss Winchester and Adele, invisible behind the angle, holding at arm’s length some burning paper upon a plate, but quite enough for faithful James. Seizing Onset by the ankles he would probably have dragged him on deck feet foremost if the Doctor had not ordered him in sharp tones:

“Keep your head, man! Don’t yell! I’ll attend to this! Go find Professor Cultus near the head of the gangway, quick! Don’t yell! It’s bad enough as it is!”

The last remark settled Jimmy; he vanished up the steps, and Onset groaned at the thought of being caught helpless below decks.

“Now,” said the Doctor, quickly turning to the patient, “we’ve got to hustle—it looks like an explosion, near by!—before a panic seizes the passengers.” Poor Onset, in the narrow passage lit by the flames, seized the Doctor with a grip of terrible fright, his well arm jerking the Doctor as if he had a spasm. “For God’s sake, don’t leave me!”

“I don’t intend to, I’ll stick by you,” said the arch conspirator, “but you must make an effort, too,” and he lifted the fellow upon his feet.

At this instant, down the steps came Professor Cultus and, by another prearranged “coincidence” to which he was not a party, the door above closed behind him.

Darkness indeed. The place might prove a veritable death-trap, surely, so thought Onset.

“What mischief are you up to?” exclaimed the Professor, serious in tone, but his countenance (which none could see) somewhat suspicious if not humorous.

“Lend a hand!” cried the Doctor, and then in a whisper, “I’m trying to get an idea into this chap’s legs—— Sh!”

Professor Cultus took hold of Onset’s opposite shoulder, and together they turned him around, moved him in an upright position towards the steps. He seemed indeed helpless, but his eye was now fixed toward that gangway, the way to escape. To get there and escape was the only thought potent in his mind. The Doctor turned and again nodded to Paul. Off went another flash-explosion, more pungent smoke, the sort of choking fumes that scare you off. This time nearer, the vivid light and more excited screams seemed hardly ten feet away.

Onset gave a plunge with his well leg, and would certainly have fallen flat but for his strong support.

“Now for it, Onset,” urged the Doctor, lifting the limp limb, assisting to put it on the next step. Professor Cultus nodded and took the weight.

“Now for another step!” urged the Doctor. Onset put his well leg up by his own effort, but when the Doctor helped the other to follow he noticed a change for the better, the paralyzed limb was not quite such a non-active member as before. Onset’s fright and desire to escape were getting their hold on him in spite of himself, his legs asserting and maintaining themselves without his realizing the fact that paralyzed legs should not be able to behave that way.

The critical moment was approaching, the crucial test, the final effort to force Onset to put forth his whole strength spontaneously as for his life. The closed door above made the passage still darker at the top, the smoke from behind made the atmosphere more oppressive each moment. “Only three more steps,” exclaimed the Doctor, “to burst through that door or be suffocated.” Onset heard this. The Doctor pressed his elbow against Professor Cultus to signal he was now ready. The Professor gradually lessened his support, and then quietly let go, slipping behind him to catch the man if he fell.

Nothing of the kind occurred. Onset was so frantically determined to get out that he stood supported on one side only without realizing the fact, both legs commencing to work together. Almost alone he managed to force himself higher. Seizing the auspicious moment the Doctor gave Paul the final signal. Flash! hiss-s-s-s-s! red lights, jumping shadows; cries, more jumps; something yellow—ghastly! “Rush for your life!” Onset and the infernal regions close behind him, at the foot of the steps!

Paul had prolonged the agony by some red-burning powder from one of the ship’s signal lights. Miss Winchester waving a sheet of yellow glass from Paul’s photographic lantern before her portable flames—great effect! Screams certainly diabolical; one could hear the wild laughter amid the cries. At such close quarters none could stand the racket a moment longer. Professor Cultus, in the thick of the fumes, was the first to protest. “Open that door! open I tell you, we’ll be smothered!” which was a fact. Onset in a spasm of despair, “Let me out! Let me out!” Miss Winchester, also spasmodic, “I’m getting roasted—fried!” Adele, “I am roasted!”

Onset never knew the exact moment when the Doctor left him standing alone; all he realized was the bursting open of the door, the flood of electric light—it seemed like daylight—and the Doctor above offering his hand to assist, the hand not quite within reach, an effort necessary to reach it; all depended upon the invalid’s own effort.

Without a thought but to escape, Onset started up those remaining steps as one flying for his life, forgetful of weak legs, paralysis, or any other incumbrance. Actuated by the mental and spiritual impulse towards self-preservation he plunged through the opening out upon the deck. Thoroughly scared by a vivid realization of things as they were, his previous hysteria which had clouded the mind vanished before a more potent impression which cleared his mental atmosphere, vanquished by a forced acceptance of the actual facts—he was not paralyzed.

The Doctor steadied him an instant; only a moment of assistance was necessary, until he realized himself standing without support. Dazed and frightened, choking from the fumes, while those who followed made an uproar of coughs and laughter, the poor fellow could not take in the situation at a glance. No one seemed excited, however, about any explosion; all interest seemed centered in himself, congratulations from everybody, Mrs. Cultus in particular.

“Why, Mr. Onset! I’m delighted to see you looking so well” (social fib; Onset looked like an escaped lunatic), “and able to walk” (conversational stretch), “cured” (perhaps), “and quite like yourself again” (since when?).

Not until Onset heard these highly appropriate congratulations did the whole situation dawn upon him. Yes, he had escaped by his own unaided efforts at the last, and of course it was too ridiculously evident to be denied that he was then and there standing alone. The very thought was paralyzing to the former impression that he could not stand. And behold the power of a new lively idea, affecting matter as well as mind—instead of melancholy Onset and an old scared impression, behold Onset smiling in spite of himself. Everybody thought he was going to make a speech. He did.

“Ho there, Jimmy! James, where are you?—Jim!”

Now, James had been in a terrible quandary during all the latter part of these proceedings. After Professor Cultus had descended, at his request, James had been confronted by Mrs. Cultus, who calmly moved her seat directly in front of the passageway and with apparent carelessness closed the door. She had moved not an inch until just in time for the Doctor to make his exit, followed by the demoralized Onset. It was Mrs. Cultus who had amused herself by giving her impressions as to the vibrating Jimmy, keeping him there until the proper time came. The valet was as much surprised as the master when he saw the melancholy Onset rise to the surface in a cloud of smoke and then favor the company with a smile. He received a further new impression when Onset remarked:

“We’ll clear the deck, Jimmy; I go it alone.”

Would Onset remain cured? Could a man so unstable in legs, mode of thought, and possibly character, remain steadfast? Adele was the first to ask herself this question.

XIII ADELE’S MEDITATIONS

NOTHING succeeds like success. The Doctor’s party had broken so many of the ship’s rules, by igniting flash-powder and burning paper below decks, that a lively time was expected when they were called upon to explain matters. No real harm had, however, been done to the vessel; no more than if they had taken a flash-light picture after dark. A few good fees to the stewards and a draft of fresh air through the passage soon cleared the atmosphere. When the officers put in an appearance to make an examination, merely the fragrance from some pastilles which Miss Winchester thoughtfully used to overcome the odor from charred paper was noticeable, and every one was talking about the paralytic who had rushed up the gangway in a state of terror.

Onset’s cure became the general topic of conversation on board, and forty people had forty differences of opinion as to what had happened and the propriety of such proceedings. Adele had taken only a minor part, but after it was over came a reaction which made her very thoughtful:

“Onset must be very weak, weak in mind as well as body; something must be wanting in his make-up. I don’t believe that any one with real strength of character could be cured exactly as he was; and what’s more, I don’t believe he is cured.”

Then she mused more comprehensively, and being a well-educated girl at once sought for the most notable example she could recall of the antithesis of this weakness. Her thoughts had been much on serious matters since her meditations in the Park and her previous talk with her Father. “What is it this man lacks?—strength of character, force of character? What is that?

“Well, it strikes me most impressively in one particular personality—historical; and in Him so strong that you feel this strength to-day precisely as if He were yet alive. He told the weak to take up their beds and walk, and they obeyed—really weak legs walked. There was something wonderful about such a character and the cures He made. He certainly had a force which never failed, and the patients were permanently better through and through, mental as well as physical—a deepening of the whole character. He seems to me the only perfect practitioner of healing ever known, and the first great Psychologist, and although living so long ago is modern yet. He seems like one who had then conquered even Science itself.”

Adele then sought the opposition to her own view, her college training having taught her to reason in that way.

“I never heard any one say that the Historic Christ lacked in force of character. Let me think! Yes, I did, too—once; and curiously enough it was a Jewish Rabbi disparaging the greatest historic character of the chosen people. He insisted that Christ was ‘deluded,’ and deluded forsooth in direct consequence of His own good thoughts and actions. Now, how could a Personality setting the most notable example of force and power be deluded like an ordinary man or self-constituted critic? As to the ancient golden rule, known so well to Confucius in Chinese form, and the Lord’s Prayer, also possibly known in some form to the Rabbi Hillel in Hebrew fashion previously, were they not each shown by Christ Himself in a manner far more potent to all men, each after his kind?—I might say acceptable to all creation in a way never dreamed of by either Confucius or Hillel. Don’t tell me that such a character could be deluded. If such was the case, then truth itself in character is a delusion, and expediency takes its place. All sciences and religions know better, all creation knows better, all except the few who delude themselves in order to bolster up a previous impression as to character to which they feel committed. Don’t tell me that the greatest Hebrew who ever lived, great because He developed force and strength of character in civilizations strong unto this day, was deluded! That is illogical and unsound, intellect misused, the twaddle of criticism.”

Thus Adele, the young modern educated girl, free to think of truth as she saw it, decided this question for herself, and put the result of her meditations away in her mental storehouse, little realizing how soon she would have occasion to congratulate herself upon having crystallized her views on this weighty subject.

“I’m glad,” she said inwardly, “I’m glad Christianity is founded upon Christ’s personality still alive, His own words and deeds still active, and not upon what other people, ancient or modern, say about Him.”

Adele went to join her mother, and found Mrs. Thorn already in evidence. The latter had indeed found her curative vibrations somewhat counteracted by events due to others also meditating more actively than she. And Mrs. Thorn showed much worldly wisdom and tact in saying very little about it; simply remarking that “Mr. Onset was already in a fair way to recovery when the accident happened. Indeed, Mrs. Cultus, I feel quite confident I should have cured him with much less fuss about it.”

This latter remark was made as they sat in the same vicinity on deck enjoying the air, the day following. Much to their surprise some one answered promptly:

“I’m sure I should.”

XIV ANOTHER COMMOTION—RELIGIOUS-CURATIVE

“Will that you won’t be sick, and you won’t be,” quoth a volunteer adviser. “It’s my will itself that is sick,” replied a real sufferer.

I’M sure I should.”

Mrs. Cultus turned quickly, to find the speaker, a placid-looking person, sitting near, presumably a lady, yet who had evidently been eavesdropping. A person of matronly aspect, whose voice and expression suggested a desire to tell others something that might be of benefit to them. Not at all one whose appearance suggested mysticism in any degree; on the contrary rather ingenuous, consequently a surprise to all present when she launched at them the following dogmatic statements:

“The practice of healing, of course I mean metaphysical healing, is based upon certain ethical and religious principles, because we know that mind holds utter control over matter.”

Mrs. Cultus, at first taken aback, then much amused, replied promptly: “Mind over matter! well, I should hope so. But it strikes me mind often controls matter better than it controls itself—h’m!” and Mrs. Cultus gave a little cough, as if the very idea had produced “something-the-matter” in her own anatomy.

Miss Winchester whispered to Adele: “My dear, we have found another—metaphysical specimen this time. The ship is full of them.”

“No more cures for me,” retorted Adele. “That magnesium powder is not out of my head yet—I mean my hair.”

“Never mind that, dear. Your head will save your hair; beg pardon, I mean your heels.”

“Well,” thought Adele, laughing, “even if this individual is another new-science-expert, she can’t possibly be of the loud, vociferous variety.” Adele judged by the placid manner and quiet voice, insinuating even when making such positive and surprising assertions. She had yet to learn how extremes sometimes meet in the same personality. The Doctor could have told her that the woman’s hands showed a most ardent temperament, and that in some types suppressed zeal could assume the appearance of placidity personified.

Mrs. Thorn regarded the matronly lady with especial interest, because new mental impressions of any kind, from any source, might at any time be of use to her. Her smile was bland, mild, courtesy itself, with just a humorous tinge for business with it, as she leaned forward to catch every word. Some new point in the game might be played at any moment. This when the placid matron remarked: “No medicines are now needed, no such disturbances as we have had on board. The true method by which mind may overcome all disease in suffering humanity we have now learned.”

“You don’t say so!” exclaimed Mrs. Cultus. “No medicines? What a blessing! But what takes their place, massage, or change of climate? We’re trying the latter.”

The placid lady, as she soon informed them, was Mrs. Geyser, of Wyoming, claiming to be an expert in the modern field of popular metaphysics. Miss Winchester, who knew what popularity implied, interrupted, “Oh, tell us, Mrs. Geyser, Wyoming is noted, is it not, as a locality where the natural ebullitions produced by physical forces are very remarkable?”

“Assuredly; in the volcanic region of our Park we have many instances of nature’s activity, in the boiling springs and water volcanoes, mud——”

“Baths and smothered combustion?” interrupted Frank Winchester. Mrs. Geyser paid no attention, except to intensify her previous statement.

“I’m quite accustomed to such sights. Nature often looks so quiet and harmless, yet the ebullitions you speak of take effect when not expected.”

“Anybody scalded?” asked Miss Winchester. Mrs. Geyser began to suspect that she was being chaffed.

“Gushers by nature, don’t you think so, Mrs. Geyser?”

Mrs. Geyser could not question this undoubted fact. How could she? Her own ebullitions of thought were already seething. She couldn’t get a word in edgewise without interruptions. How could any one preach practical metaphysics, metaphysics with interruptions? The conditions were most unfavorable. She determined, however, not to be balked in a good cause. No! not by a flippant damsel, anyhow, with her unseemly intrusions. So she fired off one of her big statements to back up what she considered to be practical metaphysics.

“You know, I presume, that we preach the gospel or good news according to doctrine found in the Bible and stated in the tenets of religious Science.”

Mrs. Cultus remarked that she hoped her knowledge of the Bible was sufficient, but, really, she knew little about the tenets. “What are tenets, anyhow?”

“One of our tenets reads this way,” and Mrs. Geyser assumed a tone of voice most serious, as if she were uttering a revelation of mystery never before vouchsafed to ordinary mortals. “We acknowledge the way of salvation to be the power of truth over all error, sin, sickness and death, and the resurrection of human faith and understanding to seize the great possibilities, yes, possibilities, and living energies of divine life.”

Mrs. Cultus drew a long breath. “Oh, dear, tenets are awful things; so complicated! May I ask what becomes of the simplicity of the gospel?”

Adele became very attentive while Mrs. Geyser was speaking. There was something in it which appealed to her as very true, yet that word “possibilities,” it was so easy to stretch it into the impossible and unreasonable.

“Please give us a simple tenet,” asked Mrs. Cultus, now the placid speaker.

“There is nothing easier, it’s as easy as reading a book. We have keys of our own—you must use our keys—our own book to both science and health.”

Frank Winchester gave a start, as if struck by an idea. “Keys! those everlasting keys! There must be two sets!”

“Three, my dear, three! I remember them well,” said Mrs. Cultus, her memory also startled into activity. “I knew St. Peter by reputation only, but Louis also had keys. I remember Louis XVI of France very well, when I was at school. He was a locksmith also, and made Bourbon keys for the government. Poor man! he lost both his keys and his head. Why, Mrs. Geyser, I’m astonished! Don’t you know the religious-government-locksmith-business is entirely obsolete?”

“In both science and religion,” mused Adele, while her mother still kept the floor.

“Why, St. Peter himself said his keys were worn out. He told the whole world he couldn’t lock the door on those Philippine friars, when they had been caught interfering with the Government.”

“Don’t mix politics and religion with metaphysics!” exclaimed Adele, greatly amused, but beginning to feel interested in the serio-comic discussion. “Please don’t—it’s bad form.”

“I won’t, daughter. I was only thinking, thinking how astute St. Peter was to find it out before The Hague conference told him so. I rather liked that in Peter, because Paul generally showed more intellect in the long run. Peter probably was the better manager, but I suspect Paul had more—more—Oh, what shall I call it?”

“Metaphysics?” suggested Frank Winchester, struggling to conceal intense amusement.

Mrs. Geyser, in the meantime, was not the sort of person to remain “sat upon,” as she thought, “in this outrageous manner.” Her own mental ebullitions began to demand utterance, but she managed to suppress external evidence. Nevertheless the cause she represented must be defended. Yes; in spite of Paul, Apollos, Cephas, Mrs. Cephas and Miss Cephas, the truth must prevail. She must witness to show how it could and would. She must tell how the greatest thing on earth should be applied as medicine. Sincerity called for strenuosity, the fundamental element in “our religion” must be made known, preached, and she did so, thusly:

“The maintenance of health and cure of disease occupy a large space in the religious faith of our society. Love is the greatest thing on earth, the fundamental thing with us. Love conquers all things, headache and neuralgia, backache and lumbago, all included, annual and perennial, the whole list, non-chronic and chronic. To apply religion scientifically we first fix truth and love steadfastly in the patient’s thoughts and explain what religious science is, but not too soon, not until the patient is prepared for it;” and then Mrs. Geyser continued to elucidate her method, incidentally remarking that medicine was never needed, not even for babies, not even in the mild form of a preparatory mixture. Frank Winchester recalled to memory the recent preparatory mental dose given by the Doctor to Mr. Onset, but said nothing. Adele, recently graduated, could not avoid asking the question:

“Have you a diploma?”

A very dignified attitude struck Mrs. Geyser in the small of her back when Adele innocently propounded this touchy question. She straightened up to reply. “Our diplomas are attested by the supernatural powers we exert. I deny that natural causes can account for our proceedings, I mean our results.”

“It looks just that way,” remarked Mrs. Cultus, while Mrs. Geyser continued:

“But to comply with the laws of the land and render unto Cæsar the things that are his I did take a course at our Metaphysical College—twelve half-days’ instruction at three hundred dollars for the course. Ample, I assure you, to satisfy any materialistic law-maker, and quite as expensive as many other colleges.” After this incidental announcement Mrs. Geyser seemed ready to resume the practice of her profession as teacher, but Adele, by this time, did not seem inclined to let it be done so easily. Evidently a climax was approaching in Adele’s own mind as to the duty of graduates.

“I notice, Mrs. Geyser, that you lay great stress upon cures.”

“Yes, they bear witness to the truth in our religious-science.”

“Do you keep any account of failures?”

“None whatever.”

“Then you notice what suits you and ignore the rest. Is that truth in science?”

“Failures do not depend upon phenomena or cases.”

“Then upon what?” inquired Adele, intensely interested.

“Failures depend upon the Divine Word.”

A pause—Adele as one astounded at what she considered the fearful abuse of both thoughts and words in Mrs. Geyser’s statements.

No doubt Mrs. G.imagined she was protecting her faith and religion by this placing of blame for failure upon the Spirit of Truth in the Divine Word, as if Truth itself could ever be a delusion, a fallacy, a failure; but, unfortunately, or fortunately perhaps, Adele Cultus grasped the fuller import of such assertions—so abusive of facts in nature scientific and philosophical, so diametrically in opposition, or else ignoring Christ’s especial teaching by word and work. Such was Adele’s point of view.

To Adele this was utterly illogical, antagonistic to truth as she saw it. Such an atrocious conception from one who had just been talking about love, the greatest thing on earth, struck through Adele like an electric shock, and, as usual with her, the spiritual dominant. She was also outwardly calm, but mentally that violent tension which comes with strenuous effort to find the truest utterance. The horrible words again sounded in her ears: “Failures—depend—upon——”

“Mrs. Geyser, to the Divine Word let us appeal. The record states that our Saviour did depend upon the phenomena to sustain his claims, ‘Believe me for the very works’ sake,’ and He never failed. When science, some day, progresses to the standpoint of our Saviour’s knowledge and practice we too may understand the application of natural laws as He did. What is the so-called supernatural? Merely that which science has not yet explained: miracles to-day are not miracles to-morrow.”

All attention was now focused upon Adele, her eyes flashing as they often had done when tackling a difficult problem at college. Her mentality was concentrated. Mrs. Cultus thought she “looked like Portia” when she continued:

“Our Heavenly Father wrote the Divine Word in all things. Science and religion must agree. They have the same Author.”

Now if Adele had only stopped at this point and by silence let the truth further speak for itself in the heart, much of what followed would have been avoided. But youth is impulsive in method and often abuses strenuosity by becoming indiscreet. Her youth led her to jump at a conclusion embodying personal reference, which of course broke away from the direct route to assurance of faith by spiritual discernment of actual facts. The bane of both science and religion came nearer wrecking the truthful impression already germinated in Mrs. Geyser’s consciousness.

“You are a religious thaumaturgist, Mrs. Geyser—a dealer in wonder-work. Your results are not real miracles, because you have failures and abuse truthful words. Having failures when you attempt to heal, you can’t possibly be apostles of the truly ordained religious and scientific type.”

Quick as a flash, Mrs. Geyser spoke the historic truth:

“Christ’s Apostles did have failures. Your remarks have no force.”

Adele also quick as a flash:

“Precisely so! which shows the real difference between them and Him. In every instance when they did fail He called them a faithless and perverse generation. Do you know why, Mrs. Geyser?”

Mrs. Geyser refused to reply.

“Because they neglected well known means, considered scientific in those days, and so recognized yet by reasonable people. The Apostles neglected to employ prayer and fasting, that is to say, proper mental and physical treatment. They had not adequately examined the case themselves, conscientiously nor in a prayerful spirit, nor given the proper medicine already known to be useful in such cases. Our Saviour always applied common sense to his physical and spiritual healing and had no failures.” Then she added mentally, “He does it yet.”

Mrs. Geyser had never before heard the historic Christ spoken of as a physician of the regular school, which eventually resulted in modern practice. She had always thought of Him as an Oriental Healer with no pretence to manifesting cures by reasonable specific methods, such as have since been learned by the Holy Spirit of Truth in medicine, psychology, and the science of religion; by the Spirit which is Holy, which Christ promised He would send. She had often said that the Scriptures gave no direct interpretation of the scientific basis for demonstrating until the new key was discovered. In fact, Mrs. Geyser was herself very mediæval in her notions of what Christ’s personality stands for as enlightenment, the Holy Spirit of Truth in all things, the Light of the World.

Therefore what Adele asserted made little real impression other than antagonism, not as yet, not until Adele, more roused than ever, continued:

“No record of failures is shirking responsibility, and personal responsibility is one of the truest things in any religion worthy of the name. Denial of dependence upon phenomena is a false position, totally unlike our Saviour. It is a pseudo-Christianity, and it is rank pseudo-science to quote in the same breath only those phenomena which you think will suit your purpose.” She was going on to add “preposterous abuse of the Divine Word,” when her mother beckoned her to be less extreme and impulsive. Her youth therefore satisfied itself by turning the personal allusions half-way round towards herself: “I think your position is preposterous, Mrs. Geyser, and your science an imposition upon the public.”

Adele regretted her words almost as soon as uttered, but too late; an eruption imminent, it must come.

Mrs. Geyser, the mystic, had been in a suppressed condition, but the mental-effervescence was approaching nearer and nearer to the surface. Personalities which she often applied to others she could not stand when turned towards herself—they acted still more potently; in effect not unlike that of soap-suds upon the water volcanoes of her native region, temporary suppression followed by ebullitions worse than usual. She could no longer sit still, so she rose to her feet, without fear but with much trembling, and gave vent to a torrent of expostulations, hurling her words at Adele as if to deluge her with facts.

“You don’t pretend to say there have been no cures by faith?”

“I do not,” said Adele firmly, “but——”

“But what, young miss? Can you deny facts in life? Facts! facts as well authenticated as the New Testament itself!”

“I neither deny facts in nature nor the testimony of honest witnesses, but——”

“Cures which the Founder of Christianity promised His followers they should perform!” cried the Geyser, still more excited.

Adele’s indignation at this became irresistible, neither could she stand it; and the result?

A remarkable thing yet perfectly natural, phenomenon well known to both religion and science, a sudden intense appreciation that “the letter killeth but the Spirit giveth life,” affecting her whole personality, physical, mental, spiritual.

Adele’s ideal became realized in her own person.

The psychological influence of that which is Holy became manifest.

She became, as it were, the personification of that which she believed to be true. Sober enthusiasm and convictions, both scientific and religious, came to her rescue.

She spoke, but with a revulsion in manner, quietly, slowly, each sentence distinct, and her words were the truth in soberness, moral courage and reason at its best, the Holy Spirit over all:

“Pardon me, Mrs. Geyser. I am really very sorry I offended you.” Then, after a little pause, “I can’t express all that I feel and would like to say; but it seems to me our Saviour was always reasonable. He never did imply what is unreasonable, no matter what marvels and mysteries He may have revealed to enlighten further. It seems to me nature has ever since witnessed to His wonderful obedience to her laws and His profound knowledge of the Divine Word wherever written in nature, physical or spiritual. He came not to destroy but to fulfil laws in nature, and this in spite of all that has ever been said of Him to the contrary.”

All were now absorbed, blending their own spiritual experience with hers as Adele continued:

“Now in religion the claims you make demand a marvellous thing in nature, a marvel indeed, quite unreasonable to expect in the brighter light of known truths,” and she rested her eyes calmly on Mrs. Geyser, she too having become quieter under the better influences at work.

“A marvel, indeed, Mrs. Geyser, no less than the actual presence of a perfect human being.”

Mrs. Geyser repeated the words, musing self-consciously, “A perfect human being!”

“Yes, indeed,” continued Adele. “Taking things as they are, as the truth in science has already taught us, the performance of cures by the means you attempt would demand perfection in both knowledge and technic—one who knows and one who does to perfection—a perfect man. Of course I must mean perfect in reason, reasonably perfect as nature manifests truth, at the period when the man lives.”

“What do you mean by perfection?” asked Mrs. Geyser, evidently sincere. “I don’t quite understand what you mean by that sort of high-flown talk.” This was only too true, for Mrs. Geyser, with all her pretence to metaphysics, had never formulated a definition of that word “perfection;” she knew little and perceived less in that very mode of thought to which she made claim as an expert.

Adele’s youthful eyes certainly did show a human-nature-twinkle when thus called upon to define what should have been elementary to Mrs. Geyser if an expert; and so very important to remember when “perfect cures” were claimed in spite of the known imperfections of all other systems of treatment. Adele never appreciated her college training more than when she found that she could use the knowledge thus obtained in reasoning with Mrs. Geyser.

“Well, in metaphysics as well as other studies, perfection is something like this: it is not only ‘finished in every part, completed,’ but much more, it is ‘whole, entire, existing in the widest extent, and in the highest degree—in spiritual relations divine in character and quality.’ You surely believe this, Mrs. Geyser!”

Mrs. Geyser made a heroic mental effort to grasp this statement and answer the question; Adele tried to help her, anxious to share the very best of her own mental conclusions, her own spirit dominated by the Spirit that is Holy, to help others and not antagonize.

“Now to me the two words, perfection and divinity, are precisely the same in significance in relation to our present discussion, and they both touch the very highest point in reason, the acme of reason. We cannot go higher than that, can we, Mrs. Geyser?”

Mrs. Geyser acknowledged it was “pretty well up.”

Adele, properly gauging the calibre of her patient by this remark, repeated the idea:

“No, I can think of nothing higher than perfection and what it implies. No, not in physics, metaphysics, nor religion. Can you, Mrs. Geyser?”

The listener seemed somewhat confused, but sincerely anxious to learn. Adele continued:

“Religion and Philosophy both teach me that Divinity alone manifests Perfection to the extent your claims call for. No doubt you have examined into the matter thoroughly, Mrs. Geyser. May I ask what your key says on the subject?”

The matronly Mrs. Geyser, ever self-conscious, yet trying to be sincere, immediately directed her thoughts inwardly, to a sort of self-examination which her system was apt to call for in such cases; a system of self-examination very peculiar in its operation, as if trying to detect how-much-of-perfection she had within herself to be depended upon to influence or exert the Supreme Power to perfect cures. If anybody ever did try to work out her own salvation (cure herself) by means of complicated theories distorting good intentions, it was this earnest woman, misguided by a mist of words applied to the veritable mysteries in nature, a mystical abuse of the unseen truths so well recognized by all truth-seekers as mysterious. Thou canst not tell whence it cometh nor whither it goeth. Mrs. Geyser seemed worried, but in no way daunted; rather troubled because she could not state her own case as she thought it should be stated. Very like a matron indeed, with an enormous bunch of keys at her side, not one of which would fit.

Adele, also uneasy lest she had not shown that kindness and consideration in manner and tone for one older than herself, which the case called for—a case in which the Perfect Spirit alone, the Holy Spirit of Truth in Love, can do the “perfect work.”

Adele felt this deeply. “What shall I do now? Talk on? No; no more talk. I hate this rumpus, hate it! but must do something. Never again will I be caught in such a discussion and controversy. Never! but I must do something. Poor soul, she can’t even see what she can see. I wish I could see for her,” and Adele cast her eyes about, as if looking for inspiration in the surrounding objects.

A book lay upon Miss Winchester’s lap. She had been using it at the piano in the salon. The title caught Adele’s eye. “Songs Without Words,” the musical association with the title she well knew, but now, what?

Her active mind, trained to work by association of ideas, and her spiritual faculties longing to determine what to do then and there, the two worked together. If the beautiful art of music she loved so well could speak without words through the ear, why, surely there must be a way to speak by—by——

She left her chair, crossed over to where Mrs. Geyser sat, and held out a friendly hand, her attitude the reverse of antagonistic, her eyes speaking the meekness which is always followed by the promised reward. There was no mistake as to the words uttered by those lovely eyes, they asked first for peace, peace first, then hope, then charity, showing that meekness which inherits the earth. Herself illumined by that wonderful light that never was by sea or land, but sometimes is reflected on the human face.

XV TWO SIMULTANEOUS SOLILOQUIES

THE countenance of Mrs. Cultus after this trying scene was a study in itself. She was attempting to understand her own daughter. Worldly wisdom was well developed in Mrs. Cultus, and it was fortunate for Adele that her mother had suppressed dangerous personalities early in the interview, else the result would have been permanently bad instead of what it proved to be. Much of what Adele said Mrs. Cultus had fully appreciated, but not all; not when her daughter began talking of what constituted perfection, and the consequences. Then worldly wisdom failed, and the mother regarded her daughter with amazement.

“The child! What does she know of metaphysics? Yet she talked as if she knew all about it as well as she knows her own classmates. She must have studied both religion and science at college. I don’t wonder they made her valedictorian of her class, to get in the last word. She is just like her father, intellectual, and I certainly was with her when she became angry with that woman for not giving medicine to sick babies. Extraordinary, isn’t it, how some people can crowd out their natural instincts for an idea—it is not safe to live, not with such notions. What new-fangled medical schools without medicine are being propagated! Here are two new ones on board this ship—even in mid-ocean there’s no getting rid of them. Well, I’m rejoiced that Adele has not been educated out of her natural instincts. It is so much safer to be orthodox about such things, and take medicine; and these fads, why, never bother with fads except for amusement. Now that telepathic reading we had one night at home was almost as good as the other evening with hypnotics, both were so diverting. But, oh! deliver me from these new sciences. Now I mustn’t forget; I must tell Adele how much I admired her standing up for old-fashioned medicine and orthodoxy in religion.”

Thus soliloquized Mrs. Cultus in her state-room, while a door, slamming every ten seconds in the passageway, somewhat interfered with the continuity of her thoughts.

There was yet another of the party whose estimation of Adele rose immensely. Paul Warder had overheard the discussion; it gave him an insight as to Adele’s character which he would have been a long time discovering, and he felt strengthened himself by the thoughts she had expressed. Paul was not given to ostentation in religious matters any more than Adele herself, nor did he feel quite able to discuss such things even if opportunity offered. He was not so constituted, either by heredity or education. His antecedents had been of good Quaker stock, his own affiliations with churchmen, his daily associations with Doctor Wise, from whom he had heard views almost to the verge of heterodoxy.

Paul kept his own counsel and, like Adele, preferred to show by acts rather than words what his principles were. He and Adele were physically and mentally different, but spiritually not at all unlike. Without appreciating it themselves at this time they already embodied that potent yet mysterious combination in nature which affords the most solid, durable foundation for true friendship, the secure and real basis upon which marriage should stand. To hear Adele speak her mind freely, as she did, was a new experience to Paul, an insight which from its very nature forced him to think about her. It was one of these incidents in his own life he could never forget, never forget her nor what she had said.

Paul’s vernacular when he soliloquized was not so Emersonian as it might have been; if it lacked anything it certainly was even a suspicion of transcendentalism. No; Paul had a vernacular of his own, equally characteristic and, from his own point of view, even more forcible. He still retained some of his college idioms when talking aloud to the bed-post, and there was in them a peculiar virility. When he found himself alone after this new experience his youth effervesced in this style:

“By Jove, what a girl! No nonsense there! And she was right, too; O. K. every time. How she did pick out the flaws in that queer woman’s racket. I could see that it was absurd myself, but I never could have spotted the thing as Adele did and then finally smoothed things down so well. She must be an awfully good girl. I wonder if a man can ever be as good as a woman. And these college girls get on to things we fellows never grasp by the right end, and then they put them in practice, too. I detest women preachers, but, hang it! I believe Adele Cultus could preach first-rate if she wished. I hope she won’t get into the habit, but it is a deuced good thing to be able to say exactly what you really think when occasion arises. By Jove, she is a stunner! Take care, old boy, and don’t fall in love with a strong-minded girl, whatever you do. I never heard her talk so before, and if it had not been for the provocation given her by that crank and the preposterous statements she made about all-metaphysics and no-medicine Adele would never have been roused. No, it was not that either which aroused her—it was the abuse of the serious words and what Adele saw differently that roused her. No, that was not uncalled-for interference, but a regular spontaneous stand-up for the truth as she saw it. But she must have gone over it somehow beforehand, in her mind. We fellows always have to peg over such things, or get the exact words from books, so we can be sure of our ground. I expect she has a good verbal memory; I wish I had. Science, religion, and metaphysics all mixed up in the same breath. I believe she’s right, metaphysics and religion do go together in brain work, but it’s very dangerous ground for weak minds. Great Scott! when a bright girl does use her intellect how attractive she can be, and a fellow can’t help seeing and feeling how lovely she is.”

Why should Paul have been so moved? He had just learned something well worth knowing of a truly good woman whose intellect worked comprehensively, not in grooves; one who really knew more than he did on certain lines, and had the courage of her convictions, the convictions being precisely what he himself most highly approved, instinctively and by education. His youth did the rest.

He was attracted to her, as he said, and even more than he thought, but he was not enamored of her—the masculine desire for possession had not yet asserted itself; he was being unconsciously led, however, in that direction. Nature’s preparatory course was on a much higher plane than was the human style of preparation given by the Doctor to Mr. Onset. Paul felt beginning to blossom within him such an honest regard, such a profound admiration for Adele, for her sincerity and the truth in her, that he was led to “believe in her,” trusted her perfectly, and was ready to defend her in all things. But he did not love her in the complete sense of the term under natural laws: the “for better or for worse” in the supreme sense had not yet made its appeal, nor had either of them yet seen Aphrodite rising from the sea.

What was Paul’s condition from a purely philosophical standpoint? He had acquired through Adele’s force of character that which was far better, the permeating sacred spirit in which all true affection must rest if it is to endure. Paul was as true in type as Adele. Her mentality had conquered by manifesting her spirit from within, he had obtained a firm intellectual belief based upon certain phenomena in nature. Would the realizing sense of the need of each other follow? If so, what direction, what line would it take—physical or spiritual, downwards or upwards, for better or for worse? The blossom might fall blighted before the perfect fruit was formed.

As a matter of fact they themselves were absorbed simply in the beauty of the flower as it unclosed, with little thought of else than the enjoyable present.

XVI COURAGE VERSUS FOOLHARDINESS

WHILE yet thinking about Adele, Paul stood near the stern of the vessel, overlooking the foamy roadway produced by the constantly revolving propeller; he noticed the rapid progress made by the ship which bore him onwards. Looking outwards his thoughts at first turned hopefully towards the future—towards the region to which they were going; but soon, very soon, that which was before his very eyes drew his mind towards the past, suggested by the boiling wake extending in imagination clear back to the land they had quitted. Yet as a matter of fact it was neither the past nor the future that was just then most urgent with a crucial test for him; he was about to realize that the present is always more urgent and important than either.

Paul stood musing about this luminous pathway which led back to their native land, their home, yet each moment took him farther away from such associations, to meet strangers from whom in the very nature of things he could not expect such spontaneous sympathy as with his own countrymen.

Phosphorescence shone upon the troubled waters, marking the wake of the ship for some distance. The sky clear, and in the sheen of the moonlight details of the white-crested waves could easily be defined. It was one of those glorious evenings when the seascape appears artistically perfect, but cold and unsympathetic. Moonbeams are not inherently sympathetic, they have no warmth, they come not direct from that source of heat and life which gives the vital energy to all material things. But to imagination and in idealization moonbeams may excite or allay fear, and they often give a clearer vision of what sympathy really is, namely, hope and succor when most needed. Nature is always kind if we have the spiritual discernment to appreciate her, but variable according to her own methods.

Paul had but little of the red-hot-heroic in his physical make-up, nor was he especially romantic, but he did have something a great deal better. As often with those of his type, his sound mind in healthy body was supplemented by a keen sense of duty. Moonbeams and romanticism he could joke about, but underneath the jokes he had most decided opinions that a fellow ought to help others when necessity arose, and also his own ideas as to what was practical and what was foolhardy.

While still musing he could not avoid admiring the scene, and spontaneously associating it with one he knew could enjoy it; the picture was complete, ready to be admired. “I think Adele would enjoy it, she ought to see it. The ship is not going too rapidly, so the noise of the propeller amounts to little. I’ll go and find her,” and he turned to seek her whose pleasure was now more to him than heretofore.

Hurrying away, he had taken but a few steps before his attention was arrested by a commotion forward. There were voices, then the rapid patter and scuffling of feet on the deck, then a sharp cry, a cry the most soul-stirring a landsman can hear when in mid-ocean:

“Man overboard!”

“Which side?” exclaimed Paul, spontaneous.

“Port, sir!”

This caused such a complete revolution in Paul’s emotion that for an instant he was confused. Like many a landsman, with little fear of the water itself, yet with little or no practice at sea, the simplest nautical phrase was apt to convey confused ideas. He could not on the instant remember whether he should look forward or aft (as in a theatre) to determine port from starboard on board ship, and as usual rushed over to the wrong side. The light was bad, the moon shone the wrong way to see clearly, he rushed back again, leaned over the hand rail and thought he saw something bobbing about on the water, but was not sure—only an instant, then could distinguish the waving arms of some one struggling. The figure was yet ahead, but approaching, not quite near yet, but about to pass as he looked on.

The situation was painfully dramatic, but from the deck as Paul saw it not so perilous if actions were prompt.

“Where are those life preservers?” and with pocket-knife he cut one loose and threw it overboard, then a second, and some smaller cork-floats. Why several? He did not stop to think, for another cry, this time from the deep, reached his ear, the cry of a drowning man. It came sharp on the night air, like a personal appeal, and so sounded to Paul—a personal appeal, for none could have now heard it as clearly as he.

This was more than Paul could stand without making instant response. Two more rips of the knife blade, this time on his own shoe-strings, off went the shoes, then coat and waistcoat.

He answered with his college call, “All right, old fellow!” then sprang on the hand rail and plunged headlong into the ocean, a clear dive from the deck outwards, to find the drowning man.

None but a deck hand caught a glimpse of the youthful figure springing into space, of course too late for him to interfere. “Two overboard!” cried the sailor promptly, then giving vent to his own reflections, “Some blasted fool who wants to do the thing hisself!” mumbling as he went forward to report.

Increased excitement, passengers calling for help.

“Where was the other man?” exclaimed several voices among a group coming aft to the new center of interest. “Where?”

“There, ma’am!” said the deck hand, pointing; “he left his boots.”

“Poor fellow!” exclaimed Miss Winchester. “Oh, Adele, what a legacy! Just think of it, boots!”

The crowd rushed to look at the boots. They were held up for inspection. Frank Winchester no sooner turned her eyes upon them than she rushed forward, recognized the coat and waistcoat, and stood aghast.

“It’s Paul!”

Adele did not move, she seemed turned to stone.

Her eyes were fixed, looking straight ahead, trying to pierce the shadowy deep, the boundless expanse. The ocean seemed enormous, terrible, and, oh, so cold, heartless, consuming! “What! There? Lost!”

But she was quiet only for an instant, then seizing any loose articles she could find threw them overboard, and with strong emotion invited others to do the same. “Anything that will float—will float! It may reach them; it may, it must!” and the passengers followed her example.

More life preservers, several deck stools and steamer chairs then followed overboard before the enraged boatswain could interfere to stop their useless efforts.

“Don’t you see we’re b’arin’ round?” growled the old salt. “The boats’ll pick ’em up. There’s no sea on now.”

“I truly hope so,” breathed Adele.

“They’ve got plenty of floats already,” said the sailor.

“How do you know?” demanded Miss Winchester, nettled at the fellow’s brusque manner.

“Well, he’s got plenty anyway. Look here!” and it was indeed a great relief to see the dangling ends of those cut ropes, cut by Paul only a few minutes before, not insignificant items, for they told of presence of mind and foresight instead of reckless venture.

A lull followed, while the vessel began to turn in its course. Several boats were made ready to be lowered into the water.

“Adele,” said Miss Winchester, striving to grasp the situation, “Adele, I knew he could swim, all right, but, really, really I did not take him for that sort of man.”

“H’m!”

“He’s very brave, Adele.”

“Perhaps you don’t understand him as well as I do,” and Adele’s voice betrayed a greater intensity of feeling than she had intended. Then, as if catching herself before too late, she added in a very different tone, and casting her eyes towards the center of the ship, where the officer of the deck was giving directions:

“Frank, he’ll not be left—not if I can help it. Just wait a minute.”

Each had done what she could thus far.

XVII TWO RESCUES—AND TWO GIRLS

THE turning of the steamer appeared to take an interminable time, especially to the only two members of the Cultus party who knew that Paul was overboard. The passengers watched the great curve of foam left behind as the huge monster crept around in its course. Then whispers were heard, irrepressible, nervous whispers from people who could not keep still, and who jerked their hands up and down as if they themselves were in a dilemma.

“We’ll never find ’em, never! We’re only getting further off! Will she never turn round? We’re miles away now! Why don’t they steer straight for where they are?”

“I wish I had my hands on that wheel, I’d yank her around in a jiffy.” This critic was judging by a cruise he had made in a cat-boat on Barnegat Bay.

“I hope they’ve got them preservers hitched up high,” quoth a kind, thoughtful old dame, wearing a knitted hood and shawl crosswise. “It’s awful important not to be top-heavy in the sea, nor to swallow too much water; it’s awful salt, you know”—this kind suggestion the result of experience in a surf bath at Atlantic City.

The boatswain’s whiskers surrounded a capacious grin as he listened to this sagacious advice, while at the same time he was watching the great semicircle of foam change to a horseshoe curve, the two ends converging toward a point in the open. He took a shy glance towards the bridge, observing what was going on there, and then called out:

“Keep a lookout for’ard! Who’s got the best eyes?”

All strained their necks to catch a glimpse ahead.

The vessel had by this time veered and was ploughing back in a direct course. Suddenly a beam of light shot out from above the bridge, illuminating far ahead, penetrating the moonlight, making objects on the surface distinctly visible.

“The search light! The search light!” and a burst of cheers went forth loud enough to be heard a long distance.

“Give ’em another, boatswain!” exclaimed the Barnegat critic.

“Those fellows ain’t deaf, give ’em another, boatswain!” This from the thoughtful hood and shawl.

The old salt looked disgusted, for he had not taken part in this demonstration, but the advisory committee took it up at once, cheering again and again, as if the rescue depended upon the noise they made.

Adele put her arm in Frank Winchester’s and drew her away towards one of the life boats amidship. The boat was already manned, waiting to be lowered at the right time.

Professor Cultus and the Doctor were standing near these boats, when Adele touched the latter on the shoulder.

He turned quickly, something in her manner impressed him, and he drew her aside.

“Please go in that boat, Doctor Wise.”

“What, you want me to go?”

“Yes, by all means.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Oh, but you will, if you’ll only go.”

“But there’s no reason for my going.”

“Yes, there is. Don’t ask me, but go, please, you really ought to go.”

“Ought, ought to?” repeated the Doctor curious, very thoughtful.

Now Doctor Wise had already learned that the first man overboard was Mr. Onset, the very man he had frightened by his amateur mental science treatment. Could the hysteria have returned in some new form? Was it no cure after all? Could the man have attempted suicide? If so, didn’t he himself have some personal responsibility from tampering with such a case? He should have left it for regular treatment. A successful cure would probably have brought no such adverse consequences as this; but if unsuccessful who would be to blame? At any rate he was now identified with Onset on board that ship and could not remain passive in such an emergency, even if the ship’s crew could do the work better.