Chapter XLV: Ritual of the Human Race 292 (3)

Paul thought Adele a little witch as she danced with glee, all the time encouraging her friend. He remembered how Adele had bewitched himself also not long before, when she was in quite another mood. Paul laughed outright, but could not keep his eyes from noticing her every movement.

As to Miss Winchester, she took hold of the problem with a vim characteristic of some of the characters of her own creation; she tackled at once the ubiquitous problem known to all men on both sides of the globe as, “How to make both ends meet,” and of course solved it satisfactorily. Some few of the craft-literary, and in some degree all women of whatever persuasion, usually do. So Adele was right,--that settled it. Miss Winchester finally saw her way clear, and joined their party.

It would have been difficult to find a more congenial and vivacious group than Professor and Mrs. Cultus, Miss Winchester and Adele, with their friends the Doctor and Paul, as they met in the salon of the steamer on the eve of departure. Henri Semple, who looked forward to meeting them later on the other side, led the party of chosen friends who came to see them off, and while trying to aid the Doctor and Paul with their hand-baggage, kept dodging Mr. Hammond, one of those antipathetic, ghostly individuals who throw cold water upon such occasions. Mrs. Maxwell sent her butler with an exquisite kedge anchor in rose-buds for Adele, “in case you have no wireless telegraph when wrecked, my dear.”

Amid friends, and flowers sent in kind remembrance, with many kind messages “bon voyage,” there was, nevertheless, just a touch of regret when some one asked Adele how she liked leaving America. She had thus far thought of it as leaving home. Now home was “America” in reference to where she was going,--her first sensation of the broadening effects of travel.

A few moments later all were on deck in gay spirits, Miss Winchester striving to avoid an impolite kodak-fiend in search of celebrities, who was taking snap-shots from the bridge; but she only succeeded in getting herself into a most unconventional attitude, almost doubled up with laughter, strongly suggestive in a finished picture that some one had the _mal de mer_ already. “One ought never to judge by appearances,” remarked the Doctor, as he attempted to shield Miss Winchester from the kodak.

The bell sounded, only passengers were permitted to remain longer on board. The Doctor was saying “I trust we meet again” to one of his trunks, when Semple hurried down the gang-plank waving back “au revoir”; a gamin on the dock instantly echoed back what sounded like “moo-swore, take moo-swore.” Adele waved her handkerchief to Semple, and a Frenchman near by took off his hat, smiling as if the salute were intended for him.

The steamer swung out from the wharf and glided into midstream; amid cheers, and adieus waved in many directions, and kisses thrown to loved ones left behind. America and home, now one and the same, began to recede. They were actually on their way to the Far East.

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.