Newspaper Page Text
7
THE FLOWERS COLLECTION
to
Finale ^ A Tale of the Psychic
■•■« ■ • o
By ITALY HEMPERLY.
Written for The SUNNY SOUTH.
HE day was waning, and
the last rays of the June
sunshine foil across the
tall buildings, and some
times on the tired faces
of the surging mass of
human beings as they
passed along the open
streets. Now and then the
soft wind brought the
odor of unseen roses that
bloomed somewhere in the
yards and gardens.
I had left home in a
cheery mood, but T r.ow felt the oncom
ing of ono of the old. restless moods that
always told of the coming of something
unusual—something that always held
more shadow than ,. 0 — 1 was one of
several pupils who were studying psy
chology under I>r. Schane. We were to
have the last lesson of the season at
8 o'clock.
When I arrived at the studio, the
friend whom I was to meet was not in,
but Miss Zif Jemison, the little psychic,
sat reading a letter under the glare of
tho electric light.
I had seen the girl several times, and
felt strangely attracted to her. but there
was a gentle elusiveness about her that
kept mo from more than a passing word
or smile. Tonight • the strange pallor
and pathos of Iter face gave me a little
pang, as she sat for a moment uncon
scious of my presence. She was tall and
very fragile looking, but there was a
something about her that often expressed
great and unexpressed strength. Her face
was cold and unresponsive in repose, but
there were moments when her features
warmed to sudden light and beauty.
Feeling my gaze she raised her eyes.
They were blue eyes, very dark and
gloriously beautiful. Slowly her crim
son lips curved into a smile and site
nodded.
"I thought you would come,” she said
quietly. 'I have felt your thoughts of
me, and I hope you can find it in your
heart to forgive me for my seeming in
difference. And I am sure you will when
I tell you my story. Then you will
realize that I am scarcely a human be
ing— that I ant Just a living purpose. ’
I settled back in my chair with a lit
tle thrill of pleasure. First, because
'I knew 1 was going to learn a mystery;
second, because I knew that the mys
tery was one of tragedy and heart-throb^
Zif was a type of woman whom nothing
moved deeply unless it touched her
heart.
She arose and laid the letter on the
table, and returned noiselessly to her
chair. At that moment the thought oc
curred to me that she always moved
about and did things in a noiseless way.
Only the sound of her voice broke the
silence that seemed to hang about her
like a garment. And there were times
when even her voice seemed but a soft,
thrilling solo.
She clasped her hands behind iter head,
and closed her eyes for a moment.
“I will make by story as brief as pos
sible, for it will not be long until the
others come in. Five years ago I was a
happy light-hearted girl. I loved, and was
loved in return by a man who was my
ideal in every way. My father was a
musician and we wero poor. lie was an
invalid, and we made our home in the
suburbs of New York. X inherited his
love of music, and when I was a child
he taught me to play the violin. After
ward 1 earned a support for us by team
ing violin lessons, it was at the home
of one of my little pupils that 1 met the
man X loved. He was very wealthy, but
this 1 did not know then, nor would i
have cared. It was his nobility and
strength of character that appealed to
me irresistibly. Afterward he told me
that he had loved me from the moment
he had seen me—loved me without even
knowing my name."
Her face had grown wonderfully tend
er. but the expression changed with the
swiftness of thought. "But from the first
X felt the shadow of some unseen evil.
It would come over me !n the brightest
sunshine, while his beloved voice sound
ed In my ears. I told him of my fears,
but he laughed, and told me it was a
childish fancy. But for this vague fear,
I would have been supremely happy, 'the
day set for our marriage was fast ap
proaching. But one morning the news
that he had been found dead at the
bank with a pistif by iiis side, came to
us like a bolt out of a clear sky. At
once there was a rumor of suicide, but l
knew that this was utterly false. Yet all
search and investigation failed to throw
any light on the mystery. There were
no relatives, save a cousin, who waa
then sold to bo in Canada. Before the
shock had fully passed by dear father
died. I do not know«how I lived on
after that. In a few weeks my dead
betrothed’s cousin came from Canada,
and took charge of his business, and
his effects. But ho was no financier,
and the hank was soon ruined by his
wild schemes and Investments.
"He had many friends, for he was a
•wonderfully attractive man. but from the
lirst I loathed him. When i met him
and touched ills hands and looked into
his eyes I knew that lie was a man with
the shadow of a great crime on his soul.
Dimly I connected him with tho death ot
my Paul. Day by day the feeling grew
until it became a certainty. The thought
haunted me, waking or sleeping. I gave
up my pupils for I found it Impossible
to teach with any satisfaction. One d^y
when I had spent all my earnings. 1
heard that Dr. Schane had opened a
.school of psychology. He was a master
of the science, or. at least, a master of
all that js known of the science at
present. I went to him; he
needed a psychis in school and
■was ready to pay me for my
time. I needed the money, hut my one
thought was to study this man. to
wrest from him a concession of the
crime I know in my soul he had com
mitted. And for five years this, struggle
f souls has gone on. Never for a mo
ment have I wavered in my purpose;
but I have always let him dream that I
am a creature to he bent and moulded
by his will. Only in one way have I
fully asserted myself; I would not allow
him to make love to me. There have
been moments when lie has feared me,
but these fears. I could always sweep
aside by suggestion, for crime clouds
•he soul's aura and blunts one’s intui
tions. But the confession—the evidence
I have longed fbr has never come. Once
it trembled on his. Ups. but he controlled
himself with a mighty efTort. O the
madness of that moment! I loathed the
man. hut I could but admire his supreme
self-control.’’
She had been talking rapidly and her
head sank wearily hack against the
chair.
"But T am tired of the even struggle
that may not end for years. I have
learned nothing definite; but once out of
mv body my soul could see and know
l ow to wring the secret 'Prom him—the
secret that would clear up the mystery
of my beloved's death. And I have come
»o think of this as the only way.”
She paused for a moment and then
went on.
"The subject of vibration has always
ieeply interested me. For every mate
rial body there is x note or vibration of
dissolution. Sometimes I fancy I have
found my note of dissolution, and the
hought fills me with inexpressible joy.
Death would bo such an angel of wel
come. I have a horror of the bodily de
cay that usually precedes death. Earth
hold no more pain or pleasure for me;
and if I could dissolve—if I could drift
away like the breath of a‘ flower, why
shouldl not? Zif is a German word,
meaning blossom as you may know. My
father gave me the name.”
A brief smile flashed across her face.
Dimly I grasped the drift of her
thoughts. In the pause that followed we
heard the sound of voices in the passage.
She leaned forward and listened.
■’They are coming,” she said. "And
‘omght I may play the ’ finale. You
ust sit with your face to the west
window. And now.' farewell!"
There was an ineffable charm and
sweetness in her manner. In the next
’nstant her fare was again cold and
calm.
"To Dr. Schane T will come again.”
I gave a start for I had not connected
Dr. Schane with the story, although she
had used his name.
The door opened and the doctor came
in followed by several pupils. To me
the words of the lecture that folldwtd
conveyed no meaning. My brain was in
a whirl. At the conclusion of the lesson
Zif was put in the hynotic state. In
this state she would often play selec
tions she had never tried bef re. Dr.
Pchane stood a few feet aivay giving si-
ent suggestions. Slowly and mechanic
ally Zif placed her violin in position and
'ifted the how. Her eyes deepened and
then fluttered to. Then came slow
strains full of power and feeling, then
followed notes of darkness and despair,
and again the strain changed to one of
pleading—tender, elusive, mystic, like the
far faint odors that come on the wind
in a summer twilight.
My eyes involuntarily sought the doc
tor’s face. His look expressed great
wonder and fear. Something was wrong
somewhere. We all felt it- Slowly the
girl’s face relaxed into a smile and the
how fell fr m her hand. Dr. Schane
bent over her with a groan. I know
not what it was, but something impelled
me to look across at the west window.
And at I have a soul a soft luminous
’ight gathered into a shadowy form and
floated out into the night.
None of us felt that Dr. Schane was in
any way responsible for the girl’s
death and so the full story was not
civer to the public. The physicians pro
nounced it a case of heart failure. But
In my soul T knew better. Zif, the love
ly pallid blossom, had not found the
note of dissolution, but she had found
the vibration that would break the
silken tie that bound her spiritual body
to its earth-body.
For weeks her story and her death
haunted me. This morning I read this
hit of new? in one of the New York
papers;
"Dr. Sfh.ane, the well-known psychol
ogist died last night at St. Joseph's in-
Irmary. The doctor has been ill for
several weeks, and for a few hours be
fore his death he was delirious. In these
wild moments he talked and raved of
his cousin, Paul Devine, whom he im
agined that he had Just killed. It (will
be remembered that Paul Devine was
found dead in his office several years
ago. The mystery surrounding his death
was never fully cleaTed up. but it was
supposed to have been a case of self-
destruction. And it. seems that Dr.
Schane was devoted to his coufin, and
has never fully recovered from the
• hock of his untimely death.”
I pushed the paper aside. It is the
•• ‘finale’ ’ again,” I whispered. And as I
look out to the green of the waving
♦rees in the June sunshine I wonder if
the spirit of Zif .found the spirit of her
l eloved. and if she is happy-
Truly, I believe so.
• e ^®.«.# *•> 0 a-*- a a *•> 0 0 .«■• .*.0. 0 .*.0 0 §«. 0 *'>■■■ aaa
-a.***.a-~a-~a-~a—a— •~a-~a—a~a-*a~ —a+ a—a—a—a—a—a-» a—a—»-~* ‘ a * »
^ In the NicK of Time
Other Times, Other Morals
By C. RANDOLPH LITCHFIELD.
HRRB are. probably, many
travelers very familiar
witli the fourteen-mile
stretch between Coochlev
junction and Yalton who
are not aware that about
naif a mile in advance of
the bend—Dalton's bend, as
it is usually styled—stands
a signal, for its so hap
pens that the signal has
only once brought a train
to a stop; it generally
stands "open,” for it is
an emergency signal, intended for use
only in the event of the occurrence of
an accident such as befell in ISHS, when
a largo quantity of the side of the "cut
ting” at the bend subsided on the line,
wrecking the midnight express, which ran
into the debris at a steady thirty miles
an hour—the maximum speed allowed for
the bend- It was, indeed, this lamentable
accident that led the company to hoist
the signal in question; but as no subse
quent falls occurred at the “cutting.” the
signal had always remained at "open”
until one dark, mild night in winter.
Therefore, it came as something like
a shock to the driver of the l I :27 up-
express to see t lie red light winking
warningly to him us he ran ill?' train
down the straight from Coochley.
•Shut off. Jim!” ne cried, springing to
tho brakes. "Bed ahead!”
"So ’tls! That’s queer.” exclaimed his
stoker, looking through the window of the
cab, as he closed the valves and opened
the whistle.
The abruptness of the stop naturally
excited wonderment among the compara
tively few passengers who were London-
bound by the express, and as the stoker
and guards sprang down on to the perm
anent way to investigate the matter, a
score of inquiring heads were thrust out
of the windows, and nineteen of these
all appeared at the windows on the rear
side, as if everyone realized intuitively
that the reason of the stop was ascer
tainable on that side, as, of course, it
was.
The twentieth head was thrust out
of a first-class window on the oft s’de,
and was a woman’s; and as she leant out
she turned the handle of the door with
her right hand and held it eiiAfitly
open, as if she contemplated jumping
out.
Seeing a head appear at the window
of a compartment farther along the tra'n,
she quickly withdrew and held the door
closed. But by the light thrown on the
permanent way from the windows she al
most at once saw that the other head
disappeared, when she opened the door
wider, while her eager eyes searched the
brushwood of the plantation, which lay
on the down side of the line.
Suddenly a man leapt out from the
nut trees in the foreground and Jaslied
across the line to her carriage, clamber
ing nimbly In as she held the door back
of him.
’T>one!" he panted .Immediately drop-
beneath the seat. “Quick!” he said, as
she. closed the door. “Sit down and
spread your rug so ns to screen me."
She dropped weakly upon the seat and
threw the rug over her knees and a
portion of tho seat, then picked up a
magazine she had hitherto not opened.
“Keep quiet.” she said, in a low, trem
ulous voice, as she bent her glimmering
eyes upon a letterpress page tof the mag
azine.
’’Y'ou’re a brick! I knew you wouldn’t
fail me, if you only understood,” said
the man under the seat.
There was a long wait, for the stoker
and vanguard had gone forward to in
vestigate.
*’I suppose you didn’ think to get a
second ticket?” inquired the man. after
a long pause.
"No. Keep quiet."
Presently she heard a man on the per
manent way speaking to someone at the
window of the adjoining compartment.
He explained vaguely that the train had
been stopped by signal, but that there
did not appear to he any reason for it;
and he went forward, saying he could
see tlxe hand lamps of the stoker and
vanguard flashing down the way, as if
they were returning.
"How difl you work it. Jim?” tho
young woman asked, gently.
”1 pinned the signal arm up with an
ash stick out of the wood, so that it
should show red all the time,” came the
reply.
In a little while the man from under
the next window came running back.
“It’s all right,” he said. “They could
not find anything wror^-*liead. so they
examined the signal and discovered that
it had been tampered with. I don't
know why. of course but shouldn't be
surprised if they find later that some of
the mail hags from the rear wagen have
disappeared. Seems a likely sort of place
for a game like that, with the wood
across there so handy.
In a minute or two the engine whistled
and the train started. It crawled cau
tiously round the bend, when the driver
eveidently resolved to pick up some of
the los time. And when the train had
“set” into a speed of about forty-five
miles an hour the man under the seat
crept out from hiding, and, throwing
himself beside the young woman, took
her in his arms.
"What does it mean. Jim?” she askol,
drawing back from his kisses, and look
ing with anxious tenderness into his
handsome face.
“It moans flight, dearest, and this is
the only way I could safely attempt it,”
ho answered, releasing her. "Did you
bring those things?”
"Yes, in my bag,” she replied, nod
ding toward the luggage rack.
“Did you chance to bring anything to
eat?" he inquired, taking down the hag
and opening it. “Thank heaven, yes!
Good for ywu, darling! I haven’t tasted
food for nearly thirty Hours; I have
been hung up In that plantation for—
since daybreak.”
He drew a little packet of sandwiches
from the bag and hungrily took a bite at
them, while at the same time he turned
out the other contents of the hag and
talked, niot very distln ;ly. but very
rapidly and tersely.
There was an air of e: ty comradeship
which pronounced them to be man and
wife.
"Of course. I know you got my letter,
or you would not be here, darling,” he
said. "It was a bit of a problem how to
get it to you, and I could not have man
aged without you. Jt's like this. I was.
coming down from town, to see you yes
terday morning, when I happened to read
in the paper I got at the station—an
early evening paper—tiiat poor old Andler
had been murdered in his office at the
works and his safe rifled aTld robbed of
the plans of the new submarine. The re
port left no doubt in my mind that I was
suspected of 'the crime, and my disap
pearance the evening before certainly
gave some color to the theory, for I left
my lodgings and the works without say
ing where I was going. Of course, I can
ex.plain all that. But the point is that
the police are looking for me every
where; the report concluded with the
description of a man the police were
looking for. and, thougn no names were
mentioned, there can he no doubt the
man is myself, and if I am arrested—”
“You, Jim? How awful!”
“Yes. If I am arrested those plans will
he sold to a foreign power before I can
defend myself, and every penny I and
poor old * Andler have sunk in the ex
periments and laying down new plant
will be losf. I shall he ruined, and the
works will never get another government
contract. But I think I know where those
plans are. I have had a faint suspicion
for some time that Brait, a chap in the
estimating office, is not quite straight,
and I've known him to have letters from
Germany, which he has been very secre
tive about. Now. my belief is that Brait
returned to the works the other night,
after I had left, to steal the plans, and
was discovered by old Andler, whom he
murdered. There seems to be no doubt
in anybody’s mind that the murder was
committed In order to obtain the plans.”
He sprang up with a pair of seslsors
in his hand, and. turning to one of the
long mirrors let into the walls of t'he
compartment, began clipping off his mus
tache.
She jumped up and seized his arm.
‘‘Oil, Jim, don’t!” she exclaimed.
“i must disguise myself somehow.
Aline," he returned. "The matter's as
serious as it can be. I am not only
making a bid to avert our ruin, but per
haps to save myself from the hang
man’s noose. Who knowsr Who can
guess the amount of circumstantial evi
dence that may be adduced against me?
I cannot trust the police 'to look to the
matter as promptly and energetically as
it needs; I must do it myself, for the
fact that I was thet. prisoner would
prejudice them against my theory, and
direc'tly Brait heard thhv <ney had pinned
me he would feel safe to dispose of the
plans, and when once they were out of
his hands, who could say that they had
not passed out of mine? The difficulty
of establishing my innocence would be
trebled and we should be ruined. Give
me that vaseline and the safety razor,
will you. darling?”
Dazed 'by realizing the gravity of his
■position, she complied silently, and he
quickly proceeded to give his upper lip
Continued on Last Page.
By CHARLES MARRIATT.
O have another kidney. Har
old; they’re so nice," said
■Mrs. Pontifex, holding the
little silver dish insinuat
ingly under her husband's
nose. He looked up from
t'he letter he was reading.
“A—um—well, d’you
|5| Bj jM know, I rather think I
I will.” he said, and helped
I I himself to the savory mor-
| E sel, while his wife leaned
■■auaMS one hand affectionately on
his shoulder.
“From the Canon, dear?” she asked,
softening her voice reverently as she
■glanced at the crested notepaper in his
hand.
“Yes, my love." said Pontifex. pushing
away the dish with a vague movement,
while keeping his eyes fixed on the let
ter.
Mre. Pontifex kissed the tiny bald spot
on the top of her husband's head. He
winced a little, and put up his hair over
the place. His wife, moving noiselessly
over the thick carpet, sat down behind
tlie elaborately appointed coffee tray.
“Won’t you read it to me, Doodlums?”
she asked, calling him by his pet name,
over her cup.
"Er—yes, if you like,” he said, with *
little deprecating laugh.
“ ‘My dear Mr. Pontifex,’ ” he read
aloud, ” ‘I could not rest content with a
merely verbal expression of my gratitude
■for your extreme generosity in giving
your services to the bazar in aid of our
new Clergy house. Not often do the in
habitants of a remote country parish have
the opportunity of hearing the master
pieces of English literature interpreted by
one of the foremost dramatic artists of
the day. It would be presumptoous of
me. to say more than how deeply I en
joyed your recitations—(particularly "1'nto
This Last” with organ accompaniment.
I, for one. am not ashamed to say that at
the conclusion of the piece my eyts were
not innocent of tears. One seemed to al
most hear through the open gates a waft
of the angelic music which’—er—h’m. “It
is, a blessing and a comfort to realize
that even in these days there is, at least,
on e man standing In the public eye who
both in his art and in his life rallies to
the. banner of the old faith, and bears
witness to the sanctity of the English
home. Trusting that your dear wife, to
whom commend me, was none the worse
for her cold journey back to London,
yours very sincerely, Herbert Langley
Saunders.’ ”
"What a very nice letter. Hluold,”
said Mrs. Pontifex, with tears in her
eyes.
There was a reason for her emotion
beyond t'he actual words of the Canon's
letter. During the early days of their
married life, when Pontifex was a tour
ing actor, he had not shown that en
thusiasm for the sanctity of the English
home which so impressed his present cor
respondent. He complained that his wife
was unsympathetic; she retorted that it
was difficult to keep a blind faith in the
sacred cause of art when a considerable
portion of the artist’s earnings were de
voted to the entertainment of his col
leagues—while she herself needed a new
•pair of boots.
For some years the Pontifexos did not
live together. Then, almost by accident,
Pontifex Hit upon his peculiar talent as
an interpreter of What might be called
•'Pieces with a strong domestio and re
ligions flavor.” Success ifollowed. and the
Pontifexes were not the first couple to dis_
cover that compatibility of temperament
depends to a considerable degree on mate
rial circumstances.
So they came together again, and with
regular meals, his more exalted aspira
tions died away, wnile her faith in him
and in art was supported by a steadily-
increasing balance at the bankers.
Pontifex was a tall, romantic-looking
man of about thirty-five, with wavy black
hair and mustache, and melancholy brown
eyes. Though Jje was not too stout, his
figure gave the impression of being re
tained only by the strenuous use of me
chanical devices, and his white face had
the peculiar opacity whtc.h comes from
habitual good living. Mrs. Pontifex was
the type of woman one calls a sensible lit
tle body.
While consuming his meal with slow
enjoyment, Pontifex continued to open and
read his letters. There was a little bun
dle of press cuttings, an invitation to
speaik at the forthcoming church con
gress on “The Influence of the Dream;”
a request for an Interview from the
“Ingle-Nodk;” a letter from a countess
(asking his terms for an evening, "you'll
forgive these business details, my dear
Mr. Pontifex”—and, last of all. a small
envelope with black edges, addressed in a
hand he seemed to remember.
The Inclosed letter began without pre
liminaries, and ran: “As you will see, I
am In London. Will you meet me at
Charing Cross by the bookstall where
the boat train starts, at half-past one on
Thursday? I have something important
to tell you—Muriel Image.”
Pontifex remembered Muriel Image
very well. She belonged to the strug
gling days—only six years ago— when he
e-mployed his too frequent intervals of
“resting” by teaching elocution. To Mu
riel Image he haid poured out the aspira
tions of his fiery soul t'he story of hs
lunhappy life with a woman who did not
appreciate his genius, and Muriel, at
least, had—sympathized. But not to the
extent he then demanded. For soma
scruple she had remained firm, though
she admitted that she loved him.
“What is jt. dear?” asked Mrs. Ponti
fex, rather anxiously.
"Only a begging letter,” he repliei.
adding, with commendable ingenuity,
"from one of the old boys who is down
on his luck.”
Addressed through his old agent, the
letter had reached him considerably
later than the writer intended, and to
day was already Thursday. There was
no time to reply, anld Pontifex did not
like to ignore it altogether.
Though, at the cost of his digestion.
■Pontifex reached the meeting place two
minutes before the half hour. Muriel Im
age was there already.
She came forw'ard. a tall, graceful girl
in mourning, pale to the lips with ex
citement, but with a passionate look of
welcome in her dark eyes, moist with
'happy tears.
“Harold,” she said, holding out both
her hands.
After this interval of time, his name
sounded improperly familiar on her lips,
a.nd he rather stiffly gave her his hand,
from which he had forgotten to remove
the thick, lined glove.
“Well, Muriel,” he said, in a tone and
with a smile that he fancied paternal.
“My mother died six weeks ago; so
that I—” She did not finish the sen
tence, hut colored deeply.
“I’m so sorry,” murmured Pontife.x—
and he was. He remembered her scruple
now.
•‘It’s not for myself, dear," she had
said, when he bogged her to share his
life. “I've no silly prejudices. But my
mother has quite conventional ideas, and
—anything of that sort—would break her
heart.”
"Well,” he said, now looking ner
vously round the platform, ’’shall we go
somewhere out of the cold?”
“Oh, but have we time?” she saia.
glancing up at the clock and away with
emba rrassment.
“Just as you like,” he said, in no desire
to prolong the interview unnecessarily.
There was an awkward silence, and he
wondered how he could remind her of
the important news she spoke of in her
note.
"You’re looking very well,” she said,
a little regretfully.
"Oh. I'm well enough,” he admitted,
with a sigh.
“She is still—?”
“I’m still married,” he said gravely;
adding with imperfect regard for lu
cidity, “in name only.”
She understood him, however.
"You make me very glad," she mur
mured, laying her hand for a moment on
his arm.
“Do I?” he murmured.
“Dear, cageiT eagle! Of course. I've
heard of your success. it’s not—quite—
what I expected. ’’But,’’ she said with
a little appreciative chuckle, "how weli
you do it! I often think that if these
solemn Philistines could look into your
heart! Well, i suppose it has to be
done?”
’’One must live,” he said, gloomily,
“and fulfill one's obligations. ’
"She is extravagant?" she asked, flush
ing angrily.
“Oh, well,” he replied, tolerantly,
“one gets the luck one deserves.”
"Do you ever see her?” she muttered.
Ho nodded sadly. "Sometimes.”
“How awful, Harold!”
“Come,” he said, with a hoarse note in
his voice, "tell me about yourself. Are
you in the profession?”
•T was a rank failure,” she said, with
a laugh. “Then 1 went to Germany, i
took a situation with some people who
wanted a companion. I had to read
aloud—I owed that to you, Harold. I
was not unhappy tnere. When my
mother became very ill, I was tele
graphed for—I was just in time * • *
Now, I’m comparatively—there will be
no need for me to go back to Germany.
They walked a few steps in silence
"Property invested, I trust""
ab3ent-mlndedly.
“Oh. Harold, how funny
Continued on Fifth Page,