“Chrissalyn, dear Chrissalyn, you have always been a blessing and a comfort to me; but now you have opened the whole universe to me; you have given me light—the brightest light that can come to any one. That scrawling line tells me more than any volume ever printed could. It is from an old-time friend, who died soon after I last saw him, one who loved me well. His name was Westfield, but because of his fondness for quoting from Moore in political speeches, and what the slang of newspaper offices calls ‘fine writing,’ his chums dubbed him, ‘Gaily, the Troubadour,’ and by this affectionate nickname one of his old comrades frequently addressed him in my presence. And he named me a tall young pine. You knew none of this, for I am sure I never told you about him. Therefore it cannot have been taken from your mind, neither can it have been drawn from mine, for I never thought of him. If I had any one in mind, it was Prescott, because you had dreamed of Prescott in connection with Planchette, and because I have wondered so much about him since he went away—wondered in what part of the universe his dauntless spirit has found action, or if he is at all. Yet I scarcely dared hope even for him, for there was the possibility that death was the end of everything. I had no proof to the contrary.”
The Butterfly was a trifle dazed by the emotion of her friend, who was usually so self-possessed. Even by the light of her explanation she could scarcely take it in. The subject of death, no matter how treated, was repugnant to her. Even proof that death was not death had but little interest for her. Of course there was something afterward. Everybody knew that. Wasn’t it all set down in the books somewhere, straight enough? But what was the use of dwelling on a subject that had so many unpleasant features in it? Or why delve after the facts in regard to it? That was her manner of dealing with this mighty question. What attracted her was life—yes, life, poor, cramped, hard and ugly as some of it had been for her, still she loved it, found joy in it, craved it and its material pleasures and never wanted to be reminded that it had an end. A new gown could arouse her enthusiasm, and a flashing jewel give her supreme pleasure; but death, ugh! who wanted to talk of so gruesome an event? Dead people lived somewhere, as a matter of course, but wasn’t it best to let them alone in their own place wherever it is, and have nothing to do with them?
This is a curious attitude of mind toward a subject of more importance to us than any other, yet thousands of presumably intelligent people think the same. They want the dead treated like dangerous criminals, although their nearest and dearest may be of them. They shut them away with relentless cruelty, doing their best to put them out of their very thoughts. In this way they slay them more effectually than Death himself has slain them. Resistlessly they move on to the same end themselves, yet zealously refuse to learn aught of what that end may be. Astonishing mental darkness and indolence, but alas! not uncommon.
It was some time before Cartice recovered self-possession and induced her friend to go on with the experiment. But the chain was broken, Planchette refused to move again.
Still, Mrs. Doring had enough to dwell upon. Late into the night she lay awake, thinking of it, marveling at it and rejoicing in the new light that had come to her. True, it was a little thing, perhaps, or might appear so to those who are ever ready to make havoc of whatever differs from the usual and accepted, but its possibilities might be limitless, and already it had expanded her world into infinity.
Whatever the intelligence that acted through Planchette might be, it was subject to a law in its manifestations, of which as yet she knew next to nothing. For more light thereon she must study by experiment. Simple as this law appeared to be in its operations, it was mighty in its results, since it annihilated space and destroyed death, the last and greatest enemy whose destruction has long been foretold. But are not all nature’s laws astonishingly simple, when understood? So simple that the searcher after knowledge, filled with delusion that it was afar off on inaccessible heights, for ages passed them by, trod them under foot, touched them at every turn, yet found them not.
A few evenings later the two friends were ready to begin the fascinating work of experimenting with Planchette, the Butterfly’s tiny hand resting on its heart-shaped back, inviting it to action. Was ever priestess of the occult so emphatically a creature of worldly attributes as she? Her pretty face, soft, fair hair, slight, graceful figure modishly attired, and gentle bearing conveyed no suggestion of power to reveal hidden mysteries.
In silence they waited a little while, Planchette as still as could be. Then, unexpectedly it whirled away at a startling pace, with a force well-nigh resistless. When it reached the end of the paper, which completely covered the table, they picked it up and carried it back to the place of beginning, the hand of the pretty priestess was replaced, and it went on at tearing speed, until its message was finished. Then they looked and saw this in big, firm chirography:
“Love laughs at Death as well as at locksmiths—Pagan.”
Cartice read it aloud with a whitening face and staring eyes.