Chrissalyn had been insistent that nothing be told, and Cartice was obliged to yield to her ruling on this point, and also saw the necessity for it, but longed fervently to gather in many dwelling in darkness and share her light with them. Why hide it under the bushel of timidity? Was not all the world searching for that which had come in beautiful simplicity and generous fulness to her? How grateful others would be to know what she knew? She was humbly, profoundly grateful, and of course they, too, would be.
After a time this pent-up fountain began to overrun its borders and trickle its way to other ears. When she heard people bewailing the difficult and cruel conditions under which they suffered, she could not help giving of her inexhaustible store of comfort. She must say to them, “These things are unreal and of no moment. Your true life is above and beyond them always, and is of unlimited possibilities here and hereafter.”
And when they wept because of some slain lamb, she said, “He is not dead; he never died and never shall die. This is an appearance only, an illusion. There is no death. Life goes on, on, without end, I know it.”
In order that they might believe and be comforted, she related the experiences on which her assurances were based, leaving out Chrissalyn’s name, of course.
She met the fate of all who have lovingly tried to set poor, ignorant humanity free from its self-imposed chains. She was stoned.
Some heard her with tolerant pity, as we humor weak-minded people by pretending to accept their statements and vagaries, but turned from the subject as quickly as they could. Not a few sneered openly, and with the brutal frankness of small and self-satisfied minds coarsely expressed their contempt for her credulity. Others patronizingly said they believed in her honesty, but were positive she was being deceived. Still others shrugged their shoulders in disgust, saying that they loathed the “supernatural,” and would none of it. This benighted class labels their dead with that obnoxious word and shoves them out of mind as quickly as possible. Some of the contemptible creatures who advertise their lack of intelligence and breeding by putting their hands over their mouth when they talk to hide their impolite and ignorant grinning, could not listen to Cartice with naked lips at all. But perhaps she was most astonished at the “conventional believers who disbelieve,” those who accept all the spirit manifestations described in the book of their faith, yet reject everything modern that helps to prove the truth of them.
Some listened to her story and then asked the surprising, the astounding question: “What good can come of it all, even if it be true?” If the dead did not come to tell them how to make fortunate financial speculations, or whom they are destined to marry, they saw no use in their coming at all.
Here and there Mrs. Doring encountered some who took interest in her revelations as a matter of curiosity, and wanted to gratify their love of wonder-mongering, by seeing Planchette at work.
A few, a sacred few, gave reverent ear, and were eager to learn all they could of the marvelous and mysterious thing called life; but these had become as little children—receptive, and therefore were prepared to enter the kingdom of knowledge, which is heaven.
But, alas! for the unfortunate many who cannot be enlightened, because they are already wise in their own conceit. Having lived here a score or two of years they fancy they know all the Creator’s plans and purposes and can learn no more. At the door of their mind they post a sentinel armed with a club, whose duty it is to beat and drive away any stray angel in the guise of a thought or idea that may wander near.