nypl. RESEArach Libraries nº-. | cae oo " *** Čº < DEDICATION Whatever the defects or limitations of this story, I can assure my readers that it is largely based on truth. Many of the incidents, including the dual personality phenomena, were suggested by actual happenings known to me. The doctor who accomplishes cures by occult methods is a friend of mine, who lives and practises in New York City. Seraphine, the medium, is also a real person. The episode that is explained by waves of terror passing from one apartment to another and separately affecting three unsuspecting persons is not imaginary, but drawn from an almost identical happening that I, myself, witnessed in Paris, France. And the truth about women that I have tried to tell has been largely obtained from women themselves, women in various walks of life, who have been kind enough to give me most of the opinions and experiences that are contained in Penelope's diary. To them I now gratefully dedicate this book. C. M. CONTENTS PRologue Chapter I. Voices II. WHAT PENElope Could Not TELL THE Doctor III. A Bowl of Gold Fish IV. Five PURPLE MARKs - - - W. WHAT REALLY HAPPENED AT THE STUDIO VI. EARTH-Bound VII. Jewels VIII. WHITE SHAPEs . - IX. THE ConfessionAL CLUB . X. FAUveTTE - XI. THE Evil SPIRIT XII. X K C - - - - - - XIII. TERROR . . . . . . . . . XIV. Possessed XV. DR. LeRoy XVI. IRResponsible HANDs . XVII. THE Hour of The DREAM XVIII. PLAYING witH FIRE XIX. PRIDE XX. The MIRAcle XXI. THE TRUTH About WoMEN THAT Nobody Tells . . . EPILOGUE . . . . . . . . PAGE I8 42 46 53 62 7o 8o 90 Io9 III II5 I28 I42 I49 I61 179 I92 I99 2 IO 252 “Keep thy heart with all diligence; for out of it are the issues of life.” PRoverbs, Chapter IV, Verse 23. POSSESSED PROLOGUE (June, 1914) SCARLET LIGHTS THIS story presents the fulfillment of an extraordi- nary prophecy made one night, suddenly and dramati- cally, at a gathering of New Yorkers, brought together for hilarious purposes, including a little supper, in the Washington Square apartment of Bobby Vallis—her full name was Roberta. There were soft lights and low divans and the strumming of a painted ukulele that sang its little twisted soul out under the caress of Pene- lope's white fingers. I can still see the big black opal in its quaint setting that had replaced her wedding ring and the yellow serpent of pliant gold coiled on her thumb with two bright rubies for its eyes. Penelope Wells! How little we realized what sinister forces were playing about her that pleasant evening as we smoked and jested and sipped our glasses, gazing from time to time up the broad vista of Fifth Avenue with its lines of receding lights. There had been an impromptu session of the Con- fessional Club during which several men, notably a I 2 POSSESSED poet in velveteen jacket, had vouchsafed sentimental or matrimonial revelations in the most approved Green- wich Village style. And the ladies, unabashed, had discussed these things. But not a word did Penelope Wells speak of her own matrimonial troubles, which were known vaguely to most of us, although we had never met the drunken brute of a husband who had made her life a torment. I can see her now in profile against the open window, her eyes dark with their slumberous fires. I remember the green earrings she wore that night, and how they reached down under her heavy black braids—reached down caressingly over her white neck. She was a strangely, fiercely beautiful creature, made to love and to be loved, fated for tragic happenings. She was twenty-nine. The discussion waxed warm over the eternal ques- tion—how shall a woman satisfy her emotional nature when she has no chance or almost no chance to marry the man she longs to marry? Roberta Vallis put forth views that would have frozen old-fashioned moralists into speechless dis- approval—entire freedom of choice and action for women as well as men, freedom to unite with a mate or separate from a mate—both sexes to have exactly the same responsibilities or lack of responsibilities in these sentimental arrangements. “No, no! I call that loathsome, abominable,” de- clared Penelope, and the poet adoringly agreed with her, although his practice had been notoriously at variance with these professions. 4. POSSESSED to be a rather commonplace person except that her deeply sunken eyes seemed to carry a far away ex- pression as if she saw things that were invisible to others. Now her eyes were fixed on Penelope. “Oh, the beautiful scarlet light!” she murmured. “There ! Don't you see—moving down her arm? And another one—on her shoulder! Scarlet lights l My poor child! My poor child!” Ordinarily we would have laughed at this, for, of course, we saw no scarlet lights, but somehow now we did not laugh. On the contrary we fell into hushed and wondering attention, and, turning to Roberta, we learned that this was Seraphine, a trance medium who had given séances for years to scientists and occult investigators, and was now assisting Dr. W. , of the American Occult Society. “A séancel Magnificent! Let us have a séancel” whispered the poet. “Tell us, madam, can you really lift the veil of the future?” But already Seraphine had settled back on the divan and I saw that her eyes had closed and her breathing was quieter, although her body was shaken from time to time by little tremors as if she were recovering from some great agitation. We watched her wonderingly, and presently she began to speak, at first slowly and painfully, then in her natural tone. Her message was so brief, so startling in its purport that there can be no question of any error in this record. “Penelope will—cross the ocean,” Seraphine began dreamily. “Her husband will die—very soon. There will be war—soon. She will go to the war and will º CHAPTER I (January, 1919) VOICES Penelope moved nervously in her chair, evidently very much troubled about something as she waited in the doctor's office. Her two years in France had added a touch of mystery to her strange beauty. Her eyes were more veiled in their burning, as if she had glimpsed something that had frightened her; yet they were eyes that, even unintentionally, carried a message to men, an alluring, appealing message to men. With her red mouth, her fascinatingly unsymmetrical mouth, and her sinuous body Penelope Wells at thirty-three was the kind of woman men look at twice and remem- ber. She was dressed in black. When Dr. William Owen entered the front room of his Ninth Street office he greeted her with the rough kindliness that a big man in his profession, a big- hearted man, shows to a young woman whose case interests him and whose personality is attractive. “I got your note, Mrs. Wells,” he began, “and I had a letter about you from my young friend, Captain Herrick. I needn't say that I had already read about your bravery in the newspapers. The whole country 6 VOICES 7 has been sounding your praises, When did you get back to New York?” “About a week ago, doctor. I came on a troop ship with several other nurses. I—I wish I had never come.” There was a note of pathetic, ominous sadness in her voice. Even in his first study of this lovely face, the doctor's experienced eye told him that here was a case of complicated nervous breakdown. He wondered if she could have had a slight touch of shell shock. What a ghastly thing for a high spirited, sensitive young woman to be out on those battle fields in France! “You mustn't say that, Mrs. Wells. We are all very proud of you. Think of having the croix de guerre pinned on your dress by the commanding gen- eral before a whole regiment! Pretty fine for an American woman ſ” Penelope Wells sat quite still, playing with the flex- ible serpent ring on her thumb, and looked at the doctor out of her wonderful deep eyes that seemed to burn with a mysterious fire. Could there be something Oriental about her—or—or Indian, the physician wondered. “Doctor,” she said, in a low tone, “I have come to tell you the truth about myself, and the truth is that I deserve no credit for what I did that day, be- cause I—I did not want to live. I wanted them to kill me, I took every chance so that they would kill me; but God willed it differently, the shells and bullets swept all around me, cut through my dress, through my hair, but did not harm me.” POSSESSED PROLOGUE (June, 1914) SCARLET LIGHTS THIs story presents the fulfillment of an extraordi- nary prophecy made one night, suddenly and dramati- cally, at a gathering of New Yorkers, brought together for hilarious purposes, including a little supper, in the Washington Square apartment of Bobby Vallis—her full name was Roberta. There were soft lights and low divans and the strumming of a painted ukulele that sang its little twisted soul out under the caress of Pene- lope's white fingers. I can still see the big black opal in its quaint setting that had replaced her wedding ring and the yellow serpent of pliant gold coiled on her thumb with two bright rubies for its eyes. Penelope Wells! How little we realized what sinister forces were playing about her that pleasant evening as we smoked and jested and sipped our glasses, gazing from time to time up the broad vista of Fifth Avenue with its lines of receding lights. There had been an impromptu session of the Con- fessional Club during which several men, notably a I EPILOGUE 5 have honors conferred upon her—on the battlefield. She will—she will,”—the medium's face changed startlingly to a mask of anguish and her bosom heaved. “Oh, my poor child ! I see you—I see you going down to—to horror—to terror—Ah!” She cried out in fright and stopped speaking; then, after a moment of dazed effort, she came back to reality and looked at us as before out of her sunken eyes, a plump little kindly faced woman resting against a blue pillow. Now, whatever one may think of mediums, the facts are that Penelope's husband died suddenly in an auto- mobile accident within a month of this memorable evening. And within two months the great war burst upon the world. And within a year Penelope did cross the ocean as a Red Cross Nurse, and it is a matter of record that she was decorated for valor under fire of the enemy. This story has to do with the remainder of Sera- phine’s prophecy. '8 POSSESSED “Tell me a little more about it, just quietly. How did you happen to go out there? Was it because you heard that Captain Herrick was wounded? That's the way the papers cabled the story. Was that true?” Then, seeing her face darken, he added: “Perhaps I ought not to ask that question?” “Oh, yes, I want you to. I want you to know every- thing about me—everything. That's why I am here. Captain Herrick says you are a great specialist in nerv- ous troubles, and I have a feeling that unless you can help me nobody can.” “Well, I have helped some people who felt pretty blue about life—perhaps I can help you. Now, then, what is the immediate trouble? Any aches or pains? I must say you seem to be in splendid health,” he smiled at her with cheery admiration. “It isn't my body. I have no physical suffering. I eat well enough, I sleep well, except—my dreams. I have horrible, torturing dreams, doctor. I'm afraid to go to sleep. I have the same dreams over and over again, especially two dreams that haunt me.” “How long have you had these dreams?” “Ever since I went out that dreadful day from Mont- didier—when the Germans almost broke through. They told me Captain Herrick was lying there help- less, out beyond our lines. So I went to him. I don't know how I got there, but—I found him. He was wounded in the thigh and a German beast was stand- ing over him when I came up. He was going to run him through with a bayonet. And somehow, I–I VOICES 9 don't know how I did it, but I caught up a pistol from a dead soldier and I shot the German.” “Good Lord! You don't say! They didn't have that in the papers! What a woman l No wonder you've had bad dreams!” Penelope passed a slender hand over her eyes as if to brush away evil memories, then she said wearily: “It isn't that, they are not ordinary dreams.” “Well, what kind of dreams are they? You say there are two dreams?” “There are two that I have had over and over again, but there are others, all part of a sequence with the same person in them.” The doctor looked at her sharply. “The same per- son? A person that you recognize?” “Yes.” “A person you have really seen? A man?” “Yes, the man I killed.” “Oh 1” “I told you he was a beast. I saw that in his face, but I know it now because I dream of things that he did as a conqueror—in the villages.” “I see—brutal things?” “Worse than that. In one dream I see him—Oh!” she shuddered and the agony in her eyes was more elo- quent than words. “My dear lady, you are naturally wrought up by these dreadful experiences, you need rest, quiet sur- roundings, good food, a little relaxation—” “No, no, no,” Mrs. Wells interrupted impatiently. IO POSSESSED “Don’t tell me those old things. I am a trained nurse. I know my case is entirely different.” “How is it different? We all have dreams. I have dreams myself. One night I dreamed that I was dis- secting the janitor downstairs; sometimes I wish I had.” Penelope brushed aside this effort at humor. “You haven't dreamed that twenty times with every detail the same, have you? That's how I dream. I see these faces, real faces, again and again. I hear the same cries, the same words, vile words. Oh, I can't tell you how horrible it is l’” “But we are not responsible for our dreams,” the doctor insisted. She shook her head wearily. “That's just the point, it seems to me that I am responsible. I feel as if I enjoy these horrible dreams—while I am dreaming them. When I am awake, the very thought of them makes me shudder, but while I am dreaming I seem to be an entirely different person—a low, vulgar creature proud of the brutal strength and coarseness of her man. I seem to be a part of this human beast! When I wake up I feel as if my soul had been stained, dragged in the mire, almost lost. It seems as if I could never again feel any self-respect. Oh, doctor,” Penelope's voice broke and the tears filled her eyes, “you must help me ! I cannot bear this torture any longer! What can I do to escape from such a curse?” Seldom, in his years of practice, had the specialist been so moved by a patient's confession as was Dr. Owen during Penelope's revelation of her suffering. VOICES - II As a kindly human soul he longed to help this agonized mortal; as a scientific expert he was eager to solve the mystery of this nervous disorder. He leaned toward her with a look of compassion. “Be assured, my dear Mrs. Wells, I shall do every- thing in my power to help you. And in order to ac- complish what we want, I must understand a great many things about your past life.” He drew a letter from his pocket. “Let me look over what Captain Herrick wrote me about you. Hm! He refers to your married life?” “Yes.” The doctor studied the letter in silence. “I see. Your husband died about four years ago?” “Four years and a half.” “I judge that your married life was not very happy?” “That is true, it was very unhappy.” “Is there anything in your memory of your husband, any details regarding your married life, that may have a bearing on your present state of mind?” “I—I think perhaps there is,” she answered hesi- tatingly. “Is it something of an intimate nature that—er— you find it difficult to tell me about?” “I will tell you about it, doctor, but, if you don't mind,” she made a pathetic little gesture, “I would rather tell you at some other time. It has no bearing upon my immediate trouble, that is, I don't think it has.” “Good. We'll take that up later on. Now I want VOICES I3 Penelope bit her red lips in perplexed indecision, then she leaned nearer the doctor and spoke in a low tone, glancing nervously over her shoulder. Fear was plainly written on her face. “No-it's not just the dreams. They are horrible enough, but I have faith that you will help me get rid of them. There's something else, something more serious, more uncanny. It terrifies me. I feel that I'm in the power of some supernatural being who takes a fiendish delight in torturing me. I'm not a coward, Dr. Owen,” Penelope lifted her head proudly, “for I truly have no fear of real danger that I can see and face squarely, but the unseen, the unknown ” She broke off suddenly, a strained, listening look on her face. Then she shivered though the glowing fire in the grate was making the room almost uncomfortably Warm. “Do you mind giving me some details?” Dr. Owen spoke in his gentlest manner, for he realized that he must gain her confidence. Pentelope continued with an effort: “For several months I have heard voices about me, sometimes when no one is present, sometimes in crowds on the street, at church, anywhere. But the voices that I hear are not the voices of real persons.” “What kind of voices are they? Are they loud? Are they distinct? Or are they only vague whispers?” “They are perfectly distinct voices, just as clear as ordinary voices. And they are voices of different per- sons. I can tell them apart; but none of them are voices of persons that I have ever seen or known.” I6 POSSESSED “No, doctor, I want you to know. Captain Herrick cares for me, he loves me, he has asked me to marry him, but—I have refused him.” “But why—if you love him? Why refuse him?” “Oh, can't you see? Can't you understand? How could I think of such a thing, knowing, as I do, that something is wrong with my mind? It is quite impos- sible. Besides, there is another reason.” “Another reason?” he repeated. “It has to do with my married life. As I said I would rather tell you about that some other time—if you don't mind?” He saw that she could go no farther. “Exactly, some other time. Let us say in about two weeks. During that time my prescription for you is a rest down at Atlantic City with long walks and a dip in the pool every morning. Come back then and tell me how you feel, and don't think about those dreams and voices. But think about your past life—about those things that you find it hard to tell me. It may not be necessary to tell me provided you know the truth yourself. Will you promise that?” He smiled at her encouragingly as she nodded. “Good! Now be cheer- ful. I am not deceiving you, Mrs. Wells, I am too sensible an old timer to do that. I give you my word that these troubles can be easily handled. I really do not consider you in a serious condition. Now then, until two weeks from today. I'll make you a friendly little bet that when I see you again you'll be dreaming about flower gardens and blue skies and pretty sunsets. Good morning.” VOICES 17 He watched her closely as she turned with a sad yet hopeful smile to leave the room. “Thank you very much, doctor. I'll come back two weeks from today.” Then she was gone. For some minutes Owen sat drumming on his desk, lost in thought. “By George, that's a queer case. Her other reason is the real one. I wonder what it is?” CHAPTER II WHAT PENELOPE COULD NOT TELL THE DOCTOR (Fragments from Her Diary) Atlantic City, Tuesday. I CANNOT tell what is on my mind, I cannot tell anyone, even a doctor; but I will keep my promise and look into my past life. I will open those precious, tragic, indiscreet little volumes bound in red leather in which I have for years put down my thoughts and intimate experiences. I have always found comfort in my diary. I am thirty-three years old and for ten years, be- ginning before I was married, I have kept this record. I wrote of my unhappiness with my husband; I wrote of my lonely widowhood and of my many temptations; I wrote of my illness, my morbid cravings and hallu- CinationS. There are several of these volumes and I have more than once been on the point of burning them, but some- how I could not. However imperfectly I have ex- pressed myself and however mistaken I may be in my interpretation of life, I have at least not been afraid to speak the truth about myself and about other women I have known, and truth, even the smallest fragment of it, is an infinitely precious thing. 18 WHAT PENELOPE COULD NOT TELL 19 What a story of a woman's struggles and emotions is contained in these pages! I wonder what Dr. Owen would think if he could read them. Heavens ! How freely dare I draw upon these intimate chapters of my life? How much must the doctor know in order to help me—to save me? - Shall I reveal myself to him as I really was during those agitated years before my marriage when I faced the struggle of life, the temptations of life—an at- tractive young woman alone in New York City, earn- ing her own living? And how shall I tell the truth about my unhappy married life—the torture and degradation of it? The truth about my widowhood—those two gay years be- fore the great disaster came, when, with money enough, I let myself go in selfish pursuit of pleasure—playing with fire? As I turn over these agitated pages I feel I have tried to be honest. I rebel against hypocrisy, I hate false pretense, often I make myself out worse than I really am. In one place I find this: “There is no originality in women. They do what they see others do, they think what they are told to think—like a flock of sheep. Their hair is a joke— absurd frizzles and ear puffs that are always imitated. Their shoes are a tragedy. Their corsets are a crime. But they would die rather than change these ordered abominations. So would I. I flock with the crowd. I hobble my skirts, wear summer furs, powder my nose, wave my hair (permanently or not) according to the 2O POSSESSED commands of fashion, but I hate myself for doing it. I am a woman!” I am a woman and most women are liars—so are most men—but there is more excuse for women be- cause centuries of oppression have made us afraid to tell the truth. I try to be original by speaking the truth—part of it, at least—in this diary. On one page I find this: “The truth is that women love pursuit and are easily reconciled to capture. Why else do they deck them- selves out in finery, perfume themselves, bejewel them- selves, flaunt their charms (including decolleté charms and alluring bathing suit charms) in every possible way? I do this myself—why? I have a supple figure and I dance without corsets, or rather with only a band to hold up my stockings. I wear low cut evening gowns, the most captivating I can afford. I love to flirt. I could not live without admiration, and other women are the same. They all have something that they are vain about—eyes, nose, mouth, voice, teeth, hair, complexion, hands, feet, figure—something that they are vain about. And what is vanity but a con- sciousness of power to attract men and make other women envious? There are only two efforts that the human race take seriously (after they have fed them- selves): the effort of women to attract men, the effort of men to capture women.” Wednesday. In searching back through the years for the cause of this disaster that has brought me to the point where a woman's reason is overthrown, I see that I was al- WHAT PENELOPE COULD NOT TELL 21 ways selfish, absorbed in my own problems and vani- ties, my own disappointments, grievances, emotions. It was what I could get out of life, not what I could give, that concerned me. I was vain of my good looks. I craved admiration. Once I wrote in my diary: “I often stand before my mirror at night before I go to bed and admire my own sombre beauty. I let my hair fall in a black cloud over my shoulders, then I braid it slowly with bare arms lifted in graceful poses. I sway my hips like Carmen, I thrust red flowers into my bosom. I move my head languidly, letting my white teeth gleam between red lips. I study my profile with a hand glass, getting the double reflection. I smile and beckon with my eyes. Yes, I am a beautiful woman— primeval, elemental—I was made for love.” Again I wrote, showing that I half understood the perils that beset me: “Women are moths, they love to play with fire. They are irresistibly driven—like poor little birds that dash themselves against a lighthouse—towards the burning excitements connected with the allurement of men. They live for admiration. The besetting sin of all women is vanity; vanity is a woman's conscious- ness of her power over men.” And again: “It is almost impossible for a fascinating woman not to flirt a little—sometimes. For example, she passes a man on the street, a distinguished looking man. She does not know him, but their eyes have met in a certain way and she feels that he is attracted by her. She has WHAT PENELOPE COULD NOT TELL 23 are almost certain to lead them into temptation. They will not start an emotional episode that may easily, as they know quite well, have a dangerous ending. But I am always ready to start, confident that my self- control will save me from any immediate disaster. And so far it always has. How earnestly Seraphine sounded her warning. I wrote down her words and promised to heed them: “Remember, dear, that emotional desire deliberately aroused in ‘harmless flirtations' and then deliberately repressed is an offense against womanhood, a menace to the health, and a degradation to the soul.” t - Thursday night. I am horribly sad tonight—lonely—discouraged. The doctor wants to know about my married life, about my husband. Why was I unhappy? Why is any woman unhappy? Because her love is trampled on, degraded—the spiritual part of it unsatisfied. Women are made for love and without love life means nothing to them. Women are naturally finer than men, they aspire more strongly to what is beautiful and spiritual, but their souls can be coarsened, their love can be killed. They can be driven—they have been driven for centuries (through fear of men) into lies and deceits and sensuality or pretence of sensuality. The great tragedy of the world is sensuality, and it may exist between man and wife just as much as between a man and a paid woman. I don't know whether the Bible condemns sensuality between man and wife, but it ought to. I remember a story by 24 POSSESSED Tolstoy in which the great moralist strips off our mask of hypocrisy and shows the hideous evil that results when a man and a woman degrade the holy sacrament of marriage. That is not love, but a perversion of love. How can God bless a union in which the wife is expected to conduct herself like a wanton or lose her husband? And she loses him anyway, for sensuality in a man inevitably leads him to promiscuousness. I know this to my sorrowl Perhaps I am morbid. Perhaps I see life too clearly, know it too well. I do not want to be cynical or bitter. Oh, if only those old days of faith and trust could come back to me! When I think of what I was before I married Julian I see that I was almost like a child in my ignorance of the animal side of man's nature. . . . x: :: x: Friday. Dr. Owen thinks my trouble is shell shock, but he is mistaken. I have taken care of too many shell shock cases not to recognize the symptoms. Can I ever for- get that darling soldier boy from Maryland who mis- took me for his mother? “They're coming! They're coming!” he screamed one night; you could hear him all over the hospital. Then he jumped out of bed like a wild man—it took two orderlies and an engineer to get him back under the covers. I can see his poor wasted face when the little doctor came to give him a hypodermic. There he lay panting, groaning: “Oh those guns! Oh those guns! They break my ears!” Then he sprang up again, his eyes starting out of his 26 POSSESSED I sit cross-legged on the floor with my feet on a red and gold cushion and rotate my waist like an oriental dancer. I stand on my head and hands and curve my body to right and left in graceful flexings. I do this no matter how cold it is. I do not feel the cold, for I am all aglow with health and strength. Then, before my bath, I do dumbbell exercises in front of the mirror. I remember dining with my husband one night in a pink lace peignoir—we had been married about three years—and during the dessert, I excused myself and went into my bedroom and, posing before a cheval glass, I let the peignoir slip off my shoulders, and stood there like a piece of polished marble, rejoicing in my youth and loveliness! How I hated my husband that night! He had taught me to drink. He had made me sensual. He had not yet assumed the coarse, red-faced brutich as- pect that he wore later, but he had a coarse, red-faced brutish soul. Alas! his body was still fine enough to tempt me. And his mind was devilishly clever enough to captivate my fancy. He took away my faith, even my faith in motherhood. That was why I chiefly hated him. For three years my husband disgusted me with his unfaithfulness. No woman was too high or too low, too refined or too ignorant, for his passing fancy, if only she had physical attractiveness—just a little physi- cal attractiveness. Anything for variety, shop girl or duchess, kitchen maid or society leader, they were all the same to Julian. He confessed to me that he once WHAT PENELOPE COULD NOT TELL 29 not say that men are a pack of wolves, but—I had such a heart-breaking experience, especially in my brief musical career. I might have had a small part in grand opera at the Metropolitan Opera House, New York City, so one particular musical wolf assured me, if I would show a little sympathy with his desire to assist me in some of the rôles—occasional private rehearsals, and so on. Oh, the beast ! . . . He gave the part to another girl (her voice did not compare with mine) who was less particular, and she made her début the next season. I went to work at Wana- maker's store!” And still men pursued me. I find this entry: “Roberta took me to dinner yesterday at the Lafa- yette with her friend Mr. G , a man of sixty, red- faced, fat and prosperous, the breezy Westerner type. He is giving a grand party at Sherry's and wants me to come. I said I was afraid I couldn't, my real rea- son being that I have no dress that is nice enough. He said nothing at the time, but kept his eyes on me, and this evening, when I got home, there was a per- fectly stunning dinner gown—it must have cost $250. —with a note from Mr. G begging me to accept it as I would a flower, since it meant absolutely noth- ing to him. “How I longed to keep that gown! I think I should have kept it if Seraphine had not happened in. “‘Isn't this lovely?' I said, holding it up. “Do you think I can accept it?' Then I told her what Mr. G had said. 3O POSSESSED “She looked at me out of her kind, wise eyes. “‘Do you like him?” “‘Well—rather.’ “‘Is he married or unmarried?' “‘I think he's married.” “‘Is he the man who gave Roberta her sables?" “‘Y-yes,” I admitted. “She looked at me again. “‘I can't decide for you, Pen; you must settle it with your own conscience; but I am sure of one thing, that, if you accept this dress, you will pay for it, and probably pay much more than it is worth.” “It ended in my sending the gown gack and missing the dinner party, which made Mr. G furious, he blamed Roberta for my resistance, and a little later he threw her over. Like most men of that type who promise women wonderful things, he was hard, sel- fish and exacting—a cold-blooded sensualist. And poor Roberta, indolent and luxurious, was obliged to go back to work—up at seven and on her feet all day for twenty dollars a week. She had been spend- ing twenty dollars a day ! “What is a woman to conclude from all this?” I wrote despairingly. “I know there are decent men in the world; there are employers who would never think of becoming unduly interested in their good-looking women assistants, who would never intimate that they had any claim upon the evenings of pretty stenographers or secretaries; there are law- yers who would never force odious attentions upon an attractive woman whose divorce case they might WHAT PENELOPE COULD NOT TELL 31 be handling—"Dear lady, how about a little din- ner and a cabaret show tonight?”—There are old friends of the family, serious middle-aged men who would never take advantage of a young woman's weakness or distress; but, oh dear God! there are so many others who have no decency, no heart! A woman is desperate and must confide in someone. She has lost her position and is struggling to find another. She craves innocent pleasure—music, the theatre, the dance. She is so horribly lonely. Help me, counsel me, she pleads to some man whom she trusts—any man, the average man. Does he help her? Yes, on one condition, that she use her power as a woman. Not otherwise. This is a great mystery to women— how men, who are naturally kind, can be so cruel, so persistent, so infernally clever in forcing women to use their power for their own undoing.” - sk >k :k Tuesday. Here is an interesting thing that Kendall Brown once said on this subject—I recorded it in my diary along with other sayings of this erratic Greenwich Village poet and philosopher: “The sex power of women is the most formidable power ever loosed upon earth,” he declared one eve- ning. “Thrones totter before it. Captains of industry forget their millions in its presence. Cherchez la fem- me/ This terrible power is possessed by every dark- eyed siren in a Second Avenue boarding house, by every languishing, red-lipped blonde earning eighteen 32 POSSESSED dollars a week in a department store. And she knows it! Others have vast earthly possessions, stores of science, palaces of art, knowledge without end—she has a tresor that makes baubles of these—she is the custodian of life, she has the eternal life power.” How true that is l Again I wrote: “It may be argued that women are willing victims of this man conspiracy, I say no/ Every woman in her heart iongs to love one man, to give herself to one man, to be true to one man. Even the unfortunate in the streets, if she receives just a little kindness, if she has only half a chance and is encouraged to right living by some decent fellow, will go through fire and water to show her gratitude and devotion. But men give women no chance. They pluck the roses in the garden and trample them under foot. Here is the great tragedy of modern life—men wish to change from one woman to another, whereas women do not wish to change. A characteristic sex difference between men and women is that men are naturally promiscuous, but women abhor the thought of promiscuousness.” sk :k +: Sunday. A wave of repulsion runs over me as I quickly turn the pages of my life with Julian. And then a faint whisper comes to me: “The truth, you have promised to tell it—at least to your own soul.” The truth / 34 POSSESSED “I began this a week ago in agony of soul when I tried to set down my feelings about a horrible night with Julian, but I could not. He has been drinking —drinking for weeks—neglecting his business, break- ing all his promises to me. What can I do? How can I help him, strengthen him, keep him from doing some irrevocable thing that will utterly destroy our home and make me lose him? In spite of his weak- ness, his neglect, his faithlessness, I cannot bear the thought of losing him. My pride is involved and— and something else! “He had not come home for dinner that night and it was ten o'clock when I heard the door slam. Julian came into the living room and as soon as I saw him my heart sank. He dropped into a chair without speaking. “‘Tired, dear?' I said, trying to smile a welcome. “‘Dead beat,” he sighed and stared moodily into the fire. “I went to him and rested my hand lightly on his head and smoothed back his hair as he liked me to do. He jerked away. “‘Wish you'd let me alone,’ he muttered fretfully. “I drew back, knowing what this irritability meant, and we sat in silence gazing into the glowing ashes. His fingers beat a nervous tattoo against the chair and presently, with some mumbled words, he rose and moved towards the door. Now I knew the fight was on, the fight with the Demon, drink, that was drawing him away from me. I followed him into the hall. WHAT PENELOPE COULD NOT TELL 35 “‘Don’t go,' I pleaded, but he pushed my hand. from the door-knob. “‘I’ll be back soon,' he said, reaching for his hat. “‘Wait!' I whispered. Deep within I breathed a prayer: ‘Brave heart, have courage; nimble wit, be alert; warm, white body hold him fast.’ “‘Come back . . . before the fire . . . I want to talk to you,' I leaned against him caressingly, but I could feel no response as I nestled closer. “‘Don’t you care for me any more?' I questioned tenderly. “He was still unyielding, his brain was busy with the thought of the brown liquor that his whole sys- tem craved. Purposely I drew back my flowing sleeve and placed my warm flesh against his face. He turned to his old seat before the fire. “‘All right, I'll stay for ten minutes . . . if what you say is important.” “When he was once more comfortable, I brought a cushion to his chair and snuggled down at his feet, with my head resting against him. I drew his half reluctant hand around my throat, then I exerted every part of my brain force . . . to hold him. Cease- lessly I talked of our old days together—camping trips to the Northern woods of Canada, wonderful weeks of idling down the river in our launch, days of ideal happiness, spent together. I appealed to his love for me, his old love, and the memory of our early married life. He was unresponsive, and I could feel the restlessness of his fingers in my hair. “Presently he pushed me aside, not ungently this 36 POSSESSED time but, nevertheless, firmly. Once more the struggle began, and now I must rely on the old physical lure to hold him. . . . Well, I won. I kept him with me but was it worth such a sacrifice? As I think . . . I burn with shame.” There are many entries in my diary like this, for my life with Julian was full of scenes when I tried so hard . . . so hard . . . all in vain! + x: :: Here is another picture: “Last night Julian came home in a hilarious mood. His habitual sullen look had gone and he almost seemed the man who had won me—before I knew him as he really is. “‘Come along, Penny,' he laughed as he caught me in his arms. ‘We’re going to celebrate. Dress up in that lacy black thing—you are seduction itself in it.' “His praise made me happy and, responding to his mood, I changed my clothes quickly, and we set forth joyfully in anticipation of a pleasant evening. “Everything went well through the dinner, although I hesitated when Julian ordered wine; but I was afraid to oppose him or to speak a single jarring word. “‘Drink up, Penny, and have some more. My God, but you are glorious tonight!' he whispered as he leaned across the table. “I smiled and emptied my glass, and soon I became as reckless and jovial as he. We went from one caba- ret to another, laughing at everything. All the world was gay. There was no sorrow anywhere—only one WHAT PENELOPE COULD NOT TELL 37 grand celebration. Julian was never so fascinating. I was proud of his good looks, of his wit, of his strength as he lifted me from the taxicab and almost carried me into the house. “‘My darling!' I breathed as my lips brushed his cheek, “I love you!” “‘You see, Penny, how wonderful everything is when you are reasonable. If you will only drink with me once in a while, I’ll never, never leave you.’ “He placed me gently in a chair. Soon the room began to whirl around . . . and I knew no more. . . . “This morning my head ached and a thousand needles were piercing my eyes. I rang for the maid and asked for my husband. “‘He brought you home last night, but he went out again later and he hasn't come back,' she said and her eyes did not meet mine. “‘Was I–was I?' I stammered, shame possessing 1116. “‘Yes, Mrs. Wells, you were. . . . “God! What have I gained? I have degraded myself without doing Julian any good. I have sunk to his level and have not even been able to keep him at my side. I hate him I hate myself even more!” x: :k x: 3. I find a pitiful entry that I made only a few months before Julian was killed. In a fit of anger he had left me, accusing me of being a drag on his life, saying that I was to blame for all his follies. He was going 38 POSSESSED to be rid of me now. So he took all the money in the house and went off—I should never see him again. At last I had what I had longed for, my freedom, he had given it to me, flung it in my face. And then This is what I wrote six weeks later: “Well, I'm a failure all right. Never again may I think well of myself or feel that I am entitled to the joys of life. For I'm just a plain moral coward. I couldn't even keep what was forced on me—my liberty. “Last Wednesday he came back, such a miserable wreck of a man, so utterly broken in every way that it would have moved a heart of stone. Inside of me is a sorrow too deep for expression, but somehow a peace also. Now I am sure that my bondage will never cease. But I couldn't refuse to take Julian back when I saw what a state he was in. His spiritual abasement was such an awful thing that I could not shame him by even letting him know that I understood it.” :k × Monday. I walked for hours beside the ocean, watching the waves, the sky, the soaring gulls, trying to tire my- self out, searching into my heart for the truth about my life—about my illness. I cannot find the truth. I have done what Dr. Owen told me to do as well as I can and—I do not see that any good has come of it. I have stirred up ghosts of the past—leering ghosts, and I hate them. I am sick of ignoble mem- ories. I want to close forever the door on those un- WHAT PENELOPE COULD NOT TELL 39 happy years. I want to be well, to live a sane life, to have a little pleasure; but . . . xk >}: × Thursday. I am tired of Atlantic City. I am going back to New York tomorrow. No doubt I have benefited by these days of rest and change. My bad dreams are gone and I have only heard the Voices once. Dr. Owen will say that his prescription has been efficacious, but that is not true. I know They are waiting for me in the city, waiting to torture me. Then why do I go back? Because it is my fate. I am driven on by some power beyond my control—driven on 1 Penelope will cross the ocean. Her husband will die very soon. There will be war soon. She will go to the war and honors will be conferred upon her on the battlefields. Then she will go down to horror—to terror/ How that prophecy of Seraphine haunts me! All of it has come true except the very last. Horror! Terror! These two are ever before me. These two already encompass me. These two will presently over- whelm me unless—unless—I don't know what. Seraphine is in New York, I have meant to go to see her, but—I am afraid, I am afraid of what she will tell me! New York, Saturday. I must set down here—to ease my tortured brain— some of the things that have happened to me since I last wrote in this book, my confessional. WHAT PENELOPE COULD NOT TELL 41 is true. He assures me he has it on the authority of a Chicago specialist, but I never put much dependence on anything that Kendall Brown says. If this is true the whole romantic history of the world will have to be rewritten and the verdicts of numberless juries in murder trials passionels ought to be set aside. The statement is that physical desire is universal among men, but not among women. One-third of all women, Kendall puts them in Class C, have no such de- sire; therefore, they deserve no particular credit for re- maining virtuous. Another third of all women are in Class B, the normal class, where this desire is or is not present, according to circumstances. The last third of all women make up Class A, and these women, being as strongly tempted as men (or more so), are con- demned to the same struggles that men experience, and, if they happen to be beautiful, and without deep spirituality, they are fated to have emotional experi- ences that may make them great heroines or artists, great adventuresses or outcasts. I am sure I do not belong in Class C, I hope I belong in Class B, but I am afraid >k >k >{< I knew They were waiting for me. Last night I heard Them again—after the ball. It was a horrible night ! I shall write to Dr. Owen that I must see him at On Ce. A BOWL OF GOLD FISH 43 presently I did see something, I saw myself inside the bowl—in a kind of vision. I saw myself just as dis- tinctly as I ever saw anything. In order that you may understand this, doctor, I must explain that Captain Herrick took me home from the ball. It was two o'clock in the morning when we left the place and it had blown up cold during the rain, so that the streets were a glare of ice and our taxi was skidding horribly. When we got to Twelfth Street and Fifth Avenue there came a frightful explosion; a gas main had taken fire and flames were shooting twenty feet into the air. I was terrified, for it made me think of Paris—the air raids, the night sirens, the long-distance cannon. Captain Herrick saw that I was quite hysterical and said that I mustn't think of going up to Eightieth Street. I must spend the night at his studio in Washington Square, only a few doors away, and he would go to a hotel. I agreed to this, for I was nearly frozen. When we entered the studio I was surprised to find what a beautiful place it was. It seems that Captain Herrick has rented it from a distinguished artist. There is a great high ceiling and a wonderful fireplace where logs were blazing. I was standing before this fireplace trying to warm myself, when there came a crash overhead, it was only a gas fixture that had fallen, but it seemed to me the whole building was coming down. I almost fainted in terror and Chris caught me in his arms, trying to comfort me. Then, before I realized what he was doing, he had drawn me close to him and kissed me. 44 POSSESSED This made me very angry. I felt that he had no right to take advantage of my fright in this way and I told him I would not stay in his studio a minute longer. And I did not. I almost ran down the stairs, then out into the street. It was foolish to get so agi- tated, but I could not help it. I went over to the Bre- voort and spent the night there. You will understand in a minute why I am telling you all this, it has to do with the vision that I saw in the bowl of gold fish. In this vision I saw myself enter Captain Herrick's studio just as I really did—in my white satin dress. Christopher was with me in his uniform. Then I saw myself lying on a divan and—Chris was bending over me, kissing me passionately. He kissed me many times, it seemed as if he would never stop kissing me— in the vision. All this was as clear as a motion picture. The extraordinary part of it is, that I neither resisted him nor responded in any way, I just seemed to be lying there—with my eyes closed—as if I were asleep. I am very much distressed about this. I know that I did not really lie down on Captain Herrick's divan— I would not have done such a thing for the world. I know Captain Herrick did not really kiss me in that passionate way, as I saw him kiss me in the bowl of gold fish, but I feel that he did. I am afraid that he did. I can't get over the feeling that he did. This sounds like madness, doesn't it? A woman cannot be ardently kissed by a man without knowing it, can she? Perhaps I am mad—perhaps this is the way mad peo- ple feel. Help me, doctor, if you can, and above all please A BOWL OF GOLD FISH 45 see Captain Herrick—he is an old friend of yours— and find out exactly what I did at his studio. I must know the truth. And I can't ask Chris, can I? - Yours in anguish of soul, PENELOPE WELLS. P. S.—Please telephone me as soon as you get this and make an appointment to see me. CHAPTER IV FIVE PURPLE MARKS DURING his thirty years of medical experience among neurasthenic and hysterical women, Dr. Wil- liam Owen had never encountered a more puzzling case than the one before him on this brisk winter morn- ing when he set forth to answer the urgent appeal of Penelope Wells. Here was a case fated to be written about in many languages and discussed before learned societies. A Boston psychologist was even to devote a chapter of his great work “Mysteries of the Sub- conscious Mind” to the hallucinations of Penelope W Poor Penelope! When Dr. Owen entered her attractive sitting room with its prevailing tone of blue, he found his fair pa- tient reclining on a chaise longue, her eyes heavy with anxiety. - “It's good of you to come, doctor. I appreciate it,” she gave him her hand gratefully. “I expected to go to your office, but—something else has happened and I am—discouraged.” Her arm fell listlessly by her side. “So I telephoned you.” “I am glad to come, you know I take a particular interest in you,” he smiled cheerily and drew up a chair. “We must expect these set-backs, but you are 46 48 POSSESSED His tone was one of good-humored indulgence for capricious beauty, but Mrs. Wells kept to her serious- neSS. “I didn't mean that I was really angry with Captain Herrick. I was angry at myself for the thrill of joy I felt when he kissed me and I was frightened by the wave of emotion that swept over me. I have been frightened all these days—even now !” She covered her eyes with her hand as if shrinking from some pain- ful memory. “Please don't agitate yourself. You must not get hysterical about this. You must have confidence in me and in your own powers of recuperation. And you must be sure to give me all the facts. Did I under- stand you to say that something else has happened— since you wrote me?” “Yes, something quite unbelievable—it happened last night.” “Tell me about it—quietly, just as if you were dis- cussing somebody else.” Penelope smiled wistfully. “How kind and wise you are ! I will try to be calm, but—it is hard for me. I had a dream last night, doctor, and this dream is true. I have evidence that it is true. I did something last night without knowing it, and then I dreamed about it.” “You did something without knowing it?” “Yes. I put on a red dress and a black hat that I have not worn for four years, not since my husband died. For four years I have only worn black or white.” FIVE PURPLE MARKS 49 “Do I understand you to say that you put on these things without knowing that you put them on ?” “Yes.” “How do you know you did?” “My maid told me so. You see my dream was so extraordinarily vivid—I'll give you the details in a minute—that, as soon as I awakened, I rang for Jeanne and questioned her. ‘Jeanne,' I said, ‘you know the red dress that I have not worn since my husband died?' She looked at me in a queer way and said: ‘Madam, is laughing at me. Madame knows quite well that she wore the red dress last night.' Then she recalled everything in detail, how I sent her to a particular shelf where this dress was folded away and got her to freshen up a ribbon and press the skirt where it was wrinkled. Jeanne is also positive that I put on my black hat. Then, she says, I went out; I left the house at five minutes to nine and came back about eleven. There is no doubt about it.” - “And you remember nothing of all this?” “Nothing. So-so you see,” she faltered, then she leaned impulsively toward the doctor. “As an expert will you please tell me if it is possible for a woman to act like that unless her mind is affected?” Dr. Owen tried to take this lightly. “I’m a fairly sane citizen myself, but if you asked me which suit I wore yesterday, I couldn't tell you.” “You couldn't suddenly put on red clothes without knowing it, if you had been wearing black clothes for years, could you?” she demanded. He laughed. “When it comes to clothes I might do 50 POSSESSED anything. I might wear a straw hat in January. But I couldn't go out of the house without knowing it. Do you mean to tell me you don't remember going out of the house last night?” “I certainly do not. I remember nothing about it. I would have sworn that I went to bed early,” she insisted. “Hm! Have you any idea where you went?” “Yes—I know where I went, but I only know this from my dream. I know I went to Captain Herrick's studio. You—you can ask him.” “Of course. You haven't asked him yourself—you haven't telephoned, have you?” “No, no! I would be ashamed to ask him.” The doctor noted her increasing agitation and the flood of color mounting to her cheeks. “Steady now ! Take it easy. Have you any idea what you did at the studio, assuming that you really went there?” Penelope hesitated, biting her lips. “I know what I saw myself do in the dream. I acted in an impossible way. I—I—here is a little thing—you know I never smoke, but in the dream I did smoke.” “Have you ever smoked?” “Yes, I did when my husband was living. He taught me. He said I was a better sport when I was smoking a cigarette.” “But you haven't smoked since your husband's death P” “Not at all. I have not smoked once since he died, not once—until last night.” FIVE PURPLE MARKS 5 I The man of science eyed her searchingly. “Mrs. Wells, you are not hiding anything from me, are you?” “No 1 No! Of course not Don't frown at me like that—please don't. I am trying my best to tell you the truth. I know these things did not happen, but—” Here her self-control left her and, with a gesture of despair, Penelope sank forward on a little table beside her chair and sobbed bysterically, her face hid- den in her arms. “There ! There!” soothed Dr. Owen. “I was a brute. I have taxed you beyond your strength.” “I can't tell you how grateful I am for your patience and sympathy,” murmured Penelope through her tears, and, presently, regaining her composure, she continued her confession. “I want you to know everything—now. In my dream there was a scene of passion between Captain Herrick and myself. He held me in his arms and kissed me and I–I responded. We both seemed to be swept on by a reckless madness and at one moment Chris seized me roughly with his hand and—of course you think this is all an illusion, but—look here !” She threw open her loose garment and on her beautiful shoulder pointed to five perfectly plain purple marks that might have been made by the fingers of a man's hand. “Extraordinary !” muttered the doctor. “Let me look at this closer. Have you got such a thing as a magnifying glass? Ah, thank you!” CHAPTER V WHAT REALLY HAPPENED AT THE STUDIO For the purposes of this narrative, which is con- cerned almost exclusively with the poignant strange- ness of a woman's experiences, it is sufficient to say that Captain Christopher Herrick was what is generally known as a fine fellow—handsome, modest, well-to-do, altogether desirable as a lover and a husband. At thirty-five he had made for himself an enviable posi- tion as a New York architect, one who was able to strike out boldly in new lines while maintaining a rea- sonable respect for venerable traditions. He had served gallantly in the war and he was now, for quite understandable reasons, desperately in love with Pene- lope Wells. On this particular evening when Christopher had been summoned by his much respected friend, Dr. Owen, to dine and discuss a matter of immediate im- portance, the young officer had accepted eagerly. For some time he had wanted to talk with the doctor about Penelope's nervous condition. He was drawn to this girl by a force that stirred the depths of his being— he could not live without her; yet his love was clouded by anxiety at her strange behavior. Christopher's face was troubled. His brain was in 53 54 POSSESSED a turmoil. The happenings of the last few days be- wildered him. Life had seemed so simple, so beauti- ful, with just their great love for each other to build on; but now. . . . He was only sure of one thing, that from the moment Penelope Wells had come to him as a ministering angel across the scarred and broken battle field, he had adored her with a love that would endure until the day of his death . . . and, he told himself, beyond that! “Chris, my boy,” began Owen in his bluff, cheery way when they had retired to the study for coffee and cigars, “I am in a difficulty, I must ask you some ques- tions that may embarrass you—it's the only way out.” Herrick's clear, honest gaze met the doctor's eyes unflinchingly. “That's all right, sir. Go ahead. I suppose it's about Mrs. Wells?” “Yes. I am very much interested in her case, not only on your account, but because she is a wonderful woman. When I write your father I'll tell him he's going to have a daughter-in-law who will make him sit up and take notice. Ha, ha!” The young man's heavy brows contracted gloomily. “I wish that were true, sir, but—you know what I told you?” “About her refusing you? Don't worry over that. Just wait until we get her health built up a little.” “Do you think she will change her mind? Did she say so?” Herrick asked eagerly. “Pretty nearly that. If she doesn't marry you, she won't marry anyone. The fact is—Mrs. Wells is suf- WHAT HAPPENED AT THE STUDIO 55 z fering from a nervous strain, I'm not sure what it is, but there are abnormal symptoms and—I hate to force your confidence, Chris, but, speaking as Mrs. Wells' medical adviser and a mighty good friend of yours, a sort of representative of your father—you know how close your father and I have always been?” “Yes, sir, I know. I'll do anything you say.” “You want to help this lovely lady? You want to make her happy?” “That's what I want more than anything in this world,” the officer's grey eyes flashed with the spirit of a lover and a soldier. “Good. Now the way to do it is—you must help her by helping me. I think I understand the situation up to a week ago, but since then—well, it's a little complicated. Mrs. Wells has paid you two visits in the last few days, hasn't she?” “Yes. Did she tell you?” “She told me a little. Try some of that port, Chris, and light another cigar,” the older man said genially. “We may as well be comfortable. There! Now tell me about Mrs. Wells' first visit—after the dance?” At this invitation the young officer began quite frankly and with a certain sense of humor to describe the circumstances that led up to the climax, but presently he hesitated, and, observing this, Owen said: “No false delicacy, please. It's extremely important to me as a doctor to know everything that happened. You say Mrs. Wells came in chilled and frightened and— then what?” - “Then I threw a couple of logs on the fire and was 56 POSSESSED just going to get her some brandy against the cold when there came an awful racket overhead, it shook the whole place and Penelope was so startled that—just instinctively I put my arm around her. She clung to me and—I tried to soothe her and before I knew it— I couldn't help it—I kissed her.” The doctor smiled. “If you hadn't kissed her under those circumstances, my boy, I would never have for- given you. Perhaps she wouldn't either. Well?” “It's going to be pretty tough, sir, to tell you—some of this,” stammered Herrick, frowning at the carpet. “Penelope got awfully angry and said she was going to leave. I apologized and tried to square myself, but she wouldn't have it. She said I had insulted her and she refused to stay in my place another minute. I asked her to wait until I could get a dry coat and umbrella for her and then I would take her wherever she wanted to go. She agreed to wait and I went into the other room.” Christopher paused and drew his chair closer to the doctor. “Now here is a most extraordinary thing. When I left Penelope she was standing before the fire, furi- ous with me, but when I came back, not two minutes later, she was lying on the divan with her eyes closed, apparently asleep. As I had been out of the room for so short a time, it seemed incredible that she could have really fallen asleep, yet there she was. I looked at her in astonishment. I wondered if she could have fainted, but I saw that her cheeks were flushed, her WHAT HAPPENED AT THE STUDIO 57 lips were red and she was breathing regularly. I didn't know what to make of it.” “Well?” questioned the doctor. Herrick shifted uneasily on his chair. “I haven't had much experience with women, sir, but I know they are complicated creatures, and I couldn't help thinking that Penelope was playing a little joke on me; so I bent over her and, after I had made up my mind that she wasn't ill and wasn't asleep, I—I kissed her again. That's another queer thing. Her lips were warm, her breathing was as soft and regular as a child's, but she never moved nor spoke nor responded in any way. She just lay there and y? “You thought she was shamming?” suggested Owen. “That's it, especially as she had been so angry with me just a few minutes before. I couldn't imagine any- thing else. So—er—” “Go on,” said the older man. “You know I have always respected women, and this woman was more to me than anything—she's the woman I want for my wife, so you see I would be the last man in the world to show her disrespect, but 5 * the young fellow flushed—“as I looked at her there on the divan—so beautiful—I longed to hold her in my arms and I said to myself that, even if she was trick- ing me, it was quite a pleasing trick—if she could stand it, I could—so I–I kissed her some more. I begged her to speak to me, to respond to me, to tell me she returned my love and would be my wife; but she didn't answer, didn't move, or speak, she didn't even open her eyes, and presently I was filled with a horrible sense 58 POSSESSED of shame. I felt like a thief in the night, stealing ca- resses that were not meant for me or willingly given. I realized that something terrible must have happened to Penelope, although she looked so calm and beautiful. “And now my only thought was to call for help. I hurried into the next room and tried to get you on the telephone, but they said you were at the hospital and could not be reached for an hour. Then I rushed back to the studio and, as soon as I came in, I could scarcely believe my eyes but there was Penelope standing in front of the fireplace, just as I had left her the first time. She was looking at the blazing logs with a thoughtful expression and when I came close to her, she faced me naturally and pleasantly as if nothing had happened. “You can imagine my astonishment, I could not speak, but—I was so relieved to find her recovered that I put my arm around her affectionately and just touched my lips to her cheek. Heavens ! You should have seen her then. She sprang away from me indig- nant. How dared I take such a liberty? Had she not reproved me already? It was incredible that a man who professed to care for her, a gentleman, should be so lacking in delicacy. And before I could do anything or explain anything, she had dashed out into the night alone, refusing even to let me walk beside her. Now then,” Christopher concluded, “what do you make of that?” “Strange!” nodded the doctor, “very strange. And in spite of this she came to see you again?” WHAT HAPPENED AT THE STUDIO 59 “Yes, two evenings later, without any warning, she burst into my studio about nine o'clock. “In a red dress?” “Yes 35 “And a black hat?” “Yes.” “Good Lord, it's true !” muttered Owen. “Go on, my boy. I want the details. This may be exceedingly important. Go right through the scene from the be- ginning.” After a moment of perplexed silence, Christopher continued: “When I say she burst in, that about ex- presses it. She was like a whirlwind, a red, laughing, fascinating whirlwind. I had never seen her half so beautiful—so alluring. I was mad about her and— half afraid of her.” “Hm!” grunted Owen. “What did she do?” “Do? She did a lot of things. In the first place she apologized for having been so silly the time before —after the ball. She said she was ill then, she didn't want to talk about it. Now she had come to make amends—that was the idea.” “I see. Well ?” “Well, we sat before the fire and she asked me to make her a cocktail. She said she had had the blues and she wanted to be gay. So I mixed some cocktails and she took two, and she certainly was gay. I didn't know Penelope drank cocktails, but of course it was all right—lots of women do. Then she wanted to sit on the divan and she bolstered me up with pillows. WHAT HAPPENED AT THE STUDIO 61 out of that place—somehow. I got her home—some- how. I have been through several battles, doctor, but this one was the hardest.” Captain Herrick drew a long sigh and sat silent. “What's the answer, doctor?” he asked presently. “I don't know, Chris. Upon my soul, I don't know.” EARTH-BOUND 63. Wednesday morning. I cried my eyes out last night and lay awake for hours thinking about my unhappy life. All my pride and hopes have come to this—an irresponsible mind. It makes no difference whether the cause is shell shock or something else, the fact remains that my mind does not work properly—I do things without knowing or remembering what I do. I am sure I cannot live long —what have I to live for? I have made a will leav- ing my little fortune to Chris—he will never know how much I care for him—and my jewelry to Seraphine, except my silly thumb ring, which is for Roberta Vallis. She loves it. This afternoon They came again. They never were so bad. I was walking down Fifth Avenue and, as I reached the cathedral, I thought I would go in and say my prayers. I love the soft lights and the smell of incense, but just at the door They began insulting me. “Little fool! Little fool! She is going to say her prayers. Ha, ha!” They laughed. - I knelt down and breathed an old benediction, shut- ting my ears against the Voices: “The peace of God which passeth all understand- ing zy “Fauvettel Fauvette l’” They mocked me. “Keep your hearts and minds in the knowledge and love of God—” “She's a pretty little devil. I like her mouth.” “And of his son, Jesus Christ our Lord 22 “Red dress! Red dress! Divan | Divan l’” 64 POSSESSED “And the blessing of God Almighty, the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost—” “She can't remember it. She's thinking of her lover. She wants to kiss her lover.” Then They said gross things and I could not go on. I got up from my knees, heart-broken, and came away. >k xk +: Thursday night. I thought I should never be happy again, but what- ever the future holds for me of darkness and sadness, I have had one radiantly happy day. Christopher tele- phoned this morning and arrived half an hour later with an armful of roses. He took me to luncheon, then for a drive in the Park, then to tea at the Plaza where we danced to delicious music, and finally to din- ner and the theater. He would not leave me. And over and over again he asked me to marry him. He will not hear of anything but that I am to be his wife. He loves me, he worships me, he trusts me absolutely. Nothing that has happened makes the slightest differ- ence to him. Dr. Owen is going to cure me in a few weeks, there is no doubt about it, Christopher says, and anyhow, he loves me. If I were in Europe now I'd make a pilgrimage to the shrine of some saint and heap up offerings of flowers. I must do something to make others happy; my heart is overflowing with gratitude l I thrilled with pride as I walked beside my lover on the Avenue this afternoon. He looked so tall and EARTH-BOUND 65 splendid in his uniform. I love his eyes—his shoul- ders—everything about him. My Christopher! I am to give him his answer within a week, but— what answer can I give him? + :k # Friday morning. Alas! I have paid for my happiness—it was writ- ten, it had to be. I have lived through a night that cannot be described. Seraphine's prophetic words have come true. Horror! Terror! I cannot bear it any longer. It is quite impossible for me to bear it any longer. I have sent for Seraphine, begging her to come to me at once—this afternoon, this evening, any time tonight, before I sleep again. I would sooner die than endure another such night. >}: >k :k Saturday morning. Seraphine did not get my note until late, but in spite of a snow-storm, she came to me and stayed all night. Dear Seraphine! She spends her life helping and comforting people in distress. She sees nothing but trouble from morning till night, yet she is always cheer- ful and jolly. She says God wants her to laugh and grow fat, so she does. We talked for hours and I told her everything—or nearly everything. There is only one abominable memory that I can never tell to anyone, I may write it some day in the red leather volume of my diary that is locked with a key and that must be burned before I 66 POSSESSED die. I told Seraphine how I was suddenly awakened Thursday night by a horrible feeling that there was a presence near me in my bedroom. Then I slept again and saw myself all in white lying on the ground sur- rounded by a circle of black birds with hateful red eyes—fiery eyes. These birds came nearer and nearer and I knew I was suffering horribly as I lay there, yet I looked on calmly without a shred of sympathy for myself; in fact I felt only amused contempt when I saw the dream image of poor Penelope start up from the ground with a scream of fright. While I opened my heart Seraphine sat silent, watching me like a loving mother. Several times she touched my arm protectingly, and once her gaze swept quickly down my skirt, then up again, as if she saw something moving. “What is it? What do you see?” I asked, but she did not tell me. When I had finished she kissed me tenderly and said she was so glad I had let her come to me in my distress. She told me there was a great and imme- diate danger hanging over me, but that God's infinite love would protect and heal me, as it protects all His children, if I would learn to draw upon it. I asked what this danger was and Seraphine said it would strike at me very soon through a dark-haired woman; but she would try to help me, if I would heed her warnings. I don't know why but I immediately thought of Roberta Wallis, and the strange part of it is that within an hour, Roberta called me on the tele- phone to say she was coming up right away. Roberta EARTH-BOUND 67 and Seraphine had not seen each other for years, not since that night when Seraphine made her prophecy about me. Within a half hour Roberta arrived very grand in furs and jewels, quite dashingly pretty and pleased with herself—the real joie de vivre spirit. She was perfectly willing to reveal the source of this sudden magnificence, but I did not ask her—I know enough of Bobby's love affairs already—and I could see that she was uneasy under Seraphine's gravely disapproving eyes. She had come to invite me to a house-warming party that she is planning to give at her new apartment in the Hotel des Artistes. I shall meet all sorts of wonderful people, social and theatrical celebrities, and there will be music. Seraphine's eyes kept saying no, and I told Bobby I would telephone her tomorrow before six o'clock. I was not sure whether I could ac- cept because—“Haven't you an engagement for Thurs- day with Captain Herrick?” suggested Seraphine. Whereupon Bobby, with an impertinent little toss of her bobbed-off black hair, said: “Oh, Pen, why do you waste your time on a commonplace architect? He will never satisfy you—not in a thousand years. Bye- bye, I'll see you at the party.” Then away she went, her eyes challenging Seraphine who stands for all the old homely virtues, including unselfish love, that Bobby Vallis entirely disapproves of. What shall I do? Seraphine says I must not go to this party, but—I want to go/ - :: :: 68 POSSESSED I have accepted Roberta's invitation, in spite of a warning from Seraphine that something dreadful will happen to me if I go. I have a morbid curiosity to see what experiences can be in store for me that are worse than those I have gone through already. Be- sides, I do not believe what Seraphine says—it is con- trary to my reason, it is altogether fantastic. And, even if it were true, even if I really am in the horrible peril that she describes, what difference does it make where I go or what I do? I am just a spiritual out- cast, marked for suffering—a little more or less je m'en moque. :: :k -k I have hesitated to write down Seraphine's explana- tion of my trouble, even in my diary. I reject it with all the strength of my soul. I consider it absurd, I hate it, I try to forget it; but alas! it sticks in my thoughts like some ridiculous jingle. So I may as well face the thing on paper, here in the privacy of my diary, and laugh at it. Ha, ha!—is that false-sound- ing laughter? Seraphine says that the great war has thrown the spirit world into confusion, especially in the lower levels where the new arrivals come and linger. Mil- lions ſlave died on the battle field in hatred and vio- lence. Great numbers of these have gone over so suddenly that they are not able to adjust themselves to the other plane where they constitute an immense company of earth-bound souls that long to come back. There are myriads of these unreconciled souls hover- CHAPTER VII JEWELS If this were a conventional novel and not simply a statement of essential facts in the strange case of Penelope Wells, there would be much elaboration of details and minor characters, including the wife of Dr. William Owen and an adventure that befell this lady during a week-end visit to Morristown, N. J., since this adventure has a bearing upon the narrative. As it is, we must be content to know that Mrs. William Owen was an irritable and neurasthenic person, a thorn in the side of her distinguished husband, who was supposed to cure these ailments. He could not cure his wife, however, and had long since given up trying. It was Mrs. Owen who quite unintentionally changed the course of events for sad-eyed Penelope. It happened in this way. Dr. Owen received a call from Mrs. Seraphine Walters on the day following Seraphine's talk with Penelope and was not overjoyed to learn that his visitor was a trance medium. If there was one form of human activity that this hard-headed physician regarded with particular detestation it was that of mediumship. All mediums, in his opinion, were knaves or fools and their so-called occult manifesta- tions were either conjurers' trickery or self-created illu- 7o JEWELS 7 I sions of a hypnotic character. He had never attended a spiritualistic séance and had no intention of doing so. But in spite of his aversion for Seraphine's métier, the doctor was impressed by the lady's gentle dignity and by her winsome confidence that she must be lov- ingly received since she herself came armed so abun- dantly with the power of love. Furthermore, it ap- peared that the medium had called for no other reason than to furnish information about her dear friend Penelope Wells, so the specialist listened politely. “You are the first spiritualist I ever talked to, Mrs. Walters,” he said amiably. “You seem to have a sunny, joyous nature?” Her face lighted up. “That is because I have so much to be grateful for, doctor. I have always been happy, almost always, even as a little girl, be- CauSC ” She checked herself, laughing. “I guess you are not interested in that.” “Yes I am. Go on.” “I was only going to say that I have always known that there are wonderful powers all about us, guard- ing us.” “You knew this as a little girl?” “Oh, yes, I used to see Them when I was playing alone. I thought They were fairies. It was a long time before I discovered that the other children did not see Them.” “Them! Hm! How long have you been doing active work as a medium ?” “About fifteen years.” 72 POSSESSED “What started you at it? I suppose there were in- dications that you had unusual powers?” “Yes. There were indications that I had been chosen for this work. I don't know why I was chosen unless it is that I have never thought much about my- self. That is the great sin—selfishness. My controls tell me that terrible punishment awaits selfish souls on the other side. I was so happy when I learned that the exalted spirits can only manifest through a loving soul. They read our thoughts, see the color of our aura and, if they can, they come to those who have traits in common with their own.” “If they can—how do you mean?” “My controls tell me that many spirits cannot mani- fest at all, just as many humans cannot serve as mediums.” At this moment a maid entered the office and spoke to Dr. Owen in a low tone saying that Mrs. Owen had sent her to remind the doctor that this was Saturday morning and that they were leaving for Morristown in an hour to be gone over Sunday. No message could have been more unfortunate than this for Dr. Owen's equanimity, since he abominated week-end in- vitations, particularly those like the present one (which Mrs. Owen revelled in) from pretentiously rich peo- ple. “Very well. Tell Mrs. Owen I will be ready,” he said, then turned with changed manner to poor Sera- phine, whose brightening chances were now hopelessly dissipated. “Suppose we come to the point, Mrs. Walters,” he JEWELS 73 went on. “I am rather pressed for time and—you say you are a friend of Mrs. Wells? Have you any definite information bearing upon her condition?” “Oh, yes,” she replied and at once made it clear that she was fully informed as to Penelope's distressing symptoms. “She is suffering from shell shock,” said the doctor. “No, no!” the medium disagreed, sweetly but firmly. “Penelope's trouble is due to something quite different and far more serious than shell shock.” Then earnestly, undaunted by Owen's skeptical glances, Seraphine proceeded to set forth her belief that there is today in the world such a thing as literal possession by evil spirits. “You mean that as applying to Mrs. Wells?” the doctor asked with a weary lift of the shoulders. “Yes, I do. I can give you evidence—if you will only listen 35 “My dear lady, I really cannot go into such a- purely speculative field. I must handle Mrs. Wells' case as I understand it with the help of means that I am familiar with.” “Of course, but, doctor,” she begged, “don’t be vexed with me, I am only trying to save this dear child, I love Penelope and—I must say it—you are not mak- ing progress. She is going straight on to—to disaster. I know what I am saying.” For a moment he hesitated. “What do you want me to do?” “I want you to have a consultation with Dr. Edgar Leroy.” 74 POSSESSED “Dr. Edgar Leroy? Who is he? I never heard of him.” “He is a New York doctor who has had great suc- cess in cases like Penelope's—cases of obsession or— possession.” “Oh! Does he believe in that sort of thing? Is he a spiritualist?” Seraphine felt the coldness of his tone and shrank from it, but she continued her effort, explaining that Dr. Leroy had been a regular practitioner for years, but he had changed his methods after extended psychic investigations that had led him to new knowledge— such wonderful knowledge! Her deep eyes burned with the zeal of a great faith. “I see. Where is his office?” “In Fortieth Street—it's in the telephone book— Dr. Edgar Leroy. If you only knew the extraordinary cures he has accomplished, you would realize how nec- essary it is for Penelope to have the help he alone can give her.” She waited eagerly for his reply. “How do you happen to know so much about this doctor?” “Because I have been allowed to help him. He uses me in diagnosis.” “You mean that Dr. Leroy relies upon information that you give him as a medium in treating cases?” He spoke with frank disapproval. “Yes.” Dr. Owen thought a moment. “Of course, Mrs. Wells is free to consult anyone she pleases, but I would 76 POSSESSED and—” He rose to dismiss her. “Now I must ask you to excuse me.” In spite of this disappointment Seraphine did not lose faith. “Dear child,” she wrote to Penelope that night, “I am like a man in the darkness who knows the sun will rise soon and is not discouraged. Before many days Dr. Owen will listen to me and be con- vinced.” Firm in this confidence, the medium returned to Dr. Owen's office the following Monday morning, but she was coldly received. A rather condescending young woman brought out word that the specialist was ex- ceedingly busy and could not see her. “But it is so important,” pleaded Mrs. Walters with eyes that would have moved a heart of stone. “Couldn't you ask him to give me a few minutes? I'll be very grateful.” The office assistant wavered. “I’ll tell you why you had better come back another day, madam,” she began confidentially; “Dr. Owen is very much upset because his wife has just lost some valuable jewelry. You see, Mrs. Owen went to Morristown for the week-end and took a jewel box with her in her trunk—there was a pearl necklace and some brooches and rings; but when she came to dress for dinner last night 37 “Wait! I–I hear something,” Seraphine mur- mured and sank down weakly on a chair. She closed her eyes and her breathing quickened, while the young woman bent over her in concern; but almost imme- diately the psychic recovered herself and looked up with a friendly smile. JEWELS 77 “It's all right. You are very kind. I am happy now because I can do something for Dr. Owen. Please tell him his wife is mistaken in thinking that she took the jewels with her. The jewels are here in this house —now.” “What makes you think that?” “My control says so.” The medium spoke with such, a quiet power of manner that the office assistant was impressed. “Suppose I tell Mrs. Owen?” she suggested. “Very well, tell Mrs. Owen. Ask her if I may go to the room where she last remembers having her jewel box?” The young woman withdrew with this message and presently returned to say that Mrs. Owen would be glad if Seraphine would come up to her bedroom. A few minutes later Seraphine faced a querulous invalid propped up against lace pillows. “I am positive I put my jewel box in the trunk,” insisted Mrs. Owen. “It is foolish to say that I did not, it is perfectly useless to look for the jewels in this house. However—what are you doing? Why do you look at me so strangely?” “The jewels are—in this room—in a chintz sewing bag,” the psychic declared slowly, her eyes far away. “Absurd l’’ “I see the sewing bag—distinctly. There are pink roses on it.” “I have a sewing bag like that,” admitted the doc- tor's wife, “it is on a shelf in the closet—there ! Will 78 POSSESSED you get it for me, Miss Marshall? We shall soon see about this. Now then ſ” She searched through the bag, but found nothing. “I told you so. My husband is quite right in his ideas about mediums. I really wish you had not disturbed me,” she said impatiently. But the medium answered pleasantly: “I have only repeated what my control tells me. I am sorry if I have annoyed you. I advise you to search the house carefully.” “I have done that already,” said Mrs. Owen. Whereupon Seraphine, still unruffled, took her de- parture, with these last words at the door to the office assistant: “Please tell Dr. Owen that I beg him most earnestly to have the house searched for his wife's jewels. Otherwise one of the servants will find them.” And Dr. Owen, in spite of his scientific prejudices, in spite of his wife's positive declaration that the jewels had been stolen during her visit, and that the house had been thoroughly searched, acted on this suggestion and had the house searched again. And this time th; missing jewel box was found, with the necklace, rings and brooches all intact, in a chintz sewing bag covered with pink roses! It seems that Mrs. Owen had two chintz bags, one for ordinary sewing, one for darning, and in the latter bag, hanging on a nail behind the bureau, where the doctor's wife had absent-mindedly hidden it, the miss- ing jewel box was discovered. “This beats the devil!” exclaimed the doctor when he heard the good news. And an hour later he sent JEWELS 79 the following telegram to Seraphine: “Jewels found, thanks to you. We are very grateful. I have recon- sidered the matter and accept your invitation for to- night. Will call at eight o'clock.” CHAPTER VIII WHITE SHAPES * (From Penelope's Diary) New York January 31, 1919. AN extraordinary thing happened on Monday night at Seraphine's apartment. I must write down the de- tails before they fade from my memory. Seraphine telephoned Monday morning that there was to be a meeting of her occult class in the evening and she wanted me to come as Dr. Owen had promised to be there. She regarded this as a great opportunity to help me. Darling Seraphine ! Of course I could not refuse, although I abhor spiritualism. I love Sera- phine for what she is, and in spite of her queer beliefs. When we were gathered together and after intro- ductions to her class (there were six or seven devout believers), Seraphine explained that it was difficult to obtain psychic manifestations in the presence of active disbelief, and she begged us to maintain an attitude of friendly open-mindedness. I am afraid I did not do this all the time. We had first some psychic reminiscences and Sera- phine described in detail how on a certain night years ago she and her sister were sleeping together in a 8o WHITE SHAPES 8I heavy mahogany fourposter bed, when the whole bed with the two women was lifted several inches from the floor and rocked about, and was then held suspended in the air while the chamber resounded with strange music. In my opinion, this was a dream or an illusion. I am also skeptical about the testimony of one of the group, a New York minister, who told us that his dead wife has come to him in the night on several occasions in materialized form and has spoken to him, kissed him, and taken loving counsel with him about the children and about other matters. I am sure this minister was the victim of some kind of hallucination. And I cannot believe a statement of Seraphine's re- garding a Southern woman who is possessed by an evil spirit that forces her to drinking excesses so that she has spoiled her whole life. Seraphine described to us with ghastly vividness the appearance of this evil entity which she is able to see, through her clairvoyant vision, with its hideous leering countenance, inside the lady. For my part I refuse to believe it. I admit that I began to have creepy sensations when Seraphine went into an entranced condition in the cab- inet. Then came the happenings that I do not under- stand and I know Dr. Owen does not understand them either, but that does not prove that they were super- natural. I distinctly saw two white shapes rise from the floor—one of them was so close to me that I could have touched it with my hand, but I did not because I was afraid. Besides, I was sitting in a semi-circle with the others and our hands were joined. Dr. Owen, however, was at the end of the line with one hand 82 POSSESSED free, and I saw him reach out towards the apparition (it was about four feet high) and it seemed to me that his hand and arm passed right through the white shape. As he did this I heard a long sigh and a rustling sound and I was conscious of a chilling breath on my face. I asked Dr. Owen about this afterwards and he said that when his hand touched the shape it felt as if he was grasping thick smoke. The appearance of the second white shape was more terrifying because Seraphine came out of the cabinet when she evoked it. She wore a loose white garment and moved about the room in the near darkness like a woman walking in her sleep. She repeated a beautiful prayer in a slow dreamy voice—I wish I could remem- ber it, the idea was that a great disaster might be averted if God would open the eyes of two of His doubting children. I suppose she meant Dr. Owen and me. Then the second white shape appeared and seemed to rise and grow into the likeness of a woman, but presently it wavered and dissolved. Seraphine reached out her arms towards it imploringly and I saw a woman's hand take shape clearly and rest on Sera- phine's hand, but this presently faded away, like a thing of vapor, and was gone. I have no idea what those white shapes were, or why they came, or why they went; but neither have I any idea as to the opera- tion of X-rays. These white shapes may in a few years turn out to be perfectly simple laboratory phenomena, no more mysterious than wireless phenomena were WHITE SHAPES 85 intimate companionship of a man? How could I satisfy my emotional nature? How? There were two solutions, a second marriage and a lover. I rejected the first solution for reasons al- ready given and the second solution because of evi- dence all about me that one lover usually means two, three, half a dozen lovers, since men grow weary and change and women, in loneliness or desperation, change also. Never would I let myself sink to the degrading level of sex complaisance that is sadly or cynically ac- cepted by many women, self-supporting and self-re- specting, in many American cities, simply because they cannot combat conditions that have been created and perpetuated by the stronger sex. Therefore I worked out a third solution that was to satisfy my emotional nature and at the same time give me a reason for existence. I would adopt a little waif as my child, a French or Belgian waif, and I would bring up this child to be a useful and happy man or woman. I would love it, care for it, teach it, and with this responsibility and soulagement, I would be able to endure the loneliness of the long years stretching before me. I would find this child while I was in France working for the Red Cross and bring it home after the war, only My purpose was to adopt a child that should be born of my own body/ That is my sin, a sin never committed, save in in- tention, yet a sin that would have been committed, if things had happened differently. The arguments (based on the sacred right of motherhood and the 86 POSSESSED longing for a child) that led me to my original pur- pose still seem valid to me. It is terrible to say this now, but I must tell the truth and the truth is that, if I had not met Captain Herrick, I would have done this thing. My whole plan of life was changed because I loved Captain Herrick. What was previously im- impossible became possible, and what was previously possible became impossible because I loved Captain Herrick. That is the truth. Tuesday. If I love him so much, why am I possessed by a horrible fear that I will refuse to be his wife? Good God, what a woman I am I love Captain Herrick so much that I would gladly die for him—I have risked my life for him already—and yet I have promised Christopher his answer when we meet at Roberta's party on Friday night, but I am not sure what I will say to him. Three days! I told Ro- berta I would not go to her party unless she invited Christopher, so she did. Wednesday. I feel much encouraged about my health. For nearly a week my sleep has been free from dreams and They have not come near me. I begin to think Dr. Owen is right. I have been suffering from nervous disturbances caused by shell shock, and I am on the road to recovery. I need rest and recreation, espe- WHITE SHAPES 87 cially recreation—anything to divert my mind from fears and somber thoughts. I say this to Seraphine when she warns me that I must not go to Roberta's party. She says I will go at my great peril, but I re- fuse to entertain these fears. I crave the gaiety and insouciance of Roberta's care-free Bohemians. Be- sides, I shall see Christopher. I will tell him that I love him with all my soul and will marry him—the sooner the better—any time. Within a month I may be Mrs. Christopher Herrick. How wonderful! Thursday. While I was looking back through my diary I came upon a reflection of Julian's—he said that men take no real interest in other men, as men, although they are interested in all women. The fact that men are sex animals makes no impression upon other men, whereas the fact that women are sex animals makes an enor- mous impression. A man would hear of the tragic death of a thousand unknown men with comparative indifference, he declared, but would be distressed to hear of the death of a hundred unknown women. I wonder if that is true. I know that women are in- tensely conscious that all other women are sex animals. Is that due to jealousy P I came upon another thought of Julian's—about temptation. He pictured a drunkard who has sworn off drinking. This man announces his virtuous in- tentions from the housetops—he will never drink again, he will avoid temptation, he will not attend a certain convivial gathering, say tonight at nine o'clock. 88 POSSESSED He repeats this to himself and to others—he will not be present at this gathering. But all the time, deep down in his heart, he knows that he will be present. He knows that nine o'clock will find him in his accus- tomed seat smiling upon flowing glasses. . . . I am afraid of tomorrow night. I am afraid of what I will say to Captain Herrick! Friday morning. I dreamed last night that I was in a great purple forest and again I saw the black birds with fiery eyes. They were in a circle around me, judging me. They wanted me to say something or do some- thing, but I did not know what it was, and I was in despair. Suddenly the trees opened and I saw a smooth black river pouring over a precipice and the birds bore me to the river and dropped me into it. Then, as I struggled in the water, Chris leaped from the bank to save me, but I fought against him and we were both swept along towards the precipice. He caught me in his arms, but I struck at him and screamed —and then I awakened. xk >k :k Seraphine gave me a beautiful prayer or affirma- tion to say when I am afraid. I say this over and over again and it comforts me: “I am God’s child. God is my life. God is my strength. My soul is in unison with the perfect love of God. There is abso- lutely nothing to fear. All thoughts of fear are ban- WHITE SHAPES 89 ished from my mind. I will no longer be bound by thoughts of fear.” I shut my eyes tight and say this when I am going to sleep. CHAPTER IX THE CONFESSIONAL CLUB IN setting forth the happenings at Roberta Vallis' party (with their startling psychic consequences to : Penelope Wells) it is necessary to say a word about the Greenwich Village poet Kendall Brown, since he originated the Confessional Club. This remarkable organization grew out of a tirade against American hypocrisy made by Kendall one night in a little Italian restaurant on Bleecker Street. What was most needed in this country and in all countries, the one thing that alone could redeem man- kind, declared Brown, soaring away on red wine en- thusiasm, was truth. “Let us be honest and outspoken about things as they are, about men and women as they are,” he ran on in his charmingly plausible way. “We are none of us very important, there isn't much difference between saints and sinners—I'll argue that point with any man—but there is one immensely valu- able contribution that we can all make to the general store of life-knowledge, we can speak the exact truth about ourselves and our experiences, instead of hiding it. That would be a real service to humanity, for this composite truth, assembled and studied, must lead to wisdom; but men and women are such pitiful cowards, 90 THE CONFESSIONAL CLUB 9 I such cringing toadies to convention. It makes me sick!” He refilled his glass slowly and continued: “Why is our talk stupid—all talk, so stupid that we have to get drunk in order to endure life? Why are we bores— all of us? Because we are afraid to say the essential things—what we know. We talk about what we don't know, like monkeys, and call it civilized. By God, I'd like to start a society for the dissemination of the truth that everybody knows and nobody tells!” This phrase caught the fancy of Roberta Wallis whose fluttering, frivolous soul was appealed to by any line of reasoning that tended to put saints and sin- ners on the same level. She made Kendall repeat his idea and then and there proposed that they adopt it. A society for the dissemination of the truth that every- body knows and nobody tells! Splendid! They must found this society—immediately. When should they have the first meeting? In this casual way the Confessional Club came into being, with no fixed membership, no dues or constitu- tion, no regular place or time of meeting, and added one more to those amusing (sometimes inspiring) lit- tle groups that have flourished in Greenwich Village. It certainly had a real idea behind it. “We are loaded. with human dynamite. We tell the truth that is never told,” became the watchword of the society. All of which bears upon the present narrative be- cause Roberta Vallis had arranged to have one of these self-revealing séances as a feature of her party; 92 POSSESSED and she insisted that Penelope contribute an emotional experience. “You must confess something, Pen, my sweet one, in order to be in the spirit of the evening,” she ex- plained with bubbling exuberance, “any little thing. We all do it. Only be careful you don't make that architect of yours jealous,” she teased. “Think up a classy confession, something weird—understand? Don't look so darned serious. It's only for fun. You can fake up something, dearie, if you're afraid to tell the truth. Why, what's the matter?” Penelope's face had changed startlingly, and was now overcast by sombre memories—by fears. Why had those lightly spoken words moved her so strangely? Afraid to tell the truth! Was she afraid? With sinking heart she recalled that message of Sera- phine's exalted spirit—Penelope must cleanse her soul of evil/ But—had she not cleansed her soul already? Had she not confessed the truth about her longing for a child? And written it down in her diary and prayed God to forgive her? Was not that enough? Why should this pressure to confess more be put upon her? Could it be that frivolous, selfish Roberta Vallis was the unconscious agent of some fateful power urging Penelope Wells to look into her soul again? Suddenly, in a flash of new understanding, Mrs. Wells decided. This was no longer a trifling incident, but a happening of deep spiritual import. She was struggling desperately for health—for happiness. Perhaps this was her way of salvation, if she could 94 POSSESSED just above (there was also a tiny blue lantern that flung down a caressing ray upon her smooth dark hair and adorable shoulders) she glanced at some loose leaves taken from an old diary. Then, nerving her- self for the effort, she began in a low, appealing tone, but rather unsteadily: “I am going to tell you something that—it's very hard for me to speak of this, but—I want to tell it. I have a feeling that if I tell it I may save myself and someone who is dear to me,” she looked down in em- barrassment, “from—from a terrible danger. I feel more deeply about this because—some of you remem- ber a strange thing that happened four years ago when I was present at a meeting of this club.” There were murmurs and nods of understanding from several of the guests who settled themselves into positions of expectant attention. “Are we to have a second prophecy, Mrs. Walters?” inquired Kendall Brown briskly of Seraphine, whose haunting eyes kept Penelope in loving watchfulness; but the medium made no reply. “The second prophecy has already been made, Ken- dali,” Mrs. Wells answered gravely. “I have come here tonight knowing that a disaster may result from my presence. Seraphine says that a disaster will re- sult, but—I don't believe it. I can't believe it. What harm is there in my coming to this party?” She spoke vehemently with increasing agitation and the guests watched her with fascinated interest. “A disaster? Tonight? Extraordinary ! What kind of a disaster?” THE CONFESSIONAL CLUB 95. Such were the questions and exclamations called forth by this startling announcement, and incredulous glances were addressed to the psychic; but Seraphine offered no enlightenment. She merely rocked placidly in her chair. “Go on, dear,” she said. And Penelope continued: “You know I have been ill since I came back from France. There are symptoms in my illness that are— peculiar—distressing. I have horrible fears that I have to fight all the time. Horrible dreams, one dream in particular lately of a thing that happened on a Fall River steamboat.” “A thing that really happened?” questioned a little gray-haired woman. - “Yes, it really happened to me during a trip that I made on this boat; and now, years later, it continues to happen in my dreams. It terrifies me, tortures me, for the thing was—it was something wrong that I did. I—I suppose it was a sin.” A sin There was a tremor in her voice, a pathetic catch in her breath, almost a sob, as she forced herself to speak these words; then bravely, pleadingly, she lifted her eyes to her beloved. Over the gay company there came a surprised and sympathetic hush. Herrick straightened awkwardly, but never flinched in his loyalty or fondness—what an ordeal for a lover !—while Penelope paused as if gath- ering strength to go on. 96 POSSESSED “May I ask if this was before you were married?” queried the poet. “No.” “After you were married?” “Yes. My husband was with me.” Penelope's voice sank almost to a whisper, and the unconscious twining together of her fingers bore wit- ness to her increasing distress. Everyone in the room felt the poignancy of the moment. If the operation of soul cleansing involved such stress as this, then even these heedless members of the Confessional Club drew back disapprovingly. “Hold on, Pen!” interposed Roberta Vallis good- naturedly, wishing to relieve this embarrassment. “You’re getting all fussed up. I guess you'd better cut out this story. I don't believe it's much good any- way. If you think there are any sentimental varia- tions on a Fall River steamboat theme that we are not fully conversant with, why you've got another guess coming.” Penelope wavered and again her dark eyes yearned towards Christopher. It was cruelly hard to go on with her story, yet it was almost impossible now not to tell it. “I want to make this confession,” she insisted, strong in her purpose, yet breaking under womanly weakness. “I must cleanse my soul of of evil—mustn't I?” her anguished eyes begged comfort of Seraphine. “You are right, dear child,” the medium answered gently, “but wait a little. Sit over here by me. We have plenty of time. She took her friend's icy hand THE CONFESSIONAL CLUB 97 in hers and drew her protectingly to a place beside her on the sofa. “To cheer you up, Pen,” laughed Bobby, “and cre- ate a general diversion, I'll tell a story myself— you'll see the kind of confession stuff we generally put over in our little group of unconventional thinkers. Attention, folks! Harken to the Tale of Dora the Dressmaker! Which proves that the way of the trans- gressor, as observed on Manhattan Island, is not al- ways so darned hard.” Then she told her story in the most approved Green- wich Village style, with slangy and cynical comments, all of which were received with chortles of satisfaction by the men and with no very severe disapproval by the ladies—except Seraphine. “Dora was a pretty, frail looking girl—but really as strong as a horse,” began Bobby gleefully, “one of those tall blondes who can pass off for aristocrats with- out being the real thing. She came from a small South- ern town and had married a man who was no good. He drank and chased after women; and, in one of his drunken fits, he was run over on a dark night at the railroad crossing—fortunately.” Penelope stirred uneasily at the memories in her own life conjured up by this picture. “Dora had the usual small town collection of wed- ding cut glass and doilies, which she put away in the attic, after husband's decease; and, with them, she also put away all respect and desire for the married state. She was through with domesticity and all that it rep- resented, and made up her mind to devote the rest of 98 POSSESSED her life to earning as big a salary as she could and having the best time possible.” The rest of the story was a sordid account of this girl's effort to combine business with pleasure, as men do, and of her startled discovery one day, just at the moment of her greatest success—she had been offered the position of head designer in a wholesale dress house with coveted trips to Europe—that she was about to become a mother. Penelope sighed wearily as she listened. Could she never escape from this eternal sex theme? “You see,” Bobby rattled on, “Dora knew she couldn't go to root gardens and supper parties alone, and she couldn't keep a chap on a string without paying —so she paid. Of course she camouflaged this part of her life very daintily, as she did everything else, but going out evenings was as important to her as her business ambition was.” - Mrs. Wells smiled faintly at the word camouflaged, for she knew better than anyone else that this supposed story of a dressmaker was really the story of Roberta Vallis herself, thinly disguised. “The point is that after years of living exactly like a man,” Miss Wallis became a shade more serious here and a note of defiance crept into her discourse, “with work and pleasure travelling along side by side, Dora was called upon to face a situation that would have brought her gay and prosperous career to a sad and shameful end in any well-constructed Sunday School book; but please notice that it did nothing of the sort in real life. Did she lose her job? She did not. Or THE CONFESSIONAL CLUB 99 - her health or reputation? Nothing like that. After she got over the first shock of surprise Dora decided to go through with the thing, and, being tall and thin, got away with it successfully. No one suspected that the illness which kept her away from her work was anything but influenza, and—well, the child didn't live,” she concluded abruptly as she caught Seraphine's disapproving glance. “The point is that Dora is today one of the most successful business women in Boston.” A challenge to outraged virtue was in her tone, and all eyes turned instinctively to the psychic who was still rocking placidly. “Poor woman!” Seraphine said simply, which seemed to annoy Miss Vallis. “Why do you say that? Why is she a poor woman? She has everything she wants.” “No! No indeed,” was the grave reply. “She has nothing that she really wants. She has cut herself off from the operation of God's love. She is surrounded by forces that—Oh!” the medium's eyes closed for a moment and she drew a long breath, “my control tells me these forces of evil—they will destroy this girl.” Roberta essayed to answer mockingly, but the words died on her lips, and there fell a moment of shivery silence until Kendall Brown broke the spell. “That story of Dora is a precious human docu- ment,” was the poet's ponderous pronouncement. “It is unpleasant, painful, but—what is the lesson 2 The lesson is that infinite trouble grows out of our rotten squeamishness about sex facts. This girl craved a reasonable amount of pleasure after her work, and she 12:32:35E IOO POSSESSED got it. She refused to spend her evenings alone in her room reading a book. She wanted to dance, to enjoy the society of men—their intimate society. That brings us to the oldest and most resistless force in the world, a blessed force, a God-given force upon which all life depends—you know what I mean. And how do we deal with this most formidable of forces? Are we grateful for it? Do we acknowledge its irresistible supremacy? No! We deal with it by pretending that it doesn't exist. We say to Friend Dora that, being unmarried, she has nothing whatever to do with sex attraction, except to forget it. Does she forget it? She does not. Do the men allow her to forget it? They do not. And one fine day Friend Dora has a baby and everybody says horrible, disgraceful! Rub- bish ! I maintain that the state should provide homes and proper care for the children we call illegitimate! What a word ' I say all children are legitimate, all mothers should be honored, yes, and financially pro- tected. A woman who gives a child to the nation, re- gardless of who the father is, renders a distinguished service. She is a public benefactor.” “Hear, hear!” approved several, but the little grey- haired woman objected that this meant free love, whereupon Kendall was off again on his hobby. “Love is free, it always has been and always will be free. If you chain love down under smug rules you only kill it or distort it. I am not arguing against marriage, but against hypocrisy. We may as well recognize that sex desire is so strong a force in the world—that—” THE CONFESSIONAL CLUB IOI To all of this Penelope had listened with ill-con- cealed aversion, now she could no longer restrain her impatience. “Ridiculous!” she interrupted. “You ex- asperate me with your talk about the compelling claims of oversexed individuals. Let them learn to behave themselves and control themselves.” “Mrs. Wells is absolutely right,” agreed Captain Herrick quietly, his eyes challenging Brown. “If cer- tain men insist on behaving like orang-outangs in the jungle, then society should treat them as orang- outangs.” This incisive statement somewhat jarred the poet's self-sufficiency and he subsided for the moment, but jealousy is a cunning adversary and the rival awaited his opportunity for counter-attack. As the discussion proceeded Kendall noticed that one of the loose pages from Penelope's diary had fluttered to the floor and, recovering this, he glanced at it care- lessly, then smiled as he plucked at his yellow beard. “Excuse me, Mrs. Wells,” he said. “I could not help reading a few words. Won't you go on with your confession—please do. It sounds so wonderfully in- teresting. See—there—at the bottoml” He pointed to the lines. “Oh!” she murmured as she saw the writing, and two spots of color burned in her cheeks. “Let me have it—I insist!” “Certainly. . But do read it to us. This is a real human interest story. ‘Let me bow my head in shame and humble my spirit in the dust'—wasn't that it?” laughed Kendall maliciously. 102 POSSESSED At this, seeing the frightened look in Penelope's eyes, Captain Herrick stormed in: “You had no right to read those words or repeat them.” “I am sorry, Mrs. Wells. I meant no offense,” Napologized the poet, realizing that he had gone too far, but the harm was done. Something unaccountably serious had happened to Penelope Wells. Her face had gone deathly white, and Roberta, suddenly sym- pathetic, hastened to her. “It's a shame to tease you, dearie. No more con- fession stuff. Now, folks, we'll have supper—down in the restaurant. Then we'll dance. Come on 1 Feeling better, Pen? What you need is a cocktail and some champagne.” But Penelope lay like a stricken creature, her beau- tiful head limp against the pillow of her chair, her eyes filled with pain. “I—I'll be all right in a minute, Bobby,” she whis- pered. “Please go down now—all of you except Cap- tain Herrick. We'll join you—a little later. You don't mind?” she turned to Herrick who was bending over her anxiously. Then she said softly: “Don’t leave me, Chris. I don't feel quite like myself. I'm a little frightened.” CHAPTER X FAU VETTE THUs it happened that Penelope and Captain Her- rick did not descend to the flower-spread supper room where dancing and good cheer awaited the gay com- pany, but remained in Roberta's black and gold apart- ment, two lovers swept along by powers of fate far be- yond their control, and now facing the greatest emo- tional moment of their lives. The catastrophe came gradually, yet at the end with startling suddenness. At first, when they were alone, Penelope seemed to recover from her distress and began to talk naturally and serenely, as if her preceding agitations were for- gotten. She told Christopher that Dr. Owen's wise counsels had reassured her, and she now felt confident that her bad dreams and other disturbing symptoms would soon leave her. “You see something has conquered all my sadness, all my fears,” she looked at him shyly. For a moment he sat motionless, drinking in her splendid beauty, then he leaned towards her impul- sively and spoke one word that carried all the devo- tion of his soul: “Penelope!” - IO3 IO4 POSSESSED “Dear boy!” she murmured, her voice thrilling, and a moment later he had clasped her in his arms. “You’re mine ! You love me ! Thank God!” But she disengaged herself gently, there was some- thing she wished to say. She would not deny her love, her great love for him. She realized that she had loved him from the first. Her resistance had been part of her illness—it was not coquetry, he must not think that. Now her eyes were opened and her heart was singing with joy. She was the happiest woman in the world at the thought that she was to be his wife. “My darling! How I love you!” exclaimed Chris- topher, drawing her towards him, his lips seeking hers. “No—no,” Penelope's voice was so serious, so full of alarm that her lover instantly obeyed. He drew away from her with a hurt, puzzled expression in his eyes. Very gravely Penelope went on. “I love you, too, my darling, but I must ask you to make me a sol- emn promise. I shall be most unhappy if you refuse. I want you to promise not to kiss me, as–as lovers kiss, passionately, ardently, until after we are mar- ried.” - “But, Pen, you—can't mean that seriously?” With a wistful little smile she assured him that she did mean it most seriously. In vain he protested. “But why? It's so absurdl Why shouldn't I kiss you when I love you better than anything in the world.” “Chris, please, please don't talk like that. You must trust me and do what I ask. You must, dear!” A pathetic earnestness in her tone and a strange look FAUVETTE IO5 - in her eyes made Christopher forget his privileges, and he made the promise. “Thank you, dear. Now I must tell you something else,” she went on. “I must explain why I was so disturbed when Kendall Brown read those words from my diary. I must tell you what they meant.” But a masterful gesture from Herrick stopped her. He did not wish to know anything about this. He trusted her entirely, he approved of her entirely, they must never speak of these old sad things again. Tears of gratitude suddenly filled her eyes “Take this, dear, it belonged to my mother,” she said fondly and gave him a circlet of twisted dolphins and he put it on his finger. Then he gave her a brown seal ring, engraved with old Armenian characters. “I got it in Constantinople, Pen. It's a talisman. It will bring us luck.” They talked on, forgetful of the supper party down- stairs, until a waiter came with cocktails and cham- pagne that Roberta had sent up, but Penelope would have none of these, saying that her love was too great. to need stimulation. “I must drink to your health, dear,” said Herrick, and pouring out the bubbling liquid, he offered her a glass, but she shook her head. “No 2 Not even a sip 2 All right, sweetheart. I'll pledge you the finest toast in the world,” he lifted his goblet. “My love! My wife!” As Christopher set down his glass and turned to clasp his beloved in his arms, he realized that there was a curious change in her face, a subtle, an almost in- FAUVETTE 107 “Was she—how shall I say it?—an alluring woman? Did she have a pretty figure? The soldier looked at his sweetheart in surprise and, without answering, he struck a match and meditatively followed the yellow flame as it consumed the wood. Penelope watched his well-shaped, well-kept hands. “Did she P” - “I—I suppose so. What difference does that make? Do you mind if I smoke?” “Of course not.” She took a cigarette from his sil- ver case. “I’ll have one with you—from the same match! Voilà!” She inhaled deeply and blew out a grey cloud. “Tell me more about Katherine.” His frown deepened. “Poor woman l She was reckless. I am sure she had never done a thing like this before. I hadn't either. I don't mean that I've been an angel, Pen," but—” he paused, then, with a flash of self-justifica- tion: “I give you my word of honor, in the main I have not done that sort of thing.” She caught his hand impulsively. “I know you haven't. I'm so glad. Now I will drink to—to you.” She rose and stood before him, a lithe young creature vibrant with life. “Touch your glass to mine. My dear boy! My Christopher!” They drank together. Then Herrick resumed his explanation. “I must tell you a little more, darling. You see I was sorry for this woman, her story was so pathetic. I wanted to help her, if I could, not to harm her. So I sug- gested that we each make a pledge to the other 3 y IOS POSSESSED He was intensely in earnest, but Penelope's eyes were now dancing in mockery. “Oh you reformer! You ridiculous boy!” she laughed. “It's true, I assure you.” “I don't believe it. What was the pledge? No, don't tell me! Tell me if you kept it.” He moved uneasily under her searching gaze, but did not answer. “Did you keep your pledge?” she insisted. “Yes.” “For how long?” He shifted again uncomfortably. “For several months,” he began, “but I must ad- mit—” “No, no!” she interrupted with a swift emotional change. “Don’t admit anything. It was wicked of me to mock you. Come, we will drink to the lady in Phil- adelphial Fill the glasses! To Katherine ! And poor, weak human nature! Katherinel And all our good resolutions!” Pen's eyes teased her lover with a gay diablerie as she slowly emptied her glass, and Herrick's heart quick- ened at the realization that this beautiful woman be- longed to him—she belonged to him. At the same time he was conscious of a vague uneasiness under the in- creasing allurement of her glances. Were there ever such eyes in the world? Was there ever such a woman? Adorable as a saint, dangerous as a siren' “There is one pledge I will never break, Pen,” he FAUVETTE Io9 said tenderly. “I’ll never fail to do every possible thing to make you happy.” “Will you take me back to Paris, Chris? I want to spend a whole year in Paris with you. We'll go to fine hotels along the Champs Élysées, we'll prowl through those queer places in Montmartre, remember? and once you'll take me to a students' ball, won't you, dear? I'd love to dance at a students' ball—with you!” Her eyes burned on him under fluttering black lashes—such long curling lashes! “Let's drink to Paris—toi et moi, tous les deux ensemble, pasº Come!” She snatched up her glass again and emptied it quickly. A spirit of wild gaiety and abandon had caught Penelope—there was no restraining her. They must sit on the divan under that dull blue light, and talk of their love—their wonderful love that had swept aside all barriers—while she smoked another cigarette. Christopher forgot to be afraid—he, too, was young! Wive la joie/ She nestled close to him against the pillows and, as they talked in low tones, he drew her closer, breathing the perfume of her hair. She caught his hand and clung to it, then slowly, restlessly, her fingers moved along his arm. “My love! My love!” she whispered. - “Sweetheart!” he looked deep into her soul, his heart pounding furiously. “It was horrid of me, Chris, to make you promise— that,” she bent close offering him her lips. “Promise what?” he asked unsteadily. 1 Io POSSESSED “Oh, Chris,” she whispered and her soft form seemed to envelope him. “I am yours, yours!” Then silence fell in the room while she pressed her eager mouth to his. “Penelope!” he thrilled deliriously. “Don’t call me Penelope. It's so prim and old fash- ioned. I told you what to call me—Fauvette. That's the name I like. Fauvettel I am your Fauvette. Say it.” Her eyes consumed him. Christopher realized his danger, but he was power- less against the spell of her beauty. “My Fauvette!” he caught her in his arms. “Ah! Ah! Mon cheriſ Wait!” Swiftly she turned off the lights, then darted back to him in the darkness. - At this moment of supreme crisis the door of the apartment opened slowly and, as the light streamed in, a figure entered that came like a gentle radiance. It was Seraphine. CHAPTER XI THE EVIL SPIRIT PENELOPE sprang up from the divan panting with anger. Her hair was dishevelled. Her bare shoulders gleamed in the shadows. She glared at Seraphine. “How dare you come in here?” she demanded in- solently. “What do you want here?” With a smile of infinite compassion Mrs. Walters approached like a loving mother. “My child! My dear child!” she said tenderly. But the mad young creature repulsed her. “No, no l I hate you! Go away!” The new-comer turned reassuringly to Captain Her- rick. “I am Penelope's friend—Seraphine.” “Ha! Seraphine ! I am Fauvette! What do I care for you?” The frantic one snapped her fingers at the other woman. “Penelopel” pleaded Christopher, shocked at her violence. She turned on him in fury. “You fool! You wouldn't take the chance I offered you.” “I will quiet her,” said Mrs. Walters to Herrick. “Don’t be alarmed.” “You can't quiet me. I’ll say anything I damn III THE EVIL SPIRIT II.3 “Have pity on Penelope. It will be counted in your favor.” There were snarling throat-sounds, then these men- acing words: “No 1 I'm going to put Penelope out of business.” “Where is Penelope now?” “She is sleeping. Poor nut!” “She knows nothing about Fauvette?” “Nothing.” “She remembers nothing that Fauvette says?” “Nothing.” There was a long silence in the darkened room while Seraphine prayed. “You know very well that Dr. Leroy can drive you out,” she said presently. “He can't do it. Let him try. Nobody can drive me out. Besides, you won't get Dr. Leroy.” “Why not?” “This other doctor won't have him.” “Dr. Owen P” “Yes. I know damned well how to fix him. I'll tell him some things that will make him sit up and take notice.” “How do you mean you will fix him?” “Never mind. You'll see. If I can't have Herrick, Penelope is never going to have him.” The medium closed her eyes and seemed to listen. “You mean Penelope will never have him because of something you are going to tell Dr. Owen—something about—about chemistry?” she groped for the word. “Ye-es,” unwillingly. I I4 POSSESSED “Dr. Owen will not believe you.” “He will believe me.” “No!” declared Seraphine dreamily. “There are greater powers than you fighting for Penelope.” CHAPTER XII X K C We come now to what has been regarded by some authorities as the most remarkable feature in the case of Penelope Wells, a development almost without par- allel in the records of abnormal psychology. All books on this subject record instances of jealousy or hostility between two recurring personalities in the same indi- vidual. A woman in one personality writes a letter that humiliates her in another personality. A little girl eats a certain article of food while in one person- ality simply because she knows that her other person- ality hates that particular food. And so on. It al- most never occurs, however, that an evil personality will commit an act or a crime that is abhorrent to the individual's fundamental nature. Neither through hypnotism nor through any manifestation of a dual nature will a person become a thief or a murderer unless there is really in that person a latent tendency towards stealing or killing. There is always some germ of Mr. Hyde's bloodthirstiness in the benevo- lence of Dr. Jekyll. But Penelope Wells, under the domination of her Fauvette personality, now entered upon a course that was certain to bring disgrace and sorrow upon a man II5 I 16 POSSESSED she loved with all her heart, a man for whom she had risked her life on the battle field. Here is one of those mysteries that will not be cleared up until we better understand these strange and distressing phe- nomena of the sick brain or the sick soul. In presenting this development it must be mentioned that Dr. William Owen was not only a specialist on nervous diseases but a chemist of wide reputation in the field of laboratory investigation. For a year and a half preceding the end of the war he had held a major's commission in the army and had spent much time in a government research laboratory, studying poison gases. In August, 1918, he had discovered a toxic product of extraordinary virulence, not a gas, but a tasteless and odorless liquid containing harmful bacteria. These bacteria showed great resistance against heat and cold and were able to propagate and disseminate themselves with incredible rapidity through living creatures, rats, earth worms, birds, cattle, dogs, fleas, that might feed upon them or come in contact with them. The deadli- ness of this product was so great, as appeared from laboratory tests, that it was believed all human life might be exterminated in a region intensively inocu- lated (from airplanes or guns) with the liquid. This was only a possibility, but it was an enormously impor- tant possibility. A report on this formidable discovery had been pre- pared by Dr. Owen for the Washington authorities with such extreme secrecy that the chemical formula for the liquid had been indicated simply by the letters X K C I 17 X KC, the product being referred to as X K C liquid. Moreover, the only person, except Dr. Owen, in pos- session of the full facts touching this discovery was Captain Herrick who had assisted the doctor in his investigations. Herrick had been cautioned to guard this secret as he would his life, since there was in- volved in it nothing less than the possibility of pre- venting future wars through the power of its potential terribleness. The bearing of all this upon our narrative was pres- ently made clear as the conflict developed between tor- tured Penelope and the psychic in Roberta Vallis' studio. For some moments the two women eyed each other in hostile silence, which was broken presently by the sound of footsteps in the hall. “Ah! Here comes your doctor!” mocked the fair creature on the divan. “Now watch Fauvette!” The door opened and Dr. Owen, followed by Her- rick, both grave-faced, entered the apartment. Christopher turned anxiously to Seraphine: “What has happened? Is she better?” Mrs. Walters shook her head, but when the young officer looked at Penelope his fears were lessened, for she (was it from dissimulation or weariness?) gave no indication of her recent frenzy, but seemed to be resting peacefully against the cushions. “Let's have a little more light here,” said Dr. Owen, and he turned on the electrics. “I'm afraid you have overtaxed your strength, Mrs. Wells.” Penelope answered gently with perfect self-posses- II 8 POSSESSED sion: “I'm afraid I have, doctor, I'm sorry to give you so much trouble.” And she smiled sweetly at Herrick. The specialist drew up a chair and studied his pa- tient thoughtfully. There was an added austerity in his usual professional manner. “Captain Herrick tells me that you made some rather strange remarks just now?” he said tenta- tively. Mrs. Wells met him with a look of half amused un- derstanding. “Did I?” she answered carelessly, and as she spoke she took up a pencil and made formless scrawls on a sheet of paper. “I suppose he refers to my calling him a fool. It is a little unusual, isn't it?” She laughed in a mirthless way. “Why did you do it?” “I haven't any idea.” “And you spoke unkindly to Seraphine? That isn't like you.” “No? How do you know what I am like?” she an- swered quickly, her hand still fidgetting with the pencil. Dr. Owen observed her attentively and did not speak for some moments. Seraphine and Christopher drew their chairs nearer, as if they knew that the tension of restraint was about to break. “You must realize that you have been under a great strain, Mrs. Wells,” resumed the doctor, “and you are tired—you are very tired.” Her answer came dreamily, absent-mindedly: “Yes, X K C I IQ I am tired,” and, as she spoke, Penelope's tragic eyes closed wearily. But her fingers still clutched the pen- cil and continued to move it over the white sheet. “Look!” whispered Seraphine, “she is making let- ters upside down.” “That's queer!” nodded Owen. “She is writing backwards—from right to left. Hello!” He started in surprise as he saw, on bending closer, that Penelope had covered the sheet with large printed letters— X—K—C, written over and over again. Greatly disturbed, Dr. Owen roused his patient and questioned her about this; but she insisted that she had no idea what she had written or what the letters meant. A little later, however, she acknowledged that this was not true. - “What! You did know what you wrote?” the scien- tist demanded. His whole manner had changed. His eyes were cold and accusing. He was no longer a sym- pathetic physician tactful towards the whims of a pretty woman, but a major in the United States Army defend- ing the interests of his country. “This is a very serious matter, Mrs. Wells, please understand that. You told me just now that you did not know what you wrote on the sheet of paper?” Penelope faced him scornfully. Her cheeks were flushed. Her bosom heaved. “I said that, but it wasn't true. I lied to you. I did know what I wrote.” “You know what those letters mean?” “Yes, I do!” “What do they mean?” I 20 POSSESSED “They mean some kind of poison stuff that you have made for the army.” “How do you know that?” “He told me,” she turned to Captain Herrick who had listened in dumb bewilderment. “How can you say such a thing?” Chris protested. “Because it's true,” she flung the words at him de- fiantly. The young officer went close to her and looked searchingly into her eyes. “Think what you are saying,” he begged. “Re- member what this means. Remember that 3 y She cut in viciously: “You shut up! I have no more use for you. I tell you it's true.” “Don’t believe her, doctor,” interposed Seraphine: “She is not responsible for what she says.” “I am responsible. I know exactly what I am say- ing.” “It is not true, sir,” put in Captain Herrick. “May I add that—” “Wait! Why are you confessing this, Mrs. Wells?” Like a fury Fauvette glared at Christopher. “Because he turned me down. I'm sore on him. He's not on the level.” “Not on the level? Are you speaking of him as a lover or an officer?” “Both ways. He's not on the level at all.” “Oh, Penelope l’’ grieved the heartbroken lover. She eyed him scornfully. “You needn't Penelope me! I said I have no use for you. A Sunday school sweetheart! Ha! I'll tell you something else, doctor, X K C I 2 I I'm not the only one who knows about your X K C stuff.” “Mrs. Wells,” Dr. Owen spoke slowly, “are you deliberately accusing Captain Herrick of disloyalty?” “Yes, I am.” Herrick stiffened under this insult, white-faced, but he did not speak. “He meant to sell this information—for money,” she added. “My God!” breathed Christopher. “Captain Herrick told you this?” “Yes, he did. He said we would go abroad and live together—like millionaires. You did You know damned well you did,” she almost screamed the words at Herrick, then she sank back on the divan exhausted, and lay still, her eyes closed. The doctor's face was ominously set as he turned to his young friend. “Chris, my boy, I need not tell you that I cannot believe this monstrous accusation. At the same time, I saw Mrs. Wells write down those letters that are only known to you and to me. I saw that with my own eyes—you saw it, too.” “Yes, sir.” “And you heard what she said?” “Yes, sir.” “Under the circumstances, as your superior officer, I don't see how I have any choice except to } ) Here Mrs. Walters interrupted: “May I speak?” It is still possible to avert a great disaster.” The doctor shook his head. “You have heard Mrs. 122 POSSESSED Wells' confession. No power on earth can prevent an investigation of this,” he declared with military finality. Seraphine's lips moved in silent prayer. Her face was transfigured as her eyes fell tenderly upon the white-faced, tortured sleeper. “No power on earth, but—God can prevent it,” she murmured and moved nearer to Penelope whose face was convulsed as if by a terrifying dream. Then, with hands extended over the beautiful figure, the psychic prayed aloud, while Herrick and the doctor, caught by the power of her faith, looked on in wondering si- lence. “God of love, let Thine infinite power descend upon this Thy tortured child and drive out all evil and wick- edness from her. Open the eyes of these men so that they may understand and be merciful. Oh, God, grant as a sign / Let Thy light descend upon us.” Captain Herrick has always maintained that at this moment, as he watched his beloved, his heart clutched with horrible forebodings, he distinctly saw (Dr. Owen did not see this) a faint stream of bluish radiance play- ing over her from the direction of Seraphine, and en- veloping her. It is certain that Penelope's face im- mediately became peaceful and the convulsive twitch- ings that had shaken her body ceased. “Look!” marvelled Christopher. “She is smiling in her sleep.” Seraphine turned to Dr. Owen, with radiant coun- tenance. “It is God's sign. Come! Penelope will awaken X K C I 23 soon and must find herself alone with her lover. It will be the real Penelope. You will see. Let us draw back into the shadows. You stay near her,” she mo- tioned to Herrick, then turned down the lights except a yellow-shaded lamp near the sleeper. “And, presently, watching with breathless interest, these three saw Penelope stir naturally and open her eyes. “Why, how strangel” she exclaimed. “I must have gone to sleep. Why did you let me go to sleep, Chris?” she questioned her lover, with bright, happy eyes in which there was no trace of her recent perturbations of spirit. “It's all right, Pen,” he said reassuringly. “You were a little—a little faint, I guess.” She held out her hand lovingly and beckoned him to her side. “Sit by me here. I had such a horrible dream. I'm so glad to see you, dear. I'm so glad to be awake. Oh!” She started up in embarrassment as she saw that her dress was disarranged. “What's the matter with my dress? What did I do? What has happened? Tell me. You must tell me,” she begged in confusion. “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he soothed her. “It was the excitement of all that talk—that ass of a poet.” Penelope passed her hand over her eyes in a troubled effort to remember. It was pathetic to see her groping backwards through a daze of confused impressions. The last clear thing in her mind was exchanging rings with her lover. How long had they been here? What I24 . POSSESSED | time was it? What must Roberta think of them, stay- ing up in her apartment all alone? Christopher assured her that what Roberta thought (she and her gay friends were still dancing down- stairs) was the very least of his preoccupations, and he was planning to turn his sweetheart's thoughts into a different channel when Seraphine came forward out of the shadows followed by Dr. Owen. “Why, Seraphine!” exclaimed Penelope in astonish- ment. “Where did you come from? And Dr. Owen P’’ Seraphine greeted her friend lovingly and kissed her, but there was unconcealed anxiety in her voice and manner. “Dear child, something very serious has happened. You were ill and—Dr. Owen came to help you. He wants to ask you some questions.” “Yes?” replied Penelope, her face paling. Then the doctor, with scarcely any prelude and with almost brutal directness, said: “Mrs. Wells, I want you to tell me why you accused Captain Herrick of dis- loyalty.” Poor Penelope She could only gasp for breath and turn whiter still. Accuse her dear Christopher whom she loved and honored above all men of any wrong or baseness l God in heaven l If she had done this she wanted to die. “I—I didn't,” she stammered. “I couldn't do such a thing.” But the doctor was relentless. “If what you said to me a few minutes ago is true,” he went on coldly, “it will be my duty, as a major in the United States Army, X K C 125 to order the arrest of Captain Herrick for treason against the government.” At this startling assertion Penelope fell back as if struck down by a mortal wound, and lay still on the couch, a pitiful crumpled figure. The others gathered around her apprehensively. “You were very harsh, sir,” reproached Herrick. “It was the best thing for you and for Mrs. Wells,” answered Dr. Owen, bending over his patient, who lay there with dark-circled eyes closed, oblivious to her surroundings. “At least I have no doubt as to her sin- cerity, I mean as to the genuineness of this shock.” The doctor was sorely perplexed as he faced this situation. What was his duty? Here was a definite charge of extreme gravity made against a young man of unimpeachable character by the very last per- son in the world who would naturally make such an accusation, that is the woman who loved him. Must he assume that the patient's mind was affected? The idea that Christopher Herrick could be capable of a treasonable act was altogether preposterous, a thing that Owen rejected indignantly, yet there was the evi- dence of his own senses. Penelope had written those letters that were not known to anyone except Herrick and himself? And she knew what they meant. How did she know? Was it possible Chris had told her? But, even so, why had Penelope betrayed and de- nounced her lover? At this moment Seraphine turned to the doctor in gentle appeal. y 126 POSSESSED “Don’t you see what the explanation is?” she whis- pered with eloquent eyes. “It seems to be a case of dual personality,” he an- swered. “It's more than that, doctor.” The scientist moved impatiently, then, remembering what he had seen at Seraphine's apartment, and the re- covery of his wife's jewels, he softened the skepticism of his tone. “You think it is one of those cases you told me about of—possession? That's absurdl” “Why is it absurd? Doesn't the Bible speak of pos- session by evil spirits? Is the Bible absurd? Did not Christ cast out evil spirits?” “I suppose so, but—times have changed.” “Not in the spirit world. Oh no!” “Anyway, the thing is not capable of proof.” “Yes, it is, if you will not shut your mind against the evidence. Oh,” she pleaded, “if you only had faith enough to let Dr. Leroy treat Penelope! What harm could it do? You say yourself this is a case of dual personality. Do you know how to cure that trouble? Do you?” she insisted. “Perhaps not,” he admitted, “but—that is not the only thing. It must be made clear to me how Mrs. Wells came into possession of an extremely precious secret of the war department. The medium's face shone with an inspired light as she answered: “That is the work of an evil entity, doctor, I know what I am saying. You must let me prove it. Look at that young woman—honored by all X K C I 27 the world.” She pointed to Penelope resting peace- fully. “Think what she has donel Think of her bravery, her kindness, her sincerity. Look at Captain Herrick—the soul of honorſ You know him, doctor, I tell you it is impossible that these two are guilty of treason.” Dr. Owen could not resist the power of this appeal. He was deeply moved in spite of himself. “You say you can prove that Mrs. Wells is possessed by an evil spirit? How can you prove it?” “Give me permission to take Penelope to Dr. Leroy's hospital for a few days—will you?” she begged. “You will see for yourself that I am right.” “See for myself? Great heavens ! You don't mean to tell me that ?” the doctor stopped short before the vivid memory of those white shapes that this woman once before had so strangely evoked. Seraphine stood silent in deep concentration, then she said slowly: “Yes, that is what I mean. I believe that God, for His great purposes, will let you see this evil spirit.” CHAPTER XIII TERROR (Statement by Seraphine) AT the request of Dr. William Owen I am writing this account of what happened last night after Roberta Vallis' party. What happened during the party was terrible enough, but what came later, after the doctor and the guests had gone and we three women were alone together, Roberta and Penelope and I, was in- finitely worse. I am told to put down details of the night, as far as I can remember them, so that these may be kept in the records of the American Occult Society. There never was a clearer case of an evil spirit working de- structively against a living person, although other noble souls have faced a similar ordeal, especially returned soldiers and Red Cross workers, and some have not survived it. Remember those pitiful, unaccountable suicides of our bravest and our fairest. In every case there was a reason / Penelope did not go home after the party, she was in no condition to do so, but stayed at Roberta's, and I stayed with her, at least I promised to stay, for I knew I28 TERROR I29 [. she needed me. I knew that the greatest danger was still threatening her. When the guests had gone we took off our things (Roberta let me have her little spare room on the mez- zanine floor and she gave Penelope her own big bed- room with the old French furniture), then a Russian singer, a tall blond, Margaret G , came in from the next apartment and we talked for a long time. Pen and Bobby smoke cigarettes and drank cordials; they drank in a nervous, hysterical way, as if they felt they must drink, and, strangely enough, the more they drank the more intensely sober they became. I understood this / Such talk! Miss Gordon had just returned to Amer- ica by way of Tokio. She had been in London, Paris, Petrograd, Cairo; and, everywhere, as a result of the war, she said, she found a mad carnival of recklessness and extravagance. Everywhere the old standards of decency and honor had been set aside, greed and lust were rampant, the whole human race seemed to be swept as with a mighty tide, by three fierce desires— for money, for pleasure, for sensuality. And God had been forgotten I, who know how hideously true this is, tried to show these women why it is true, especially Penelope, whose eyes were burning dangerously, but they were not in- terested in my moralizing. “Let us eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die,” mocked Margaret G , emptying her glass, and Roberta joined her, while Penelope hesitated. “Wait! For God's sake, wait!” I caught the poor I 30 POSSESSED child's arm and the wine spilled over the carpet. Never shall I forget the look in her eyes as she drew back her head and faced me. I realized that the powers of evil were striving again for the soul of Penelope Wells. Poor, tortured child ! “Why shouldn't we eat, drink and be merry?” she demanded boldly, and I was silent. How could I explain to this dear, misguided one that, even as those rollicking words were spoken, I felt the clutch of a cold foreboding that I know only too well. For tomorrow we die! The Russian singer presently withdrew as if she were annoyed at something, saying to Roberta that she would see her later. It seems they had arranged that Roberta should pass the night in Margaret G 's apartment so that Penelope might have the large bed- TO Orn. It was now after two o'clock and I suggested that we all needed sleep, my thought being for Penelope; but she was aggressively awake, and Roberta, as if bent on further excitement, started a new subject that came like a challenge to me. She began innocently enough by putting her arm around Penelope, as she sat on the bedside between the draped curtains—I never saw her so beautiful—and saying sweetly: “You don't know how terribly I'm going to miss you, Pen, when you get married.” Married! That word, so full of exquisite senti- ment, seemed to stir only what was evil in Penelope. Her face hardened, her eyes narrowed cynically. “Good old Bobby! I'm not so sure that I shall TERROR I31 marry at all. I'm a little fed up with this holy matri- mony stuff. Perhaps I want my freedom just as much as you do.” For a moment I caught her steady defiant gaze, then her eyes dropped and shifted. I knew that Penelope was gone. After this outburst the other one was restrained enough for a time and did not betray herself by vio- lent utterances. Apparently she was listening atten- tively to Roberta Vallis' views about life and love and the destiny of woman, these views being as extreme and selfish as the most wayward nature could demand. I realized that the moment was critical and concen- trated all my spiritual power in an appeal to Penelope, praying that God would bring her back and make her heed my words. I spoke gently of God's love for His children and said that we need fear no evil within us or about us, no dangers of any sort, if we will learn to draw to us and through us that healing and protecting love. We can do this, we must do this by establishing a love-current from God to us and from us to God, by keeping it flowing just as an electrician keeps an elec- trical current flowing—every day, every hour. It is not enough to pray for God's love, we must keep our spiritual connections right, exactly as an electrician keeps his electrical connections right, if we expect the current to flow. We cannot make our electric lamps burn by merely wishing them to burn, although there is a boundless ocean of electricity waiting to be drawn upon. We must know how to tap that ocean. Similar- ly, the power of God's infinite love will not descend 132 POSSESSED upon us simply because we need it or ask for it. We must ask for it in the right way. We must establish the right love-connections. We must set the love- current flowing, and keep it flowing, from God to us and from us back to God; and this can be done only by confessing our sins, by cleansing our hearts of evil thoughts and desires. Not even God Himself can make the sun shine upon those who wilfully hide in the shudows/ I saw that they were listening impatiently and more than once Roberta tried to interrupt me, but I persisted and said what I had to say as well as I could, with all the love in my heart, for I knew that my precious Penelope's fate was hanging in the balance. When I had finished Roberta got up from the bed where she had been sitting and lighted a cigarette. “Now, then, it's my turn,” she began. I could see her eyes shining with an evil purpose. “You’ve heard her pretty little speech, Pen. You've heard her talk about the wonderful power of God's love, and a great rigamarole about how it guards us from all evil, if we say our prayers and confess our sins and so on. I say that is all bunk, and I can prove it. Take women— they've always said their prayers more than men, al- ways confessed their sins more than men, always been more loving than men, haven't they? And what's the result? Has God protected them from the evils of life more than men? He has not. God has let women get the worst of it right straight along through the cen- turies. Women have always been the slaves of men, haven't they?—in spite of all their love and devotion, TERROR I33 in spite of all their prayers and tears? How do you account for that?” She flashed this at me with a wicked little toss of her head and Penelope chimed in: “Yes, I'd like to know that myself.” But, when I tried to answer, Roberta cut me off with a new flood of violence. “I’ll let you know how I account for it,” she went on angrily. “It's because all the churches in the world, all the smug preachers in the world, like you, have gone on shooting out this very same kind of hot air that you've been giving us; and the women, silly fools, have fallen for it. But not the men / The women have tried to live by love and prayer and unselfishness; they have said: “God's will be done,’ ‘God will protect us'; and what is the result? How has God protected the women, who did believe? And how has He punished the men who refused to believe? He has made the men masters of the world, lords of everything; and He has kept the women in bondage, hasn't He?—in factory bondage, in nursery bondage, in prostitution bondage? Is what I say true, or isn't it true? I ask you, I ask any person who has got such a thing as a clear brain and is not simply a mushy sentimentalist, is what I say true?” Again I tried to answer, but again she cut me short and rushed on in a blaze of excitement. “So it has been through all the pitiful history of women, until a few years ago, the poor, foolish crea- tures began to wake up. At last women are getting rid of their delusions and emerging from their slavery— why? Because they have begun to imitate men, and go straight after the thing they want, the thing that is I34 POSSESSED worth while, by using their power as women, and not depending upon the power of love or the power of God or any other power. Believe me, the greatest power in the world is the power of women as women, and we may as well use it to the limit, just as men would. We can get anything we want out of men by learning to use this power, and, I tell you, Pen, there isn't anything better in this good old United States than money. So far men have had the money, they've ground it out of the poor and the ignorant, especially women, but now women are going after money and getting it, just like the men. Why not? If I want a sable coat and a limousine and a nice duplex apartment, why shouldn't I have them, if I can get them without breaking the law? And I can get them; so can you, Pen, if you'll play the cards you hold in your hand. Haven't I done it? You don't see me eating in Childs restaurants to any great extent these days, do you? And I'm not worrying about clothes, or about paying my rent.” The poison of her words was stealing into Penelope's soul and defiling it, yet I was powerless to restrain her. “Listen to this, child, and remember it, women are the equals of men today in every line, and they're going to have their full share of the good things of life. They're going to have freedom, and that means the right to do as they please without asking the permis- sion of any man. Women are going to have their own latch keys and their own bank accounts. They're going to cut off their hair and put pockets in their skirts, and have babies, if they feel like it, or not have them, if they don't feel like it. The greatest revolution the TERROR I35 world has ever known is going on now, it's the revolu- tion of women. Let the men open their eyes! How did women get the suffrage? Was it by praying for it? Was it by the power of love? Was it by the mercy of God? No! They got the suffrage by fighting for it, by going out and hustling for it, just the way men hustle for what they want. If women had depended on the power of God's love to give them the suffrage, they wouldn't have got it in a million years.” Of course, those were not Roberta's exact words, but I am sure I have given the substance of them, and I cannot exaggerate the defiant bitterness of her tone. She was a powerful devil's advocate and I saw that wavering Penelope (if it still was Penelope) was deeply impressed by this false and wicked reasoning. She looked at me out of her wonderful eyes—unſlinching, cruel, then the balance swung against me. “I believe you are right, Roberta Vallis,” she spoke with raised forefinger and a show of judicial considera- tion. “It’s a bold speech for a woman, I never heard the thing put that way before, but—I'm damned if I see what the answer is except 35 “Oh, Penelope!” I interrupted, trying in vain to reach her with my eyes. “You shut up,” she answered spitefully. “I said I'm damned if I see what the answer is except your answer, Bobby, that women have always been fools and dupes —dupes of religious superstition invented by men for the benefit of men and never accepted by men.” Roberta applauded this. “Bravo! little one! I'll tell that to Kendall Brown. JWomen have always lºc, * TERROR - I39 touch of a hand or the sound of a bell. It was some- thing that could not be resisted. I was bathed in an atmosphere of terror. I was afraid to a degree that made my breath stop, my heart stop. . . . The passage leading to Penelope's bedroom was not more than six yards long, but it seemed as if it took me an hour to traverse it. I could scarcely force my lagging steps, one by one, to carry me. And every hideous moment brought me the vision of Penelope lying on that curtained bed, her beautiful face distorted, her eager young life—crushed out of her. Oh God, how I prayed 1 When at last I came into the bedroom I faced an- other struggle. There was absolute silence. No sound of breathing from the bed, although I saw a woman's form under the sheets. But not her face, which was hidden by the curtain. For a long time I stood beside that bed, rigid with fear, before I found courage to draw the curtain back. At last I drew it back and— there lay Penelope, sleeping peacefully, quite unharmed. I was stunned with relief, with amazement and—sud- denly her eyes opened and she gave a wild but joyful cry and flung her arms around my neck, sobbing hysteri- cally. “Oh! Oh! My dear, dear Seraphine! You came to me. You forgave me. You did not abandon your poor Penelope.” She clung to me like a child in fran- tic, pitiful terror. Then she told me that she too had gone through a frightful experience. When Roberta had left her, about an hour before, to sleep in the adjoining apart- I40 POSSESSED ment, as they had arranged with Margaret y Penelope had tried to compose herself on her pillow, but she had scarcely fallen into a doze when she was awakened by the same sense of horrible fear that had overcome me. She was about to die—by violence. An assassin was coming—he was near her. She could hardly breathe. It was almost beyond her power to rise from the bed and search the apartment, but she did this. There was nothing, and yet the terror persisted. She huddled herself under the bed-covers and waited, saying her prayers. And when I entered the apartment and came down the passage—so slowly, so stealthily! —she knew it was the murderer coming to kill her. And when I paused at her bedside—how long it was before I drew the curtain!—she almost died again, waiting for the blow. Of course I did not leave Penelope after this, but comforted her and prayed with her and rejoiced that her madness was past. Then we tried to sleep, locked in each other's arms, but, shortly after six, there came a timid knock at the door and, all of a tremble, Jeanne entered, Penelope's French maid who had come with her mistress to Roberta's party and had occupied a small room overhead, and she told us with hysterical sobs that she had not closed her eyes all night for ghastly visions of Penelope murdered in her bed. Now it is easy to scoff at premonitions and haunting fears, but there can be no doubt that on this night an evil spirit was present in Roberta's apartment, a hid- eous, destructive entity that came and—wavered in its deadly purpose against Penelope, then—manifested to TERROR I4 I — Roberta Vallis in the adjoining apartment, for when I went in there a little later I found Roberta—she who had mocked God and defied the powers of evil—I found her in her bed, her face convulsed with a look of indescribable terror—dead/ The hotel doctor reported it as a case of heart fail- ure, but Doctor William Owen, who, has an honest mind, acknowledged that all this was beyond his under- standing. This tragedy made him realize at last that there may be sinister agencies in us and about us that cannot be dealt with by mere medical skill. And, at my pleading, he directed that Mrs. Wells be placed immediately in the care of Dr. Edgar Leroy. Thank God, my precious Penelope will receive psychic treatment before it is too late. There is no other hope for her but this. POSSESSED I43 , Here is a thought that makes me waver—what if death is not annihilation? What if I find myself in some new state where there are other horrors and ter- rors—worse than those that I have suffered? The Voices tell me this—taunting me. And then Chris- topher! He loves me so much l He will be so sorry, if I do this While I was hesitating—it was just before dawn— Seraphine came to me. She talked to me, soothed me, and, at last, she told me the truth about myself. She said that all my troubles come from this, that I am possessed by an evil spirit! Literally possessed! This is what she was leading up to when she told me about the great company of earth-bound souls that are hover- ing about us since the war, striving to come back! The extraordinary part of it is that I no longer re- gard this as a fantastic impossibility. I no longer re- ject it. I am not terrified or horrified by the thought, but almost welcome it, since it offers an explanation of what has happened that does not involve madness. I am either possessed by an evil spirit or I am mad, and of these two I prefer the evil spirit. That, at least, is a definite cause carrying with it the hope of a cure, for we read that evil spirits were cast out in olden times, and they may be again. One thing convinces me that what Seraphine says is true—I did something at Roberta's party that my own soul or spirit, even in madness, could never have done. I accused Christopher of committing a crime. I ac- cused him of treason | Christopher! My love! Sera- I44 POSSESSED phine bears witness to this. I must be possessed by an evil spirit! This would account for something else that happened last night. I was just falling into a troubled sleep when—no, I cannot tell itſ + * >k Christopher sent me a gorgeous basket of roses this morning with his love. He loves me in spite of the devil and all his angels—he said that to Seraphine. How wonderful! I wish they would let me see him, and yet—I am ashamed. How can I ever face Chris- topher again? There is something strange about Roberta Vallis— I feel it. She did not come in to speak to me or say good-bye before I left her apartment—that morning. Why not? I asked Seraphine if there was anything the matter with Roberta—had I done anything to of- fend her?—but the only answer I could get was that Roberta is not well. Seraphine is keeping something back—I am sure of it. Seraphine knows of two cases where evil spirits have been cast out. One was a New York silversmith who had never shown any talent for art, but who suddenly began to paint remarkable pictures, which sold for good prices. He was desperately unhappy, however, be- cause he felt sure that he was becoming insane. He had visions of scenes that he was impelled to paint and he suffered from clairaudient hallucinations. Two well known neurologists declared that he was a victim of paranoia and must soon be confined in an asylum. POSSESSED I45 This man was brought back to a normal condition by Dr. Leroy's treatment, and the first step in his improve- ment was when he grasped the idea that his abnormal symptoms were due to possession. This satisfied his reason and drove away his fears (I understand that), especially when he was assured that an evil spirit can be driven out by the power of God's love as easily as an evil germ or humour of the body can be driven out by the same agency. What a blessed thought! Seraphine says we must obey the safeguarding rules with which God has surrounded the operation of His love, if we would enjoy the blessed guardianship of that love. We must not expect God to change His rules for us. We must cleanse our hearts of evil/ The other case of possession was not a patient of Dr. Leroy, but came under Seraphine's notice while she was attending a sufferer. This was Alice E , a. charming, refined girl about twenty, the daughter of well-bred people who lived in Boston. They were somewhat stricter in family discipline than most Amer- ican parents, consequently Alice, from babyhood up, was guarded and protected in every possible way. She and her mother were almost inseparable companions. There was absolutely no way in which Alice could have become acquainted with people of the underworld, or heard the vile expressions that she afterward used in an evil personality. Her face showed unusual inno- cence and purity, her disposition was affectionate and Serene. But when she was about seventeen Alice began to have strange spells of irritability; she would grow sul- POSSESSED I47 family were admitted to the chamber and looked upon Alice's pillowed face, sweetly smiling, beautiful and un- sullied, as they had always known her and cherished her. God’s love had prevailed/ xk × × When Seraphine left me my mind had become calm and hopeful and I had given up my wicked purpose. I fell asleep praying that God would save me from the powers of darkness, that His love would watch over me and protect me from all evil, especially from that dream on the Fall River steamboat, the one that has tortured me so many nights. I awakened suddenly to the knowledge that a terri- ble thing had happened, an incredible thing. I was alone in my bedroom, and yet I was not alone/ I had escaped one degradation only to face another. I was awake, fully awake; yet I was more abominally tempted than ever I was in my dreams. With all the strength of my soul I fought against the aggressions of a real presence that—that touched me! I cried out, I strug- gled, I begged God to save me or else to let me die. And then Seraphine came to me again in my agony. But before she came the Voices sounded worse than ever, nearer about me than ever. Why was I such a fool? Why was I so obstinate in resisting my fate? Was I not Their appointed sacrifice? Why not be re- signed to the inevitable? Why not . . . . They laughed and fluttered close to me with vile murmurings while I prayed against them with all my strength. I48 POSSESSED “God of love, guard Thy child; God of power, save Thy child,” I prayed. A harsh, cruel voice broke in to tell me that Roberta Vallis was dead, she died of terror because she had defied Them, as I had defied Them; and, in three days, the Voice said that I, too, would die of terror. Three days remained to me, three nights with my dream and a hideous awakening, unless— Then Seraphine opened my bedroom door and I sobbed in her arms a long time before I could speak. “Is—is Roberta dead?” I gasped. She looked at me strangely and I knew it was true. “Yes, dear,” she answered gently, and tried to com- fort me again, but it was in vain. “I have only three days to live, Seraphine,” I said solemnly. “Three days and three nights!” Then I told her what the evil spirit had said, and she listened with grave attention. I 50 POSSESSED troubled her, and, gradually, she grew calm. I think I can help her.” In spite of himself Dr. Owen was favorably im- ressed both by the man and his surroundings. There was nothing garish or freakish or Oriental about the place, which was furnished with the business-like sim- plicity of an ordinary doctor's office. And Leroy cer- tainly had a fine head—a clean-shaven face with heavy black brows under which shone grave, kindly eyes that twinkled now and then in good-natured understanding. He was about ten years younger than his colleague. “May I ask, doctor, if there is any scientific evidence to prove the existence of this healing spiritual power that you use or think you use?” In spite of himself, Owen put this question a little patronizingly. “There are the results—the cures. And there is the evidence of Christianity. Spiritual power is the basis of Christianity, isn't it?” A deeper note sounded here, and the hard-headed materialist began to realize that he was in the pres- ence of an unusual personality, developed by suffering and struggle, a man who had finally reached a haven of sure and comforting belief. There was great kindness in this face as well as strength. “Nothing else? Is there no evidence similar to that which convinces us that the X-rays really exist?” Leroy thought a moment, then he spoke with a quiet impressiveness that was not lost upon Dr. Owen. “There is evidence that would probably convince any fair-minded person who was willing to give to the investigation time enough to get results. The X-rays I 52 POSSESSED figures were luminous, and among them were occasional luminous white figures. As weeks passed and his ef- forts continued, there came a noticeable increase in the number of these moving shapes until, when the doctor desired it, he could make them swarm everywhere, over the walls, the pictures, the bookcases. “Wait!” interrupted Owen. “Do you see these blue shapes or luminous figures at all times? Do you see them now?” “No. I only see them when I desire to see them— when I prepare myself to use them—for a case.” Leroy told how the phenomena continued to increase in frequency and in intensity, how gradually he felt an unmistakable sense of power growing in himself, as if he had somehow tapped a vast source of energy, a kind of spiritual trolley-line, and he was now impelled to use this power. He made his first trial on a poor man who had suffered for years from headaches that seemed incurable. “Stretch out on that reclining chair, close your eyes, don't think of anything,” ordered the experimenter. Then he laid his hands on the man's forehead and con- centrated his mind in the psychic way he had adopted. Almost immediately the blue shapes appeared in great numbers, and began to pour themselves in fine, pulsing streams, like a purplish mist, over the patient's brow and head and shoulders, over his whole body until he was completely enveloped in them, laved by them, pene- trated by them. - “That was a crude beginning,” Leroy went on, “but it drove away those obstinate headaches for three DR. LEROY I 53 months; then a second laying on of hands completed the cure. After that, as months passed, other persons were cured in the same way—especially nervous cases. Whatever these blue streams are, they benefit the pa- tient in most cases. One woman told me, during a treatment, that she saw blue shapes about her!” “You hypnotized her,” declared Owen. “Possibly. I did not intend to.” “What I want to know is, have you ever treated a case like this one of Mrs. Wells?” “Yes, I treated a young woman in Mrs. Wells' pro- fession, a trained nurse. She came of good family and was very intelligent, but she was driven toward certain forms of depravity. It was pretty bad. All efforts to change her had failed and, at last, her mother in des- peration decided to try psychic treatment.” “And you cured her?” “Yes. She is now doing useful work in Washington for the Red Cross.” - “How did you cure her—it wasn't simply by the lay- ing on of hands, was it?” “No. I recognize the necessity of getting at the forgotten or concealed causes of these abnormalities, just as Freud does in his psycho-analysis, but, instead of following the uncertain trail of dreams, I conceived the idea of discovering the truth by clairvoyant revela- tion. I engaged Mrs. Seraphine Walters to assist me in my work. She has astonishing psychic gifts and ” he hesitated. “Yes p” “In her entranced condition, Mrs. Walters discov- I54 POSSESSED ered things about this young woman, painful things that had been hidden for years and—well, I was able to relieve her of her fears and check her waywardness,” he concluded abruptly. “But the details? Tell me more about this case. What were the painful things that Mrs. Walters dis- covered?” Leroy shook his head. . “What's the use? I can state the result of my treat- ment, but if I go into details, if I try to make you under- stand the cause of this young woman's evil desires and how I overcame them ” he paused, his eyes shining with an inspired light. “Don’t you see, doctor, you and I do not speak the same language. You are always in opposition. You have no faith. It's your narrow train- ing.” “Narrow?” snorted the other. “Yes, you scientists are childishly narrow. You be- lieve in atoms and ions and electrons that you have never seen and never will see, but if anyone mentions secrets of the soul that control human happiness, you laugh or sneer.” “Not necessarily. I suppose you refer to your the- ory of possession by evil spirits. If you could only furnish any evidence 3 * “It isn't my theory. It's as old as Christianity, it's a part of Christianity. As to evidence, my dear sir, you are blind to evidence. The young lady I speak of was despaired of by everybody, she was on her way to an insane asylum, two alienists had declared her case hopeless, yet, thanks to psychic treatment, she was re- 156 POSSESSED Owen leaned forward in concentrated attention. “Why was she in such a state at half past twelve rather than at any other time?” “Because the change in her takes place then, the change into her other personality.” “Fauvette? You saw her—in that personality?” “Yes. I saw her. Besides, she told me about it in advance. She knows what is going to take place, but is powerless against it. Every night at exactly half past twelve there comes a violent period that lasts until one o'clock. Then she falls into a deep sleep, and a dream begins, always the same dream, a horrible dream that terrifies her and drains her life forces. She had this dream last night, she will have it again tonight, and again tomorrow night. She believes that she will die tomorrow night, just as her friend died!” “Good God! What a pity!” exclaimed Owen. “Why does she think she is going to die tomorrow night?” - “Her Voices tell her so, and she believes them.” “She told you this?” “Yes.” The older man tapped impatiently on his chair-arm. “And you? What did you say to her? You surely do not believe that Mrs. Wells will die tomorrow night? You know these are only the morbid fancies of an hysterical woman, don't you?” Leroy rose quietly and took down a volume from the bookcase. “How we love to argue over the names of things!” he answered gravely. “I don't care what you call the DR. LEROY I 57 influence or obsession that threatens this lady. I ask, What do you propose to do about it? Do you believe that Mrs. Wells will die tomorrow night? Do you?” Owen moved uncomfortably on his chair, frowned, snapped his fingers softly and finally admitted that he did not know. “Ah! Then is it your idea to wait without doing anything until tomorrow night comes, and see if Mrs. Wells really does die at half-past twelve, and then, if she does, as the Vallis woman died, to simply say: “It's very strange, it's too bad!' and let it go at that? Is that your idea? Will you take that responsibility?” “No, certainly not. I don't mean to interfere with your plans. I told you I have left this matter entirely in your hands,” answered the skeptic, his aggressive- ness suddenly calmed. “Very well. Take my word, doctor, fear is terribly destructive, it may cause death. Listen to this case, cited by a French psychologist.” He turned over the pages. “Daughter of an English nobleman, engaged to a man she loves, perfectly happy; but one night she is visited, or thinks she is, by her dead mother who says she will come for her daughter the next day at noon. The girl tells her father she is going to die. She reads her Bible, sings hymns to the accompaniment of a gui- tar, and just before noon, although apparently in ex- cellent health, she asks to be helped to a large arm chair in her bedroom. At noon exactly she draws two or three gasping breaths and sinks back into her chair, dead. That shows what fear will do.” But his adversary was still unconvinced. DR. LEROY I 59 How do you know that insanity is not caused by evil possession?” “Hold on 1 I can't answer all those questions,” laughed Owen and now his manner changed quite charmingly as he made an amende honorable. “I'm a stubborn old fool, doctor. I ought to have had more sense than to get into this argument. What I care about is to have this dear lady restored to health and happiness. There !” He held out his hand. “For- give me! The more miracles you can work for her cure, the better I shall like it.” At this Leroy relented in his turn. “Dr. Owen, I will not conceal from you that Mrs. Wells is in great peril. I have no more doubt that she will die tomorrow night, unless she consents to do something that I have already indicated to her as necessary, than I have of your presence in this room.” “Extraordinaryl Do you really mean that? What is this thing? Is it a definite thing, or is it some—some spiritual thing?” Dr. Leroy sighed and shook his head. “It's hard for you to believe, isn't it? I suppose you want me to give Mrs. Wells a dose of medicine or put a hot water bag at her feet. No, doctor, it's much more difficult than that.” The veteran pondered this in puzzled exasperation. “If Mrs. Wells does this definite thing that you have told her to do, will she be saved?” “Yes, I think so,” Leroy spoke confidently. There came a knock at the office door, but both men I6o POSSESSED were so absorbed in their conversation that they paid no attention to it. “Is there any doubt about her doing this definite thing that will save her?” “That's the trouble, she fights against doing it with all her strength. She says she cannot do it. But I tell her she must do it!” The knock sounded sharper. An attendant had come with a message from Seraphine asking Dr. Leroy to come to her at once. She was upstairs in Mrs. Wells' sitting-room. Something serious had happened. “Tell Mrs. Walters that I will be right up,” he said. “You had better wait here, doctor.” Leroy glanced at his watch. “It's half-past nine. We have three hours.” IRRESPONSIBLE HANDS 165 deadly Fauvette hour was at hand. And to this end he had arranged to have the clocks set back half an hour. “It can't do any harm, can it, sir?” he urged with a lover's ardor, “and it may succeed. Dr. Leroy says it's fear that's killing her. Well, we'll drive away her fear. I've fixed it at the church down the street, the one that chimes the quarter-hours, to have that clock put back. And the clocks in the house are easy. What do you think of it, sir?” he asked eagerly. The old doctor frowned in perplexity. “I don't know, Chris. You'll have to put this up to Dr. Leroy. He's a wonderful fellow. I've had my eyes opened tonight or my soul—something.” The two men smoked solemnly. “I believe we're going to save Penelope, my boy— somehow. It's a mighty queer world. I don't know but we are all more or less possessed by evil spirits, Chris. What are these brainstorms that overwhelm the best of us? Why do good men and women, on some sudden, devilish impulse, do abominable things, criminal things, that they never meant to do? We doctors pretend to be skeptical, but we all come up against creepy stuff, inside confession stuff that we don't talk about.” He was silent again. “There was a patient of mine in Chicago, a tough old rounder,” Owen resumed, “who changed overnight into the straightest chap you ever heard of—because he went down to the edge of the Great Shadow—he was one of the passengers saved from the Titanic. He I66 POSSESSED told me that when he was struggling there in the icy ocean, after the ship sank, he saw white shapes hover- ing over the waters, holding up the drowning/ I never mentioned that until tonight.” They smoked without speaking. “I—I had an experience like that myself, sir,” ven- tured Christopher. “I’ve never spoken of it either— people would call me crazy, but—that night when I lay out there in front of Montidier, among the dead and dying, I saw a white shape moving over the battle- fields.” “You did?” “Yes, sir. It was the figure of a woman—coming towards me—she seemed to be leading Penelope. I saw her distinctly—she had a beautiful face.” Silence again. Dr. Leroy joined them presently and, on learning of Captain Herrick's plan, he made no objections to it, but said it would fail. “We are dealing with an evil power, gentlemen, that is far too clever to be deceived by such a trick,” he assured them; but Christopher was resolved to try. Leroy then described Seraphine's narrow escape and showed them the automatic writing, the message from Penelope's mother, not the evil message; whereupon Christopher, in amazement, gave the corroborative testimony of his battlefield experience. The psychol- ogist nodded gravely. At five minutes of twelve (correct time) Seraphine sent down word that Mrs. Wells had awakened and was asking eagerly for Captain Herrick. IRRESPONSIBLE HANDS 167 “Go to her at once, my young friend,” directed Le- roy. “Do all you can to encourage her and make her happy. Tell her there is nothing to fear because her mother's pure soul is guarding her. Show her this message from her mother. And whatever happens do not let your own faith waver. I assure you our pre- cautions are taken against everything. God bless you.” When Christopher had gone, Leroy told Dr. Owen about the second communication in automatic writing which he had withheld from Captain Herrick. “This is undoubtedly from the evil spirit,” he said, and he read it aloud: “I was one of many loosed upon earth when the war began. I rode screaming upon clouds of poison gas. I danced over red battlefields. I entered one of the Gray ones, an officer, and revelled with him in ravished villages. Then I saw Penelope going about on errands of mercy, I saw her beautiful body and the little spots on her soul that she did not know about, and when her nerves were shattered, I entered into her. Now she is mine. I defy YOU to drive me out. Already her star burns scarlet through a mist of evil memories. I see it now as she sleeps! I shall come back tonight and make her dream.” “You see what we have against us,” Leroy said, and his face was sad, yet fixed with a stern purpose. And now the old materialist asked anxiously, not scoffingly: “Doctor, do you really believe that this spirit can drag Mrs. Wells down?” “That depends upon herself. Mrs. Wells knows 168 POSSESSED what she must do. I have told her. If she does this, she will be safe. If not -> His eyes were inexpressibly tragic, and at this mo. ment the neighboring chimes resounded musically through the quiet sanitarium—a quarter to twelve! CHAPTER XVII THE HOUR OF THE DREAM WHEN Seraphine led Captain Herrick into the bed- room where Penelope lay propped up against pillows, her dark hair in braids and a Chinese embroidered scarf brightening her white garment, it seemed to Christopher that his beloved had never been so ador- ably beautiful. Gallantly and tenderly he kissed the slim white hand that his lady extended with a brave but pathetic smile. Seraphine withdrew discreetly. The lovers were alone. It was an oppressive night, almost like summer, and Penelope, concerned for her sweetheart's comfort, insisted that he take off his heavy coat, and draw up an easy chair by her bedside. They tried to talk of pleasant things—the lovely flowers he had sent her—how well she was looking— but it was no use. The weight of the approaching crisis was upon both of them. “Oh, Chris, how we go on pretending—up to the very last!” she lifted her eyes appealingly. “We know what has happened—what may happen, but ” she drew in her breath sharply and a little shiver ran through her. “I—I'm afraid.” 169 THE HOUR OF THE DREAM r71 and just have you to myself. That isn't very wicked, is it, sweetheart?” - He stroked her hand fondly and looked deep into her wonderful eyes. Penelope sighed. “I—I suppose it will all be over soon—I mean we shall know what's going to happen, won't we?” It was her first open reference to the peril hanging over them, and again, involuntarily, she glanced at the clock. Five minutes to twelve It was really twenty- five minutes past twelve l—but she did not know that. “Darling, I don't believe anything is going to hap- pen. Our troubles are over. You are guarded by this beautiful love—all these prayers. I've been saying prayers, myself, Pen—for both of us.” “Dear boy!” “I want you to promise me one thing—you love me, don't you? No matter what happens, you love me?” Her eyes glowed on him. “Oh yes, with all my heart.” “You’re going to be my wife.” “Ye—es, if—if-” “All right, we'll put down the ifs. I want you to promise that if this foolish spell, or whatever it is, is broken tonight—if nothing happens at half-past twelve, and you don't have this bad dream, then you'll forget the whole miserable business and marry me tomorrow. There! Will you?” “Oh, Chris | Tomorrow?” “Yes, tomorrow ! I'm not a psychologist or a doc- tor, but I believe I can cure you myself. Will you promise, Pen?” THE HOUR OF THE DREAM 173 “It isn't about that steamboat?” “It is, darling. I must tell it. Fix the pillows be- hind me. There ! Sit close to me—that's right. Now listen! This dream is a repetition of what happened on the boat. It would have been much better if I had told you all about it long ago.” “Why?” She hesitated. “Because—it is not so much the memory of what I did that worries me, as the fear that—you will be ashamed of me or—or hate me—when you know.” Herrick saw that her cheeks were flushed, but at least her mind was occupied, he reflected, and the min- utes were passing. “I could never be ashamed of you, Penelope.” “If I were only sure of that,” she sighed, then with a great effort, and speaking low, sometimes scarcely lift- ing her eyes, she told her lover the story of the Fall River steamboat. The main point was that her husband, a coarse sén- sualist, whom she despised, had, during the year pre- ceding his death, accepted a chambre apart arrange- ment, that being the only condition on which Penelope would continue to live with him, but, on the occasion of this journey down from Newport, he had broken his promise and entered her stateroom. “It was an oppressive night, like this,” she said, “and I had left the deck door ajar, held on a hook. I was trying to sleep, when suddenly I saw a man's arm pushed in through the opening. I shall never I 74 POSSESSED forget my fright, as I saw that black sleeve. Do you understand what I mean? Look!” Gathering her draperies about her, Penelope sprang lightly out of bed and moved swiftly to the bedroom door, while Christopher, startled, followed the beauty of her sinuous form. “His arm came through—like this,” she stepped out- side the bedroom, and, reaching around the edge of the door showed her exquisite bare arm within. “See? Then my husband entered slowly and—as soon as I saw his eyes,” her agitation was increasing, “I knew what to expect. His face was flushed. He had been drinking. He looked at me and—then he locked the door—like this. I crouched away from him, I was frozen with terror, but—but ” she twined her hands in distress. “Oh, you'll hate me ! I know you'll late me!” “No !" “I tried so hard to resist him. I pleaded, I wept. I begged on my knees—like this.” “Please—please don't,” murmured Christopher, as he felt the softness of her supplicating body. “But Julian was pitiless. He caught me in his arms. I fought against him. I struck him as I felt his loath- some kisses. I said I would scream for help and—he laughed at me. Then 3 y She stopped abruptly, leaving her confession unfin- ished, and, standing close to her lover, held him fas- cinated by the wild appeal of her eyes and the heaving of her bosom. Suddenly Christopher's heart froze with terror. The THE HOUR OF THE DREAM I 75 dreaded change had come. This glorious young crea- ture whose glances thrilled him, whose flaunted beauty maddened him, was not Penelope any more, but the other, Fauvette, the temptress, the wanton. “Chris l’” she stepped before him splendid in the in- tensity of her emotion. Her garment was disarranged, her beautiful hair spread over her white shoulders. She came close to him—closer—and clung to him. “Why—why did you lock that door?” he asked un- steadily. “I did not notice,” she answered in pretended inno- cence, and he knew that she was lying. “Do you mind, dear? Do you mind being alone with me?” Then, before he could answer, she offered her lips. “My love! My husband! Kiss me!” It was too much. He clasped her in his arms and held her. He knew his danger, but forgot everything in the deliciousness of her embraces. “Penelope!” She drew back in displeasure. “No! I'm not Penelope. Look at me! Look!” What was it the soldier read in those siren eyes— what depths of allurement—what sublime degradation? “Fauvette l" he faltered. - “Yes, your Fauvette. Say it!” He said it, knowing that his power of resistance was breaking. He was going to yield to her, he could not help yielding. What did the consequences matter? She was too beautiful. Then slowly, musically, the neighboring chimes re- sounded. 176 POSSESSED A quarter to one! And Christopher remembered. God! What should he do? He straightened from her with hands clenched and eyes hardening. In a flash she saw the change. She knew what he was thinking and pressed close to him, offering again her red lips. “No 1" “Don’t be a fool! You can save her, your goody- goody Penelope. It's the only way. I will leave her alone, except occasionally—I swear I will.” “No! You're lying!” It seemed as if he repeated words spoken within him. “Lying?” Her eyes half closed over slumberous fires. “Do you think Penelope can ever love you as I can—as your Fauvette can? Share her with me O1" ” she panted, “or you will lose her entirely. Penelope dies tomorrow night, you know that, un- less 77 Frantically she tried to encircle him with her arms, but Herrick repulsed her. Some power beyond him. self was strengthening him. “Oh!” she cried in fury, “you don't deserve to have a beautiful woman. Very well! This is the end!" She darted to the bedroom door and unlocked it. “Come! I'll show you.” Deathly pale, she led the way into the sitting-room and, going to Christopher's coat, she drew out a small flask. “There! This is the danger she wrote about. I CHAPTER XVIII PLAYING WITH FIRE WHAT happened on the last day, or rather the last night, of Mrs. Wells' psychological crisis may be re- garded either as a purely subjective phenomena, a dream or a startling experience of the soul, or as some- thing that came from without, a telepathic or spiritual- istic manifestation. In any case note must be made of the testimony of Dr. William Owen, an extremely ra- tional person, that after midnight on this occasion he distinctly saw scarlet lights moving about the darkened room near Penelope's couch. The patient passed the day quietly (after sleeping late) and was advised not to see her lover, although Dr. Leroy did not insist upon this. Mrs. Wells agreed, however, that any conversation with Christopher might be harmfully agitating, and was content to send him a loving message, together with a sealed communication that was not to be opened unless—unless things went badly. “Do you think I am going to pull through tonight, doctor?” she asked tremulously about three in the afternoon. “I am sure you will, Mrs. Wells, if you will only I79 PLAYING WITH FIRE 183 “But I had sworn that never—never—it was so— ignoble! I despised him. Then I despised myself.” The medium listened thoughtfully. “You trust me, don't you, Pen? You know I want to do what is best for you?” She passed her arm af- fectionately around her distressed friend. “Oh, yes. You have proved it, dearest. I’ll never be able to repay your love.” Mrs. Wells began to cry softly. “Please don't. We need all our courage, our intelli- gence. It doesn't matter how wrong you have been in the past, if you are right in the present. The trouble with you, dear child, is that you cannot see the truth, although it is right under your eyes.” “But I am telling the truth,” Penelope protested tearfully. “I am not keeping anything back.” “You don't mean to keep anything back—but y The psychic's deep-set, searching eyes seemed to read into the soul of the fair sufferer. “You showed me parts of your diary once—what you wrote in New York after your husband died— before you went to France. There were four years— you remember?” “Yes.” “How would you interpret those four years, Pen? You were not worried about money—Julian left you enough to live on. You had no children, no responsi- bilities. You were in splendid health and very beau- tiful. What was in your mind most of the time? How did you get that idea of adopting a child in France? y 184 POSSESSED It must have come gradually. How did it come? Why did it come 2'' “Because I was—lonely.” “Is that all? Think!” There was silence. “Why did you dance so much during those four years?” “I like dancing. It's good exercise.” “And all those allurements of dress—clinging skirts, low-cut waists, no corsets—why was that?” “I hate corsets. I don't need them. I can't breathe in corsets.” “And those insidious perfumes?” “I don't see what that has to do with it.” “Those are little indications. But take the main point, your desire to have a child—of your own. Do you really love children, Pen? Have you ever shown that you do? Did you try to have children when you were married?” “Not his children | God forbid!” Seraphine hesitated as if dreading to wound her friend. “I must go on, dear. We must get to the bottom of this. Suppose you had done what you intended to do? And had come back to America with an adopted child? And suppose no one had ever known the truth, about it—do you think you would have been happy?” Penelope sighed wearily. “Is a woman ever happy?” “Wait! Let us take one point. You have always loved men's society, haven't you? That's natural, PLAYING WITH FIRE 185 they're all crazy about you. Well, do you think that would have changed just because you had a child? Do you?” “No–no, I suppose not.” “You would have been just as beautiful. You would have gone on wearing expensive clothes, wouldn't you? You would have kept up the old round of teas and dinners, theatres, dances, late suppers—with a train of men dangling after you—flirting men, married men —men who try to kiss women in taxicabs—you know what I mean?” Penelope bit her red lips at this sordid picture. “No,” she said, “I don't think I would have done that. I would have changed, I intended to change. That was why I wanted a child—to give me something worthy of my love, something to serve as an outlet for my emotions.” º The medium's eyes were unfathomably sad and yearning. “Is that true, Pen? A child calls for ceaseless care —unselfishness. You know that? Did you really long for a child in a spirit of unselfish love? Did you?” But Penelope was deaf to this touching appeal. “Certainly,” she answered sharply. “I wanted a child to satisfy my emotional nature. What else do you think I wanted it for?” Mrs. Walters' face shone with ineffable tenderness. “That is what I want you to find out, my darling. When you have answered that question I believe the barrier that keeps your dear mother away will be 186 POSSESSED removed. Now I am going to leave you to your own thoughts. God bless you!” At ten o'clock Dr. Leroy directed Mrs. Wells to prepare herself for the night and told her she was to sleep in a different room, a large chamber that had been made ready on the floor below. As Penelope en- tered this room a dim light revealed some shadowy pieces of furniture and at the back a recess hung with black curtains. In this was a couch and two chairs and on the wall a familiar old print, “Rock of Ages,” showing a woman clinging to a cross in a tempest. “Please lie down, Mrs. Wells,” said Leroy with cheerful friendliness. You don't mind these electrics?” He turned on a strong white light that shone down upon the patient and threw the rest of the room into darkness. Then Penelope, exquisitely lovely in her white robe, stretched herself on the couch, while the doctor and Seraphine seated themselves beside her. “This light will make you sleep better when I turn it off,” explained the physician. Then he added: “I will ask Dr. Owen to come in a little later.” Eleven o'clock! Not yet had the patient spoken and time was passing, the minutes that remained were numbered. Mrs. Wal- ters essayed by appealing glances to open the obstin- ately closed doors of Penelope's spiritual consciousness, but it was in vain. Half past eleven The spiritual healer rose, his face set with an un- alterable purpose. PLAYING WITH FIRE 187 “I will turn down the light, Mrs. Wells,” he said quietly. “I want you to compose yourself. Remem- ber that God is watching over you. You are God's child. He will guard you from all evil. Hold that thought strongly as you go to sleep.” Penelope closed her eyes. Her face was deathly pale in the shadows. The minutes passed. “I—I am afraid to go to sleep,” the sufferer mur- mured, and her hands opened and closed nervously as if they were clutching at something. “Think of your mother, dear,” soothed Seraphine. “Her pure spirit is near you, trying to come nearer. Oh God, keep Penelope, Thy loving child, under the close guardianship of her mother's exalted spirit in this her hour of peril.” Twelve o'clock by the musical, slow-chiming bells! Then at last Penelope spoke, her face transfigured with spiritual light and beauty. “Doctor-I-I know I have only a few minutes,” she began haltingly, but almost immediately became calm, as if some new strength or vision had been ac- corded her. “I realize that my troubles have come from selfishness and—sensuality. I have deceived my- self. I blamed my husband for encouraging these de- sires in me, but—I knew what kind of a man my hus- band was before I married him. There was another man, a much finer man, who asked me to be his wife, but I refused him because—in a way I—wanted the kind of husband that—my husband was.” She went on rapidly, speaking in a low tone but dis- tinctly: I88 POSSESSED “In the years after my husband's death I was— playing with fire. I craved admiration. I wanted to go as near the danger point—with men—as I dared. I deceived myself when I said I wanted a child—of my own—to satisfy my emotional nature. What I really wanted was an excuse—to-give myself—to a man.” Some power beyond herself upheld the penitent in this hard ordeal. Her eyes remained fixed on the Cross to which she seemed to cling in spirit even as the woman pictured there clung to the Cross with outstretched arms. There was an impressive silence, then the spiritual teacher, his voice vibrant with tenderness and faith, spoke these words of comfort: “Penelope, you have cleansed your soul. You can sleep without fear. When your dream begins you will know that the powers of love are guarding you. You are God's child. No harm can befall you, for you will reach out to the Cross, you will reach out to the Cross!” “Yes,” she murmured faintly. Her eyelids fluttered and closed. She drew a long sigh of relief, then her breathing became regular and her face took on an ex- pression of lovely serenity. She was sleeping. And then the dream! Penelope was in that tragic stateroom once more. She heard the throb of engines and sounds on the deck overhead—the echoing beat of footsteps, while the steady swish of the waters came in through the open window. She turned restlessly on her wide brass bed trying to sleep. How oppressive was the night! She looked long- I90 POSSESSED to struggle. She was clasped in her husband's arms and already was turning willing and responsive lips to his, when her eyes fell upon the porthole, through which the distant lighthouse was sending her a message —it seemed like a message of love and encouragement. She saw the mighty shaft towering serenely above dark rocks and crashing waters, and watched it change with beautiful gradations of light into a rugged cross to which a woman was clinging desperately. The waves beat against her, the winds buffeted her, but she cried to God for help and—then, as she slept Penelope re- called Dr. Leroy's words and, still dreaming, stretched out her hands to the Cross, praying with all her strength that her sins might be forgiven, that her soul might be cleansed, that she might be saved from evil by the power of God's love. Instantly the torture of her dream was relieved. The brutal arms that had clasped her fell away. The ravisher, cheated of his victim, drew back scowling and slowly faded from her view, while from a distance a white figure with countenance radiant and majestic ap- proached swiftly and Penelope knew it was the pure spirit of her mother coming to save her, and presently on her brow she felt a kiss of rapturous healing. “My child!” came the dream words, perfectly dis- tinct, although they were unspoken. “God will bless you and save you.” Penelope smiled in her sleep and her soul was filled with inexpressible peace. “I saw the mother's exalted spirit hovering over her child,” Seraphine wrote of this clairvoyant vision. “I I PLAYING WITH FIRE I9 I saw the evil entity, leering hideously, go out of Penel- ope in a glow of scarlet light. I knew that the wicked dream was broken. My darling was saved.” An hour passed, during which the two doctors and the medium watched anxiously by the sleeping patient. Finally the young woman stirred naturally and opened her eyes. - “Oh, Dr. Leroy" she cried joyfully. “It is true— what you said. It stopped—the dream stopped. And my mother came to me in my sleep. She kissed me. She blessed me. Oh!” Penelope glanced eagerly about the room. Leroy greeted her with grave kindness. “Your troubles are all over, Mrs. Wells. You need never have any more of these fears.” “Is that really true?” “Yes, I am quite sure of what I say.” “How wonderful!” He bowed gravely. “God's love is very wonderful.” Again the radiant eyes seemed to search for some one. Penelope glanced appealingly at Seraphine. “I understand, dear,” beamed Mrs. Walters. “He is waiting outside. He will be so happy,” and a mo- ment later Christopher entered. CHAPTER XIX PRIDE (Fragments from Penelope's Diary) Paris, Three Months Later. It is three months since I wrote this diary, three lonely months since I said good-bye to Christopher, or rather wrote good-bye, for I should never have had the courage to leave him, if I had tried to give him my reasons—face to face. I have never seen him or heard from him since that terrible night at Dr. Leroy's when the evil cloud was lifted from my soul and I knew and remembered—everything/ I have never heard from Seraphine. They do not even know where I am, they must not know—that is part of my plan, but it is frightfully hard. I pray for strength to be reconciled to my life of loneliness and to find comfort in good works; but the strength has not come to me. Every day I think of Christopher and the separation from him grows harder and harder. Life is not worth living. :: >k >k I am perfectly sane and normal, just as I was before my hallucinations. No more voices, or fears, or wicked I92 PRIDE I95 miliation and gracefully accept forgiveness? I sup- pose some women would take it all simply, like a grate- ful patient cured of an illness. Alas! that is not my nature. >k :k × How little we know ourselves! We all wear masks of one kind or another that hide our true personalities even from ourselves. How will a woman act in sud- den peril? In a moral crisis? In the face of shat- tering disgrace? Let the most beautiful wife and mother realize that some painful chapter in her life is to be opened to the world—what price will she not pay to avert this scandal? Julian had a friend who on a certain night stood be- fore a locked door with an officer of the law. His wife was on the other side of that door—with a com- panion in dishonor. The husband was armed. He was absolutely within his rights. They broke down the door. And then Not one of those tragic three could have told in advance what would happen when that door crashed in. As a matter of fact the woman alone was calm—coldly calm. “Yes,” she said, “I am guilty. Now shoot! Why don't you shoot? You are afraid to shoot!” Which was true. The husband was afraid; and the lover was more afraid; it was the erring wife who cut the best figure. But who could have foreseen this dénouement? xk >k #: 196 POSSESSED After all I only did those abominable things because I was ill—when I was not myself; whereas now I am well, and the evil has passed from me. Besides, I only showed that wicked side of my nature to Chris- topher, through my love; it is inconceivable that I could ever have acted that way with another man. Christopher knows that. He knows there is no pos- sible doubt about that. How much difference does this knowledge make to him—I wonder. >k >k >k I am going to leave Paris. I am too unhappy here. It seems there is a great need for nurses at Lourdes— that strange miracle place where pilgrims go to be healed—and I have volunteered for service. If the sick are really cured by miracles I don't see why they need nurses; but never mind that. It will give me a change and I may see some unfortunate men and women who are worse off than I am. Oh, if God would only work a miracle so that I can have Christopher and make him happy! But that can never be. Why not? Why do I say that after what has happened to me? Was it not a miracle that saved me from those hideous evils? Then why not other miracles? >k :k >k At Lourdes. Two Weeks Later. Speaking of miracles, I am living among them. I am working in the Bureau de Constatations where the miraculés—those who are supposed to have been miraculously healed—are questioned and examined by PRIDE 197 doctors, Catholics, Protestants, Agnostics, Atheists, who come from all over the world to investigate these cures from the standpoint of a religion or pure science. What sights I have seen! Men and women of all ages and walks of life testifying that the waters of the sacred grotto have freed them from this or that malady, from tumors, lameness, deafness, blindness, tuberculosis, nervous trouble and numerous other afflictions. By thousands and tens of thousands these unfortunates crowd here from the four corners of the earth, an end- less procession of believers, and every year sees scores of the incurable cured, instantly cured—even the scepti- cal admit this, although they interpret the facts differ- ently. Some say it is auto-suggestion, others speak of mass hypnotism, others regard it as a scientific phenom- enon not yet understood like the operation of the X-rays. And many wise men are satisfied with the simple explanation that it is the work of God, mani- fested today for those who have faith exactly as in Bible times. xk x: x}: I was stabbed with poignant memories this afternoon when a tall black-bearded peasant told the doctors that his father, who accompanied him, and who had been in- sane, a violent neurasthenic, shut up in an asylum for four years, had been restored by the blessed waters to perfect health and had shown no abnormality of body or mind for eight years. These statements were veri- fied by scientists and doctors. Eight years! If I really believe in the permanent 198 POSSESSED recovery of this poor man, as the doctors do, why am I doubtful about my own permanent recovery? The answer is that I am not doubtful for myself, but for Christopher. He might reason like this, he might say to himself—he is so loyal that he would die rather than say it to me: “I know Penelope has been re- stored to her normal condition of mind, but that nor- mal condition includes a strong inherited and developed tendency towards—certain things,”—my cheeks burn with shame as I write this. “How do I know that this tendency in her, even if she remains herself, will not make trouble again—for both of us?” How could Christopher be sure about this? He could not be sure/ So I did right to leave him. * THE MIRACLE 2OI pallid-faced, emaciated, suffering, dying, brought here to supplicate for help when all other help has failed them. “Seigneur, nous vous adorons !” chanted a priest with golden voice and ten thousand tongues responded: “Seigneur, nous vous adorons!” “Jesus, Fils de Marie, ayez pitie de nous” came the inspired cry. “Jesus, Fils de Marie, ayez pitie de nous” crashed the answer. “Hosanna/ Hosanna au Fils de David!” “Hosanna! Hosanna au Fils de Davidſ” thundered the multitude, and the calm hills resounded. It was an immense, an indescribable moment, not to be resisted. I felt myself literally in the presence of God, and choking, almost dying with emotion, I waited for what was to come. Suddenly at the far end of the crowd a great shout- ing started and spread like a powder-train, with a violent clapping of hands. “A miracle! A miracle!” the cries proclaimed. They told me afterwards that five miraculous cures were accomplished at this moment, but I knew nothing about it. My eyes were closed. I had fallen to my knees in the dust and was sobbing my heart out, not in grief but in joy, for I knew that all was well with me now and would be in the days to come. I knew that Christopher would be restored to me, and that I would be allowed to make him happy. There would be no more doubt or fear in either of us—only love. I knew this! 2O2 POSSESSED As I knelt there filled with a spirit of infinite faith and serenity, it seemed as if, above the tumult of the crowd, I heard my name spoken gently—“Penelope 1" I knew, of course, that it could not be a real voice, for I was a stranger here, yet there was nothing dis- turbing to me in this illusion. It came rather like a comforting benediction, as if some higher part of me had inwardly expressed approval of my prayerful as- pirations, and had confirmed my belief that Christopher would be restored to me. “Penelope!” the voice spoke again, this time with unmistakable distinctness, and now I opened my eyes and saw Seraphine standing before me. “Seraphine ! Where did you come from? I thought you were in America—in New York.” Smiling tenderly she helped me to my feet and led me away from the multitude. “Let us go where we can talk quietly,” she said. “We will go to the hospice, where I am staying,” I replied, not marvelling very much, but more than ever filled with the knowledge that God was guiding and protecting me. “This has been a wonderful day for me, Seraphine,” I told her when we came to my room, “the most won- derful day in my whole life.” “I know, dear,” she answered calmly, as if nothing could surprise her either. Then I explained everything that had happened— why I had left America so suddenly, why I had felt that I must never see Christopher again. “But you don't feel that way any more?” she asked THE MIRACLE 2O3 me with a look of strange understanding in her deep eyes. “No,” said I, “everything is changed now. My fears are gone. I see that I must count upon Chris- topher to have the same faith and courage that I have in my own heart. Why should I expect to bear the whole burden of our future? He must bear his part of it. The responsibility goes with the love, doesn't it? I saw that this afternoon—it came to me like a flash when the procession passed. Isn't it wonderful? “Dear child, the working of God's love for His children is always wonderful. This is a place of miracles”—she paused as if searching into my soul— “and the greatest miracle is yet to come.” I felt the color flooding to my cheeks. “What do you mean?” “I must go back a little, Penelope, and tell you something important. You haven't asked about Cap- tain Herrick.” “Is he—is he well?” I stammered. She shook her head ominously. “No. He is far from well. You did not realize, dear, what an effect that letter of yours would have upon him. It was a mortal blow.” I tried to speak, but I could not; my bosom rose and fell with quick little gasping breaths, as if I was suffo- cating. “There was no particular illness,” my friend con- tinued, “just a general fading away, a slow discourage- ment. He had no interest in anything, and about a 208 POSSESSED “Just one thing more—please. It won't make any particular difference, doc, and I want to say it. I want you to be sure to tell her this—write it down. Tell her two things. One is that there isn't any argument about my loving her because I am dying for her—now— that's a fact. There isn't anything else I want to live for if I can't have Penelope. The other thing is that ” He paused as a violent spasm of coughing shook his wasted body, and again the doctor told him to be quiet, but he gave no heed. “The other thing is—be sure to tell her this—that I would sooner have lived with Penelope—I don't care how many devils she was possessed with—than with all the saints in the calendar. I loved her—” He struggled to raise himself and then lifting his voice in a supreme effort, “I loved her good or bad. I—I couldn't help loving her. There—that's all. Let me sign it.” This was too much for me. As I saw my dear love tracing his name with painful strokes, I could control myself no longer and rushed out of the darkness to him, feeling that I must cry out wildly against his leaving me. I must fight the grim shadows that were envelop- ing him. I must keep him for myself by the fierce power of my love. Just then a great glare from the torches filled the chamber and Christopher's eyes met mine. I stood speechless, choked with emotion, and as I tried to force my will against these obstacles of weakness, the cry of the pilgrims resounded from the streets below, a vast soul-stirring cry: THE MIRACLE 209 “Hosanna! hosanna au fils de David!” At this I fell on my knees by the bedside and buried my face in my hands. I realized suddenly that it was not for me to dispute God's will even for this life that was so dear to me, even for our great love. Once more I must fight my selfish pride and yield everything into God's keeping for better or for worse. But with all my soul I prayed, not daring to look up: “Dear God, save him Give him back to me.” Then I felt Christopher's hand on my head, resting there lovingly. “Penelope!” he said. “Chris I’” Down in the street the lines of fire swept past in a molten sea while the roar of worshipping voices came up to me: “Hosanna, hosanna au fils de David!” And still I prayed, with my head buried in my arms: “Save him! Dear God, save him and give him back to me!” And God did. THE TRUTH ABOUT WOMEN 2 II enlightened, may avoid the mistakes I made and be spared the consequences of these mistakes. Dear Chris! His judgment encourages me, and yet How fully shall I speak, so that my words may do good, not harm? I can only have faith in my honesty of purpose, and hold to my belief that, in spite of my limitations, I have a message to deliver that will be helpful. Yes, I must deliver this message. God will not allow so sincere a motive to fail. Perhaps the reason for all my suffer- ings and mistakes, the reason for my existence was that I should deliver this message. ARE CERTAIN WOMEN PREDESTINED TO UNHAPPINESS THROUGH THE INFLUENCE OF THE STARs 2 Soon after my deliverance from evil, Seraphine cast my horoscope (I wonder why she never did this be- fore?), and now much that was previously inexplicable in my life is made clear to me. She says that astrology is not a cheap form of trickery, but a recognized field of knowledge and investigation. From the earliest times wise men have emphasized the influence of the stars upon human lives—for good or ill. I like to believe this. It gives one a broader and more charitable view of one's fellow creatures, of their sins and weaknesses, to realize the presence about us of these vast and mysterious forces. My horoscope, with its queer phraseology, reads: “Your Neptune is in evil aspect to your Venus, which makes you attract men almost irresistibly.” 2I4 POSSESSED knows a woman of fifty—she is a grandmother and a most estimable person—who has always had and still has this power of attracting men violently to her. On one occasion this woman was in a railway station in New York, waiting for her son, when a fine looking man ap- proached her and, lifting his hat, asked if she could direct him to the train that would soon leave for Chi- cago. She told him in her well-bred way, and he left her; but a few minutes later he returned and said with intense feeling that he had never believed in love at first sight, but now he did. He was compelled to be- lieve in it now. When she drew back he told her that he was a widower, a man of means, living in the West, that he could give her the best references and—the point was that his infatuation for her was so great that he begged her to consider whether she would be willing to marry him. He would do everything in his power to make her happy, but declared that he could not and would not try to live without her another day. Knowing her horoscope the woman did not get angry at this presumption, but gently declined the offer, and begged the man to leave her. He bowed and with- drew, but came back once again after she had joined her son and explained to the astonished young man his hopes and aspirations toward the mother. Where. upon, as the woman still refused, he finally left, to all appearances broken-hearted. I have had one experience of this sort myself that shows how even the noblest man may suddenly suffer an infatuation capable of sweeping him on to disaster. THE TRUTH ABOUT WOMEN 215 It was at the time of my husband's death—during days when he lay half conscious in the hospital follow- ing his automobile accident. A distinguished clergy- man, Dr. B , who had known Julian slightly, visited him here and in this way made my acquaint- ance. And he fell violently in love with me. For months during my early widowhood he saw me almost every day and wrote me impassioned letters, declaring that I was the only woman in the world for him, I was his true mate, he could not live without me, he was ready to give up everything for me, to go away with me to some distant city—any city—and begin life all over again. This clergyman was a man of fifty, a brilliant preacher, widely honored and loved, who had never in his life, he assured me, committed any deliberately sinful act such as this would be, for he was married to a fine woman who had been his faithful companion for many years and had borne him two children—two boys. All this he was ready to renounce for me— reputation, honor, duty. He said it was fate. His desire for me was too strong to be resisted. The sin, the disgrace, the pain that he would cause—none of these could keep back this man of God from his evil purpose. ARE woMEN DISLOYAL To OTHER woMEN ? In many pages of my diary (written sincerely at the time) I present the conventional view of sex offences, the comforting view to women. 218 POSSESSED with a strong sex nature; they believe in God, in spirit- ual mysteries; they are deeply stirred by religious music and by the ritual of worship; they love the architec- tural impressiveness of a church, the stained glass win- dows far up among majestic arches, the candles, the incense, the far-away chanting. “I was brought up an Episcopalian, but when I am tired or discouraged I often go into St. Patrick's Cathedral—it is so beautiful—and say my prayers there. At any hour I find others praying, men and women—they come in off Fifth Avenue quite naturally and cross themselves and bow to the Altar and kneel straight up—they don't just lean forward the way we do. I love to imitate them—cross myself and go down on one knee and dip my fingers in the font of Holy Water as I come away. Sometimes I wish I was a Catholic and could confess my sins. It might help 771 e. “I do not think religion keeps women back very much from doing what they want to do or have re- solved to do in love affairs. It is a comfort, an emo- tional satisfaction rather than a restraint. They come tripping in on their high heels with all their smiles and finery, and they trip out again, unchanged in their sen- timental natures. A woman will go to church in the afternoon and flirt with another woman's husband in the evening. She will respond devoutly after the Com- mandments ‘Lord have mercy upon us, and incline our hearts to keep this law,' even though she knows that her heart is inclined to break one of these laws.” This is true in the main, although I believe now that THE TRUTH ABOUT WOMEN 22 I lives would reveal it. Could a million women be in physical pain, say from starvation, without all the world knowing it? Is pain of the soul less torturing than pain of the body? The fact is that these women are not in spiritual pain. They regard what they have done (often regretfully) as a result of impossible con- ditions in the world today, a world controlled by men. I can speak about these things with a certain author- ity, since, for years, I sympathized with the self-indul- gent point of view, in fact I lived in an artistic and Bohemian milieu where many of my friend:#followed the line of least resistance. I may even gºlfess that I might have gone with the current, had Iºot seen the harm and unhappiness that resulted. It does not pay to be self-indulgent. “LEAD US NOT INTO TEMPTATION” The suspicion that many women are disingenuous in regard to these irregularities of conduct was forced upon me some years ago in a conversation with Ken- dall Brown, who, for all his eccentricities, is a keen observer of life. I give the conversation at some length just as I wrote it down in my diary: “Kendall insists that women like me—he calls me a Class A woman which makes me furious for I'm afraid I am one—are never really on the level in sentimental affairs. If we were on the level, he says, we would not make such a fuss about the grand conspiracy of men against our virtue. There would be no point to THE TRUTH ABOUT WOMEN 22 r the laughter. Furthermore, I thank God that my re. generation has not taken away my sense of humor. One of the great troubles with neurasthenic women is that they do not laugh enough. I wrote the following about a year after my hus- band's death: “We women are irrational creatures. Our emotions control us, and these emotions change from day to day, from hour to hour. We never know how we will act under any given circumstances—that may depend upon some man.” The truth is that the attraction which draws a man and a woman together in what they call platonic friend- ship always has something of the physical in it—on one side or the other. Or on both sides. Women will not admit this, but it is true. They talk about the in- tellectual bond that joins them to a man—what a precious interchange of thoughts! Or the spiritual bond—such a soulful and inspiring companionship— nothing else, my dear! I used to talk that way myself about Jimsy Brooks before my husband died. He was my unchangeable rock of defense whenever the sub- ject of platonic friendship came up. Other men might fail and falter, make fools of themselves, seek oppor- tunities for—nonsense, but Jimsy was Old Reliability. I could tell him everything, even my troubles with Julian, I could trust him entirely. Alas! One day I received this warning from Seraphine: “My beloved Penelope, you are riding for a fall! I have had you in mind constantly since you told me of your new friendship with Mr. R I know you J 226 POSSESSED intend to be truly platonic and I can see you smiling as you recall your many years' friendship with Jim Brooks to prove that such a thing is possible. But, my dear, take warning in time. While it has ap- parently worked out in that case, I am certain it is only the thought of losing “even that that he has' which has prevented Jimsy from telling you of his love long ago. Your new playmate may cause you many heartaches before the game is played out. Think it over.” Dear old Seraphine ! How well she knows the hu- man soul! A month later I wrote this in my diary: “Seraphine was right. My bubble has vanished into thin air. Jimsy Brooks has declared his love for me and a wonderful thing has gone out of my life for- ever. I had always felt so perfectly safe with Jimsy. When I think of the all-day picnics that we two used to go on together and the outrageous things I have done, I blush all over. “I remember our trip to Bear Mountain and the sparkling stream that beckoned me into its depths. I wanted to wade in it, to sit on one of the smooth round stones in the middle and in general to behave like a child. All of which I did, for there was only Jimsy to see and he didn't matter in the least. He never so much as glanced at my bare feet and legs when I splashed through the ripples with my dress pinned up! “I remember how I kissed his hand where a fish barb had torn it. . . . ‘Kiss it, make it well,” and all the while I must have been hurting him cruelly. God 228 POSSESSED where there is no danger is where there is no physical attraction. I might have been safe enough with some anemic saint, but not with one who had pulsing red blood in his veins—certainly not! Here is a characteristic episode written before I married Julian, during those months of hard struggle in New York: “Last night Kendall Brown talked to me like an angcl. “‘I'll give you a case in point, Pen,' he was saying. ‘A beautiful woman like you, an exquisite, lithe creature is sitting on a sofa under a soft light, leaning against pillows—just as you are now; and a man like me, a poor adoring devil, a regular worm, is sitting at the other end of the sofa looking at this woman, drinking in her loveliness, thrilling to the mysterious lights in her eyes, the caressing tenderness of her voice and all the rest of it. This man wants to reach out and take this woman in his arms—draw her to him—press his lips to hers. But he doesn't do it, because—well, she wouldn't stand for it. Besides, it isn't right. Perhaps she is a married woman. Perhaps he is married. “‘Now what I want to know is why this chap can't behave himself and regard his fair friend as he would an exquisite rose in a garden—somebody else's gar- den. Why can't he say to himself: “This woman is one of God's loveliest creatures, but she does not be- long to me. I can look at her, I can rejoice in her beauty, but I musn't touch her or try to harm her.” Why can't he say that to himself? Isn't it a wicked 230 POSSESSED you did, you know darn well you did. Why did you let your cheek brush against mine? Come, be honest, if you can. You're laughing, you adorable little devil —you expected me to kiss you.’ “‘Impertinent!' I said. “You do yourself too much honor, sir.’ “‘I say you expected me to kiss you.’ -- “No." “‘Liar!' He wrinkled up his nose amusingly. “I suppose I was a liar. I did expect Kendall Brown to—well—not to kiss me necessarily, but to make it perfectly clear that he wanted to. It was a ridiculous and unnecessary bit of posing on his part to act as if he did not want to. The French have a saying that a pretty woman always expects a suitor to know just when to be lacking in respect.” How SHALL A WOMAN SATISFY HER HEART's LoNELI- NEss? I quote from my diary without comment another significant conversation that took place during the early months of my widowhood. How I resented, at this time, any suggestion that I was inclined to venture too near the sentimental danger line ! And yet . “Tonight I had a long talk with Kendall Brown on the same old subject—what is a woman to do who longs for the companionship of a man, but does not find it? “Kendall always says disconcerting things, he is THE TRUTH ABOUT WOMEN 231 brutally frank; but I like to argue with him because I find him stimulating, and he does know a lot about life. “‘The trouble with women like you, Pen," he said, ‘is that you are not honest with yourselves. You pre- tend one thing and end by doing something quite dif- ferent; then you say that you never intended to do this thing. Why can't you be consistent?' “‘Like men?” “‘Well, at least men know what they are going after, and when they have done a certain thing, they don't waste time regretting it or insisting that they meant to do something else.' “‘You think women are hypocrites?' “‘Yes." “‘If women are hypocrites, if women are afraid to tell the truth about sentimental things, it is because you men have made them so,' I replied with feeling. “Kendall answered good-naturedly that he held no brief for his own sex, he acknowledged that men treat women abominably—lie to them, abandon them, and so on; but he kept to his point that women create many of their troubles by drifting back and forth aimlessly on the changing tide of their emotions instead of establishing some definite goal for their lives. “‘Women yield to every sentimental impulse—that is why they weep so easily. Watch them at a murder trial—they weep for the victim, then they weep for the murderer. Half their tears are useless. If women would put into constructive thinking some of the vital THE TRUTH ABOUT WOMEN 233 “‘I tell you, Penelope Wells, it is possible for any reasonably attractive woman up to forty-five to get a reasonably satisfactory husband if she will work to get him as a man works to make money. She can't sit on a chair and twirl her thumbs and wait for a husband to drop into her lap out of the skies like a ripe plum. She must bend destiny to her purposes. She must make sacrifices, create opportunities, move about, use the intelligence that God has given her. The world. is full of men who are half ready to marry—she must turn the balance/ “‘Listen! If I were a lonely woman yearning for matrimony I would pick out one of these eligible males and make him my own. I would make him feel that the thing he wanted above all other things was to have me for his wife. How would I do this? I would study his desires, his needs, his weaknesses; I would make myself so necessary to him—as necessary as a mother is to a child—that he couldn't get along without me. I tell you it can be done, Pen, by the resistless power of the human will. The trouble with most of us is that we don't want things hard enough. If a woman wants a husband hard enough she will get him—noth- ing can prevent it!” “I smiled at these fantastic views, although I admit that we women ought to be more masters of our fates than we are. In my own case I suppose it would have been better if I had left Julian of my own volition, because it was right to leave him, instead of waiting for an automobile accident to separate us. “‘Please be sensible, Kendall,' I protested. ‘Give THE TRUTH ABOUT WOMEN *3, ./ “Kendall Brown must have read my thoughts. t & & 4 - - - - e U- There is one thing you self-pitying ladies !"she learn,' he went on, “that is to play the game of the according to the rules. You can't have your cake this eat it. You can't amuse yourselves with fire wi . getting burned.’ lt in “I was silent. “‘You must stop flirting with temptation—th is what you all do, you pretty women, fascinating womei You can't deny it.’ “‘I do deny it,' I said weakly. “‘Oh come now ! How about dancing—when a woman has a sinuous, clinging body and wears no corsets and—you know what I mean. Isn't that temp- tation?” “‘It’s horrid of you, Kendall Brown, to suggest such things. Only a person with evil thoughts y “His eyes twinkled at me good-humoredly but I refused to be conciliated. “‘And how about the ancient and honorable practice of kissing?' he persisted. ‘Of course it is not done any more, I realize that. No pretty woman in these aus- tere days ever thinks of allowing a man to kiss her— except her husband, but—seriously, isn't kissing a temptation? Isn't it, Pen?’ “By this time my nerves were decidedly ruffled. “‘You are too foolish l' I stormed. ‘I wish you would go home. I am tired of your ex-cathedra state- ments and your self-sufficiency.’ “‘No,' he flung back, studying me with his keen gray eyes, ‘you are tired of the truth.’” 238 POSSESSED CONCERNING THE DOUBLE STANDARD ma'ith great diffidence I venture to say a word about themost perplexing and embarrassing question in the go d: watall men be allowed to do certain things without y particular punishment or social condemnation, while women are punished mercilessly for doing these same things—things that men compel them to do? The double standard Shall women try to change this standard, and, if so, in which direction—up or down? Is it desirable that the weaker sex be given more liberty in emotional matters, or that the stronger sex be given less liberty? I know that some distinguished women, great artists, stage favorites and others have succeeded brilliantly in spite of sex irregularities; but this proves nothing. These women succeeded because they had genius or talent, not because they were immoral, just as certain men of genius have succeeded in spite of an addiction to various evil practices. They would probably have achieved more splendid careers had they been able to conquer these weaknesses. Besides, we are consider- ing what is best for the majority of men and women, not for an exceptional few. I have a friend, a public school teacher in Chicago, —Miss Jessie G , who holds advanced views on these matters and admits that she herself has been a sex transgressor. She has never been sordid or 24O POSSESSED dare she write to him freely, lest the letters fall into wrong hands. In no way may she reveal her love, the proudest treasure in her life, but must hide it like a thing of shame. “My poor child,” I would say to such a woman, if I might, “remember that the hard test comes when things go wrong, when money fails, when beauty fades. Suppose your beloved falls ill. You cannot go to him, speak to him, minister to him on his bed of pain, though your heart is breaking. Even if he is dying, you can only wait . . . wait in anguish of soul for some cold or covert message. You have no rights at his side that the family respect—his family. Who are you? Are you his wife? No! Then you are nothing, less than nothing; you are the temptress, the mistress / You love him? Bah! Can such a woman love?” Miss G once acknowledged to me that while she has enjoyed the companionship of superior men whom she would never have known but for her moral laxity, yet she has paid a heavy price here, since she no longer values the acquaintance of men in her own sphere of life. From two such men (excellent, aver- age men) she has received offers of marriage that she refused because their society no longer satisfied her after that of others more brilliant and highly placed; but she might easily have been happy with one of these two, had not her ideals been raised to a level beyond her legitimate attainment. I might present other difficulties that must be faced by a woman who says she is tired of the old standards THE TRUTH ABOUT WOMEN 243 must deceive me, I hope he will never let me know it.” The tragic truth is (as all women vaguely suspect) that thousands of devoted husbands, hundreds of thousands of average husbands have at one time or another fallen from grace. Julian used to say that if all the men in America who have broken the seventh commandment were sent away to do penance on lonely mountain tops, we should run short of mountains. He told me also that a man can love his wife so sincerely that he would gladly die for her, yet, in a moment of temptation, he may be untrue to her. Julian was an impossible person, but other clean- minded men, including my dear Christopher, have told me the same thing. The truth is that most men have never learned to resist sex temptation; they grow up with the knowledge that they need not resist temptation, which is the fault of society, as now organized, the fault of wrong teach- ing, of insincere preaching, of nation-wide hypocrisy. I have come to see that women, so long as they have not set themselves as a body against this evil system (which they might evidently change if they would act together) have no right to complain of its inevitable consequences. Men will abandon sex ex- cesses, as they have abandoned drinking excesses, gradually, through education, through reasonable ap- peal, through the resistless force of public opinion intelligently aroused and directed by devoted women. And in no other way! Meantime, it is the duty of individual wives to be merciful, as far as they can, towards erring husbands. 244 POSSESSED The cure lies often in more love from the wife rather than in less love. To any tortured wife who knows or half knows certain things about her husband, I say this—“Dear friend, as long as you love him, forgive him. As long as he loves you, forgive him. Be patient—enduring. Make the hard fight against sensuality with your hus- band, but don't let him know you are making it. Make this fight exactly as you would a similar fight against alcohol or drugs.” A woman must be on her guard, however, lest she hide under a cloak of forgiveness, some base motive in her own heart. Alas! I know, better than anyone, how easily we women can deceive ourselves. There is an ignoble forgiveness that is based on love of material advantages—love of money. There are women who tolerate faithless husbands because they are too cowardly or indolent to fight the battle of life alone. What would they do if they left their sheltered homes? Who would provide comforts and luxuries? How would they dress themselves? How would they live? Shall it be by working? But they hate to work. They have never learned to work. It was partly as a defense against this woman helpless- ness that I took up trained nursing while Julian was still alive. A still more degrading forgiveness is based on sen- suality. There are women married to brutes of hus- bands who will endure every humiliation, surrender- ing all their fine ideals and high purposes rather than leave these coarse mates. THE TRUTH ABOUT WOMEN 245 I first realized this just before I went abroad to nurse the soldiers. I had gone to the Adirondacks that summer for a rest, and one day on a motor trip I stopped for luncheon at a farm house, and there I recognized an old friend from my home town, Laura K , who was to have had a brilliant musical career. It was she who had encouraged me to de- velop my voice; but I never could have been the great artist that Laura might have been. A famous impresario had judged her voice to be so fine—it was a glorious contralto-that he had offered to ad- vance money for her musical studies abroad. He as- sured Laura that in three years she would be a blaz- ing star on the grand opera stage. That was the last I had heard of my old friend, and here suddenly I found her, married to a hulking mountaineer, half trapper, half guide. Here was my wonderful, burning-eyed Laura, who might have had the world at her feet, a farm drudge taking in sum- mer boarders! How was this possible? I spent the afternoon seeking an answer to this riddle. We walked out into the forest and talked for hours, but whenever I pressed for an explanation, she halted in confusion. Her mother was old and ill and—she did not wish to leave her. But, I pointed out, she had never spoken of this before, she had al- ways cared supremely about her voice, about her great musical triumph that was to be. Was not that true? Yes, of course, but—the mountain air was so good for her mother. And she made other trivial excuses. Finally, I got the truth as we were strolling home 246 POSSESSED in the twilight and met her husband slouching along with a gun over his shoulder. As I caught his sullen, tawny glance and sensed his superb, muscular figure, I suddenly understood. He nodded curtly and passed on—this cave man! “That was the reason, Laura, wasn't it?” I whispered. She looked at me in silence, biting her lips, and blushed furiously. “Yes,” she confessed, “that was the reason.” IS IT A woMAN's DUTY TO TELL HER HUSBAND OF PAST TRANSGRESSIONSP I am not sure what I really believe about this in my deepest soul. Thousands of women who long to do right will agree with me that it is a terribly difficult question to answer. If this were an ideal world where men and women had been purified and spiritualized to a Christ-like loftiness of soul, one would say yes; but it is not. A loving wife does not wish her husband to confess to her his past transgressions, she takes him as he is and is happy to start a new life with him, turning over a clean page. She only asks that he be loyal and faith- ful in the future. And if she is ready to give him similar loyalty and faithfulness, if she has sincerely repented of any sinful act, is not that sufficient? Why must she risk the destruction of their happiness by a revelation that will do no good to anyone? Why must she give her husband needless pain? THE TRUTH ABOUT WOMEN 247 And yet While the vast majority of women will agree that such feminine reticence about past wrong-doing is justifiable, the truth, as I have come to see it, is that, in so agreeing, women must subscribe to a creed of deliberate deception. A man marries a woman whom he believes to be virtuous, a woman whom he might refuse to marry if he knew that she were not virtuous. And this woman does nothing to disabuse him of his error. Is that right? She allows her husband to keep a certain good opinion of her that is not justified. No matter how excellent her motive may be, the fact re- mains that this marriage rests upon an insecure foun- dation, upon an implied falsehood. Thousands of plays and stories have been constructed on this theme, and they usually end unhappily. Suppose a man who had been in prison should marry a woman who was ignorant of this cloud on his life, trusting to chance that his criminal record would never be discovered? The two cases are somewhat paral- lel. What would the woman say if she learned later that she had unwittingly married an ex-convict? Would she not prefer that he had told her the truth before he married her ? On the other hand it may be argued that a woman's sin, being presumably the fault of some man, may be properly expiated, in part at least, by some other man. But that does not dispose of the difficulty that a woman who conceals past indiscretions from her husband is condemned to live a lie. One deception almost invariably leads to another THE TRUTH ABOUT WOMEN 249 to me frankly and charmingly about many things con- nected with her boy and his future. She is worried lest some designing woman get him in her power, and one day she told me that she has arranged matters for Leonard so that he will be spared certain perils of this kind that might surround him in London. This excel- lent and brilliant mother has solved her son's problem —the sex problem—in the following extraordinary way, which proves, so she seems to think, her love and wisdom. She has arranged matters—goodness knows how—so that Leonard will be on excellent terms with two beautiful young matrons in her set and in this way he will not be vamped off by any unscrupulous chorus girl. These two beauties are to serve for the delectation of this young warrior until he can make a suitable marriage. What a commentary upon the morals and standards of high societyl” How can one explain such incredible baseness? This woman is not an ignoble person. On the con- trary she is kind and generous, full of the best inten- tions. She has simply reached a point in her selfish round of vanity and pleasure-seeking where she can no longer distinguish between right and wrong. Her soul is withered, starved, because it has been deprived of God's love and God's truth; yet the deterioration came gradually, no doubt, beginning with petty lies and com- promises and evasions of responsibility. If she had any past transgression on her conscience it is certain she never told her husband about it. It is a rule among women (with few exceptions) that idleness and uselessness make for selfishness and THE TRUTH ABOUT WOMEN 251 peace of mind, and will be given strength to bear what- ever comes, even loneliness. Besides, there are men who know how to forgive. God knows most of them have need enough to be forgiven themselves. A WOMAN'S LITANY 253 evil, all fear, all vanity, by love. There is no death, but the death of love. From which, Dear Lord, deliver me. II I know that pride is the worship of self: but humil- ity is the worship of God. Pride leads to discontent, but humility in loving service (no matter how obscure) gives peace of mind. From all forms of pride, Dear Lord, deliver me. III I know that only harm can come to me from dwell- ing upon past mistakes, follies, sins. I cannot change these so I put them out of my thoughts and concen- trate on the present, which is mine to do with as I please. From all vain regrets, Dear Lord, deliver me. IV I know that right living comes only from right thinking. To do right under stress of law or custom while desiring to do wrong is to make a mockery of virtue. I must sincerely desire to do right. The forces of life-control must act from within me, not from without. From all hypocrisy and false pretense, Dear Lord, deliver me.