Planchette
"It is my right to know," the girl said.Her voice was firm-fibred with determination. There was no hint of pleading init, yet it was the determination that is reached through a long period ofpleading. But in her case it had been pleading, not of speech, but ofpersonality. Her lips had been ever mute, but her face and eyes, and the veryattitude of her soul, had been for a long time eloquent with questioning. Thisthe man had known, but he had never answered; and now she was demanding by thespoken word that he answer."It is my right," the girl repeated."I know it," he answered, desperately and helplessly.She waited, in the silence which followed, her eyes fixed upon the light thatfiltered down through the lofty boughs and bathed the great redwood trunks inmellow warmth. This light, subdued and colored, seemed almost a radiation fromthe trunks themselves, so strongly did they saturate it with their hue. Thegirl saw without seeing, as she heard, without hearing, the deep gurgling ofthe stream far below on the canyon bottom.She looked down at the man. "Well?" she asked, with the firmness which feignsbelief that obedience will be forthcoming.She was sitting upright, her back against a fallen tree-trunk, while he laynear to her, on his side, an elbow on the ground and the hand supporting hishead."Dear, dear Lute," he murmured.She shivered at the sound of his voice--not from repulsion, but from struggleagainst the fascination of its caressing gentleness. She had come to know wellthe lure of the man--the wealth of easement and rest that was promised byevery caressing intonation of his voice, by the mere touch of hand on hand orthe faint impact of his breath on neck or cheek. The man could not expresshimself by word nor look nor touch without weaving into the expression, subtlyand occultly, the feeling as of a hand that passed and that in passing strokedsoftly and soothingly. Nor was this all-pervading caress a something thatcloyed with too great sweetness; nor was it sickly sentimental; nor was itmaudlin with love's madness. It was vigorous, compelling, masculine. For thatmatter, it was largely unconscious on the man's part. He was only dimly awareof it. It was a part of him, the breath of his soul as it were, involuntaryand unpremeditated.But now, resolved and desperate, she steeled herself against him. He tried toface her, but her gray eyes looked out to him, steadily, from under cool,level brows, and he dropped his head upon her knee. Her hand strayed into hishair softly, and her face melted into solicitude and tenderness. But when helooked up again, her gray eyes were steady, her brows cool and level."What more can I tell you?" the man said. He raised his head and met her gaze."I cannot marry you. I cannot marry any woman. I love you--you knowthat--better than my own life. I weigh you in the scales against all the dearthings of living, and you outweigh everything. I would give everything topossess you, yet I may not. I cannot marry you. I can never marry you."Her lips were compressed with the effort of control. His head was sinking backto her knee, when she checked him."You are already married, Chris?""No! no!" he cried vehemently. "I have never been married. I want to marryonly you, and I cannot!""Then--""Don't!" he interrupted. "Don't ask me!""It is my right to know," she repeated."I know it," he again interrupted. "But I cannot tell you.""You have not considered me, Chris," she went on gently."I know, I know," he broke in."You cannot have considered me. You do not know what I have to bear from mypeople because of you.""I did not think they felt so very unkindly toward me," he said bitterly."It is true. They can scarcely tolerate you. They do not show it to you, butthey almost hate you. It is I who have had to bear all this. It was not alwaysso, though. They liked you at first as . . . as I liked you. But that was fouryears ago. The time passed by--a year, two years; and then they began to turnagainst you. They are not to be blamed. You spoke no word. They felt that youwere destroying my life. It is four years, now, and you have never oncementioned marriage to them. What were they to think? What they have thought,that you were destroying my life."As she talked, she continued to pass her fingers caressingly through his hair,sorrowful for the pain that she was inflicting."They did like you at first. Who can help liking you? You seem to drawaffection from all living things, as the trees draw the moisture from theground. It comes to you as it were your birthright. Aunt Mildred and UncleRobert thought there was nobody like you. The sun rose and set in you. Theythought I was the luckiest girl alive to win the love of a man like you. 'Forit looks very much like it,' Uncle Robert used to say, wagging his headwickedly at me. Of course they liked you. Aunt Mildred used to sigh, and lookacross teasingly at Uncle, and say, 'When I think of Chris, it almost makes mewish I were younger myself.' And Uncle would answer, 'I don't blame you, mydear, not in the least.' And then the pair of them would beam upon me theircongratulations that I had won the love of a man like you."And they knew I loved you as well. How could I hide it?--this great,wonderful thing that had entered into my life and swallowed up all my days!For four years, Chris, I have lived only for you. Every moment was yours.Waking, I loved you. Sleeping, I dreamed of you. Every act I have performedwas shaped by you, by the thought of you. Even my thoughts were moulded byyou, by the invisible presence of you. I had no end, petty or great, that youwere not there for me.""I had no idea of imposing such slavery," he muttered."You imposed nothing. You always let me have my own way. It was you who werethe obedient slave. You did for me without offending me. You forestalled mywishes without the semblance of forestalling; them, so natural and inevitablewas everything you did for me. I said, without offending me. You were nodancing puppet. You made no fuss. Don't you see? You did not seem to do thingsat all. Somehow they were always there, just done, as a matter of course."The slavery was love's slavery. It was just my love for you that made youswallow up all my days. You did not force yourself into my thoughts. You creptin, always, and you were there always--how much, you will never know."But as time went by, Aunt Mildred and Uncle grew to dislike you. They grewafraid. What was to become of me? You were destroying my life. My music? Youknow how my dream of it has dimmed away. That spring, when I first met you--Iwas twenty, and I was about to start for Germany. I was going to study hard.That was four years ago, and I am still here in California."I had other lovers. You drove them away--No! no! I don't mean that. It was Ithat drove them away. What did I care for lovers, for anything, when you werenear? But as I said, Aunt Mildred and Uncle grew afraid. There has beentalkfriends, busybodies, and all the rest. The time went by. You did notspeak. I could only wonder, wonder. I knew you loved me. Much was said againstyou by Uncle at first, and then by Aunt Mildred. They were father and motherto me, you know. I could not defend you. Yet I was loyal to you. I refused todiscuss you. I closed up. There was half-estrangement in my home--Uncle Robertwith a face like an undertaker, and Aunt Mildred's heart breaking. But whatcould I do, Chris? What could I do?"The man, his head resting on her knee again, groaned, but made no other reply."Aunt Mildred was mother to me, yet I went to her no more with my confidences.My childhood's book was closed. It was a sweet book, Chris. The tears comeinto my eyes sometimes when I think of it. But never mind that. Greathappiness has been mine as well. I am glad I can talk frankly of my love foryou. And the attaining of such frankness has been very sweet. I do love you,Chris. I love you . . . I cannot tell you how. You are everything to me, andmore besides. You remember that Christmas tree of the children?--when weplayed blindman's buff? and you caught me by the arm so, with such a clutchingof fingers that I cried out with the hurt? I never told you, but the arm wasbadly bruised. And such sweet I got of it you could never guess. There, blackand blue, was the imprint of your fingers--your fingers, Chris, your fingers.It was the touch of you made visible. It was there a week, and I kissed themarks--oh, so often! I hated to see them go; I wanted to rebruise the arm andmake them linger. I was jealous of the returning white that drove the bruiseaway. Somehow,--oh! I cannot explain, but I loved you so!"In the silence that fell, she continued her caressing of his hair, while sheidly watched a great gray squirrel, boisterous and hilarious, as it scamperedback and forth in a distant vista of the redwoods. A crimson-crestedwoodpecker, energetically drilling a fallen trunk, caught and transferred hergaze. The man did not lift his head. Rather, he crushed his face closeragainst her knee, while his heaving shoulders marked the hardness with whichhe breathed."You must tell me, Chris," the girl said gently. "This mystery--it is killingme. I must know why we cannot be married. Are we always to be thisway?--merely lovers, meeting often, it is true, and yet with the long absencesbetween the meetings? Is it all the world holds for you and me, Chris? Are wenever to be more to each other? Oh, it is good just to love, I know--you havemade me madly happy; but one does get so hungry at times for something more! Iwant more and more of you, Chris. I want all of you. I want all our days to betogether. I want all the companionship, the comradeship, which cannot be oursnow, and which will be ours when we are married--" She caught her breathquickly. "But we are never to be married. I forgot. And you must tell me why."The man raised his head and looked her in the eyes. It was a way he had withwhomever he talked, of looking them in the eyes."I have considered you, Lute," he began doggedly. "I did consider you at thevery first. I should never have gone on with it. I should have gone away. Iknew it. And I considered you in the light of that knowledge, and yet . . . Idid not go away. My God! what was I to do? I loved you. I could not go away. Icould not help it. I stayed. I resolved, but I broke my resolves. I was like adrunkard. I was drunk of you. I was weak, I know. I failed. I could not goaway. I tried. I went away--you will remember, though you did not know why.You know now. I went away, but I could not remain away. Knowing that we couldnever marry, I came back to you. I am here, now, with you. Send me away, Lute.I have not the strength to go myself.""But why should you go away?" she asked. "Besides, I must know why, before Ican send you away.""Don't ask me.""Tell me," she said, her voice tenderly imperative."Don't, Lute; don't force me," the man pleaded, and there was appeal in hiseyes and voice."But you must tell me," she insisted. "It is justice you owe me."The man wavered. "If I do . . ." he began. Then he ended with determination,"I should never be able to forgive myself. No, I cannot tell you. Don't try tocompel me, Lute. You would be as sorry as I.""If there is anything . . . if then are, obstacles . . . if this mystery doesreally prevent . . . " She was speaking slowly, with long pauses, seeking themore delicate ways of speech for the framing of her thought. "Chris, I do loveyou. I love you as deeply as it is possible for any woman to love, I am sure.If you were to say to me now 'Come,' I would go with you. I would followwherever you led. I would be your page, as in the days of old when ladies wentwith their knights to far lands. You are my knight, Chris, and you can do nowrong. Your will is my wish. I was once afraid of the censure of the world.Now that you have come into my life I am no longer afraid. I would laugh atthe world and its censure for your sake--for my sake too. I would laugh, for Ishould have you, and you are more to me than the good will and approval of theworld. If you say 'Come,' I will--""Don't! Don't!" he cried. "It is impossible! Marriage or not, I cannot evensay 'Come.' I dare not. I'll show you. I'll tell you."He sat up beside her, the action stamped with resolve. He took her hand in hisand held it closely. His lips moved to the verge of speech. The mysterytrembled for utterance. The air was palpitant with its presence. As if it werean irrevocable decree, the girl steeled herself to hear. But the man paused,gazing straight out before him. She felt his hand relax in hers, and shepressed it sympathetically, encouragingly. But she felt the rigidity going outof his tensed body, and she knew that spirit and flesh were relaxing together.His resolution was ebbing. He would not speak--she knew it; and she knew,likewise, with the sureness of faith, that it was because he could not.She gazed despairingly before her, a numb feeling at her heart, as though hopeand happiness had died. She watched the sun flickering down through thewarm-trunked redwoods. But she watched in a mechanical, absent way. She lookedat the scene as from a long way off, without interest, herself an alien, nolonger an intimate part of the earth and trees and flowers she loved so well.So far removed did she seem, that she was aware of a curiosity, strangelyimpersonal, in what lay around her. Through a near vista she looked at abuckeye tree in full blossom as though her eyes encountered it for the firsttime. Her eyes paused and dwelt upon a yellow cluster of Diogenes' lanternsthat grew on the edge of an open space. It was the way of flowers always togive her quick pleasure-thrills, but no thrill was hers now. She pondered theflower slowly and thoughtfully, as a hasheesh-eater, heavy with the drug,might ponder some whim-flower that obtruded on his vision. In her ears was thevoice of the stream--a hoarse-throated, sleepy old giant, muttering andmumbling his somnolent fancies. But her fancy was not in turn aroused, as wasits wont; she knew the sound merely for water rushing over the rocks of thedeep canyon-bottom, that and nothing more.Her gaze wandered on beyond the Diogenes' lanterns into the open space.Knee-deep in the wild oats of the hillside grazed two horses, chestnut-sorrelsthe pair of them, perfectly matched, warm and golden in the sunshine, theirspring-coats a sheen of high-lights shot through with color-flashes thatglowed like fiery jewels. She recognized, almost with a shock, that one ofthem was hers, Dolly, the companion of her girlhood and womanhood, on whoseneck she had sobbed her sorrows and sung her joys. A moistness welled into hereyes at the sight, and she came back from the remoteness of her mood, quickwith passion and sorrow, to be part of the world again.The man sank forward from the hips, relaxing entirely, and with a groandropped his head on her knee. She leaned over him and pressed her lips softlyand lingeringly to his hair."Come, let us go," she said, almost in a whisper.She caught her breath in a half-sob, then tightened her lips as she rose. Hisface was white to ghastliness, so shaken was he by the struggle through whichhe had passed. They did not look at each other, but walked directly to thehorses. She leaned against Dolly's neck while he tightened the girths. Thenshe gathered the reins in her hand and waited. He looked at her as he bentdown, an appeal for forgiveness in his eyes; and in that moment her own eyesanswered. Her foot rested in his hands, and from there she vaulted into thesaddle. Without speaking, without further looking at each other, they turnedthe horses' heads and took the narrow trail that wound down through the sombreredwood aisles and across the open glades to the pasture-lands below. Thetrail became a cow-path, the cow-path became a wood-road, which later joinedwith a hay-road; and they rode down through the low-rolling, tawny Californiahills to where a set of bars let out on the county road which ran along thebottom of the valley. The girl sat her horse while the man dismounted andbegan taking down the bars."No--wait!" she cried, before he had touched the two lower bars.She urged the mare forward a couple of strides, and then the animal liftedover the bars in a clean little jump. The man's eyes sparkled, and he clappedhis hands."You beauty! you beauty!" the girl cried, leaning forward impulsively in thesaddle and pressing her cheek to the mare's neck where it burned flame-colorin the sun."Let's trade horses for the ride in," she suggested, when he had led his horsethrough and finished putting up the bars. "You've never sufficientlyappreciated Dolly.""No, no," he protested."You think she is too old, too sedate," Lute insisted. "She's only sixteen,and she can outrun nine colts out of ten. Only she never cuts up. She's toosteady, and you don't approve of her--no, don't deny it, sir. I know. And Iknow also that she can outrun your vaunted Washoe Ban. There! I challenge you!And furthermore, you may ride her yourself. You know what Ban can do; so youmust ride Dolly and see for yourself what she can do."They proceeded to exchange the saddles on the horses, glad of the diversionand making the most of it."I'm glad I was born in California," Lute remarked, as she swung astride ofBan. "It's an outrage both to horse and woman to ride in a sidesaddle.""You look like a young Amazon," the man said approvingly, his eyes passingtenderly over the girl as she swung the horse around."Are you ready?" she asked."All ready!""To the old mill," she called, as the horses sprang forward. "That's less thana mile.""To a finish?" he demanded.She nodded, and the horses, feeling the urge of the reins, caught the spiritof the race. The dust rose in clouds behind as they tore along the level road.They swung around the bend, horses and riders tilted at sharp angles to theground, and more than once the riders ducked low to escape the branches ofoutreaching and overhanging trees. They clattered over the small plankbridges, and thundered over the larger iron ones to an ominous clanking ofloose rods.They rode side by side, saving the animals for the rush at the finish, yetputting them at a pace that drew upon vitality and staying power. Curvingaround a clump of white oaks, the road straightened out before them forseveral hundred yards, at the end of which they could see the ruined mill."Now for it!" the girl cried.She urged the horse by suddenly leaning forward with her body, at the sametime, for an instant, letting the rein slack and touching the neck with herbridle hand. She began to draw away from the man."Touch her on the neck!" she cried to him.With this, the mare pulled alongside and began gradually to pass the girl.Chris and Lute looked at each other for a moment, the mare still drawingahead, so that Chris was compelled slowly to turn his head. The mill was ahundred yards away."Shall I give him the spurs?" Lute shouted.The man nodded, and the girl drove the spurs in sharply and quickly, callingupon the horse for its utmost, but watched her own horse forge slowly ahead ofher."Beaten by three lengths!" Lute beamed triumphantly, as they pulled into awalk. "Confess, sir, confess! You didn't think the old mare had it in her."Lute leaned to the side and rested her hand for a moment on Dolly's wet neck."Ban's a sluggard alongside of her," Chris affirmed. "Dolly's all right, ifshe is in her Indian Summer."Lute nodded approval. "That's a sweet way of putting it--Indian Summer. Itjust describes her. But she's not lazy. She has all the fire and none of thefolly. She is very wise, what of her years.""That accounts for it," Chris demurred. "Her folly passed with her youth.Many's the lively time she's given you.""No," Lute answered. "I never knew her really to cut up. I think the onlytrouble she ever gave me was when I was training her to open gates. She wasafraid when they swung back upon her--the animal's fear of the trap, perhaps.But she bravely got over it. And she never was vicious. She never bolted, norbucked, nor cut up in all her life--never, not once."The horses went on at a walk, still breathing heavily from their run. The roadwound along the bottom of the valley, now and again crossing the stream. Fromeither side rose the drowsy purr of mowing-machines, punctuated by occasionalsharp cries of the men who were gathering the hay-crop. On the western side ofthe valley the hills rose green and dark, but the eastern side was alreadyburned brown and tan by the sun."There is summer, here is spring," Lute said. "Oh, beautiful Sonoma Valley!"Her eyes were glistening and her face was radiant with love of the land. Hergaze wandered on across orchard patches and sweeping vineyard stretches,seeking out the purple which seemed to hang like a dim smoke in the wrinklesof the hills and in the more distant canyon gorges. Far up, among the morerugged crests, where the steep slopes were covered with manzanita, she caughta glimpse of a clear space where the wild grass had not yet lost its green."Have you ever heard of the secret pasture?" she asked, her eyes still fixedon the remote green.A snort of fear brought her eyes back to the man beside her. Dolly, upreared,with distended nostrils and wild eyes, was pawing the air madly with her forelegs. Chris threw himself forward against her neck to keep her from fallingbackward, and at the same time touched her with the spurs to compel her todrop her fore feet to the ground in order to obey the go-ahead impulse of thespurs."Why, Dolly, this is most remarkable," Lute began reprovingly.But, to her surprise, the mare threw her head down, arched her back as shewent up in the air, and, returning, struck the ground stiff-legged andbunched."A genuine buck!" Chris called out, and the next moment the mare was risingunder him in a second buck.Lute looked on, astounded at the unprecedented conduct of her mare, andadmiring her lover's horsemanship. He was quite cool, and was himselfevidently enjoying the performance. Again and again, half a dozen times, Dollyarched herself into the air and struck, stiffly bunched. Then she threw herhead straight up and rose on her hind legs, pivoting about and striking withher fore feet. Lute whirled into safety the horse she was riding, and as shedid so caught a glimpse of Dolly's eyes, with the look in them of blind brutemadness, bulging until it seemed they must burst from her head. The faint pinkin the white of the eyes was gone, replaced by a white that was like dullmarble and that yet flashed as from some inner fire.A faint cry of fear, suppressed in the instant of utterance, slipped pastLute's lips. One hind leg of the mare seemed to collapse, and for a moment thewhole quivering body, upreared and perpendicular, swayed back and forth, andthere was uncertainty as to whether it would fall forward or backward. Theman, half-slipping sidewise from the saddle, so as to fall clear if the maretoppled backward, threw his weight to the front and alongside her neck. Thisovercame the dangerous teetering balance, and the mare struck the ground onher feet again.But there was no let-up. Dolly straightened out so that the line of the facewas almost a continuation of the line of the stretched neck; this positionenabled her to master the bit, which she did by bolting straight ahead downthe road.For the first time Lute became really frightened. She spurred Washoe Ban inpursuit, but he could not hold his own with the mad mare, and droppedgradually behind. Lute saw Dolly check and rear in the air again, and caughtup just as the mare made a second bolt. As Dolly dashed around a bend, shestopped suddenly, stiff-legged. Lute saw her lover torn out of the saddle, histhigh-grip broken by the sudden jerk. Though he had lost his seat, he had notbeen thrown, and as the mare dashed on Lute saw him clinging to the side ofthe horse, a hand in the mane and a leg across the saddle. With a quick cavorthe regained his seat and proceeded to fight with the mare for control.But Dolly swerved from the road and dashed down a grassy slope yellowed withinnumerable mariposa lilies. An ancient fence at the bottom was no obstacle.She burst through as though it were filmy spider-web and disappeared in theunderbrush. Lute followed unhesitatingly, putting Ban through the gap in thefence and plunging on into the thicket. She lay along his neck, closely, toescape the ripping and tearing of the trees and vines. She felt the horse dropdown through leafy branches and into the cool gravel of a stream's bottom.From ahead came a splashing of water, and she caught a glimpse of Dolly,dashing up the small bank and into a clump of scrub-oaks, against the trunksof which she was trying to scrape off her rider.Lute almost caught up amongst the trees, but was hopelessly outdistanced onthe fallow field adjoining, across which the mare tore with a fine disregardfor heavy ground and gopher-holes. When she turned at a sharp angle into thethicket-land beyond, Lute took the long diagonal, skirted the ticket, andreined in Ban at the other side. She had arrived first. From within thethicket she could hear a tremendous crashing of brush and branches. Then themare burst through and into the open, falling to her knees, exhausted, on thesoft earth. She arose and staggered forward, then came limply to a halt. Shewas in lather-sweat of fear, and stood trembling pitiably.Chris was still on her back. His shirt was in ribbons. The backs of his handswere bruised and lacerated, while his face was streaming blood from a gashnear the temple. Lute had controlled herself well, but now she was aware of aquick nausea and a trembling of weakness."Chris!" she said, so softly that it was almost a whisper. Then she sighed,"Thank God.""Oh, I'm all right," he cried to her, putting into his voice all theheartiness he could command, which was not much, for he had himself been underno mean nervous strain.He showed the reaction he was undergoing, when he swung down out of thesaddle. He began with a brave muscular display as he lifted his leg over, butended, on his feet, leaning against the limp Dolly for support. Lute flashedout of her saddle, and her arms were about him in an embrace of thankfulness."I know where there is a spring," she said, a moment later.They left the horses standing untethered, and she led her lover into the coolrecesses of the thicket to where crystal water bubbled from out the base ofthe mountain."What was that you said about Dolly's never cutting up?" he asked, when theblood had been stanched and his nerves and pulse-beats were normal again."I am stunned," Lute answered. "I cannot understand it. She never did anythinglike it in all her life. And all animals like you so--it's not because ofthat. Why, she is a child's horse. I was only a little girl when I first rodeher, and to this day--""Well, this day she was everything but a child's horse," Chris broke in. "Shewas a devil. She tried to scrape me off against the trees, and to batter mybrains out against the limbs. She tried all the lowest and narrowest placesshe could find. You should have seen her squeeze through. And did you seethose bucks?"Lute nodded."Regular bucking-bronco proposition.""But what should she know about bucking?" Lute demanded. "She was never knownto buck--never."He shrugged his shoulders. "Some forgotten instinct, perhaps, long-lapsed andcome to life again."The girl rose to her feet determinedly. "I'm going to find out," she said.They went back to the horses, where they subjected Dolly to a rigidexamination that disclosed nothing. Hoofs, legs, bit, mouth, body--everythingwas as it should be. The saddle and saddle-cloth were innocent of bur orsticker; the back was smooth and unbroken. They searched for sign ofsnake-bite and sting of fly or insect, but found nothing."Whatever it was, it was subjective, that much is certain," Chris said."Obsession," Lute suggested.They laughed together at the idea, for both were twentieth-century products,healthy-minded and normal, with souls that delighted in the butterfly-chase ofideals but that halted before the brink where superstition begins."An evil spirit," Chris laughed; "but what evil have I done that I should beso punished?""You think too much of yourself, sir," she rejoined. "It is more likely someevil, I don't know what, that Dolly has done. You were a mere accident. Imight have been on her back at the time, or Aunt Mildred, or anybody."As she talked, she took hold of the stirrup-strap and started to shorten it."What are you doing?" Chris demanded."I'm going to ride Dolly in.""No, you're not," he announced. "It would be bad discipline. After what hashappened I am simply compelled to ride her in myself."But it was a very weak and very sick mare he rode, stumbling and halting,afflicted with nervous jerks and recurring muscular spasms--the aftermath ofthe tremendous orgasm through which she had passed."I feel like a book of verse and a hammock, after all that has happened," Lutesaid, as they rode into camp.It was a summer camp of city-tired people, pitched in a grove of toweringredwoods through whose lofty boughs the sunshine trickled down, broken andsubdued to soft light and cool shadow. Apart from the main camp were thekitchen and the servants' tents; and midway between was the great dining hall,walled by the living redwood columns, where fresh whispers of air were alwaysto be found, and where no canopy was needed to keep the sun away."Poor Dolly, she is really sick," Lute said that evening, when they hadreturned from a last look at the mare. "But you weren't hurt, Chris, andthat's enough for one small woman to be thankful for. I thought I knew, but Ireally did not know till to-day, how much you meant to me. I could hear onlythe plunging and struggle in the thicket. I could not see you, nor know how itwent with you.""My thoughts were of you," Chris answered, and felt the responsive pressure ofthe hand that rested on his arm.She turned her face up to his and met his lips."Good night," she said."Dear Lute, dear Lute," he caressed her with his voice as she moved away amongthe shadows.* * * * * * *"Who's going for the mail?" called a woman's voice through the trees.Lute closed the book from which they had been reading, and sighed."We weren't going to ride to-day," she said."Let me go," Chris proposed. "You stay here. I'll be down and back in notime."She shook her head."Who's going for the mail?" the voice insisted."Where's Martin?" Lute called, lifting; her voice in answer."I don't know," came the voice. "I think Robert took him alongsomewhere--horse-buying, or fishing, or I don't know what. There's reallynobody left but Chris and you. Besides, it will give you an appetite fordinner. You've been lounging in the hammock all day. And Uncle Robert musthave his newspaper.""All right, Aunty, we're starting," Lute called back, getting out of thehammock.A few minutes later, in riding-clothes, they were saddling the horses. Theyrode out on to the county road, where blazed the afternoon sun, and turnedtoward Glen Ellen. The little town slept in the sun, and the somnolentstorekeeper and postmaster scarcely kept his eyes open long enough to make upthe packet of letters and newspapers.An hour later Lute and Chris turned aside from the road and dipped along acow-path down the high bank to water the horses, before going into camp."Dolly looks as though she'd forgotten all about yesterday," Chris said, asthey sat their horses knee-deep in the rushing water. "Look at her."The mare had raised her head and cocked her ears at the rustling of a quail inthe thicket. Chris leaned over and rubbed around her ears. Dolly's enjoymentwas evident, and she drooped her head over against the shoulder of his ownhorse."Like a kitten," was Lute's comment."Yet I shall never be able wholly to trust her again," Chris said. "Not afteryesterday's mad freak.""I have a feeling myself that you are safer on Ban," Lute laughed. "It isstrange. My trust in Dolly is as implicit as ever. I feel confident so far asI am concerned, but I should never care to see you on her back again. Now withBan, my faith is still unshaken. Look at that neck! Isn't he handsome! He'llbe as wise as Dolly when he is as old as she.""I feel the same way," Chris laughed back. "Ban could never possibly betrayme."They turned their horses out of the stream. Dolly stopped to brush a fly fromher knee with her nose, and Ban urged past into the narrow way of the path.The space was too restricted to make him return, save with much trouble, andChris allowed him to go on. Lute, riding behind, dwelt with her eyes upon herlover's back, pleasuring in the lines of the bare neck and the sweep out tothe muscular shoulders.Suddenly she reined in her horse. She could do nothing but look, so brief wasthe duration of the happening. Beneath and above was the almost perpendicularbank. The path itself was barely wide enough for footing. Yet Washoe Ban,whirling and rearing at the same time, toppled for a moment in the air andfell backward off the path.So unexpected and so quick was it, that the man was involved in the fall.There had been no time for him to throw himself to the path. He was fallingere he knew it, and he did the only thing possible--slipped the stirrups andthrew his body into the air, to the side, and at the same time down. It wastwelve feet to the rocks below. He maintained an upright position, his head upand his eyes fixed on the horse above him and falling upon him.Chris struck like a cat, on his feet, on the instant making a leap to theside. The next instant Ban crashed down beside him. The animal struggledlittle, but sounded the terrible cry that horses sometimes sound when theyhave received mortal hurt. He had struck almost squarely on his back, and inthat position he remained, his head twisted partly under, his hind legsrelaxed and motionless, his fore legs futilely striking the air.Chris looked up reassuringly."I am getting used to it," Lute smiled down to him. "Of course I need not askif you are hurt. Can I do anything?"He smiled back and went over to the fallen beast, letting go the girths of thesaddle and getting the head straightened out."I thought so," he said, after a cursory examination. "I thought so at thetime. Did you hear that sort of crunching snap?"She shuddered."Well, that was the punctuation of life, the final period dropped at the endof Ban's usefulness." He started around to come up by the path. "I've beenastride of Ban for the last time. Let us go home."At the top of the bank Chris turned and looked down."Good-by, Washoe Ban!" he called out. "Good-by, old fellow."The animal was struggling to lift its head. There were tears in Chris's eyesas he turned abruptly away, and tears In Lute's eyes as they met his. She wassilent in her sympathy, though the pressure of her hand was firm in his as hewalked beside her horse down the dusty road."It was done deliberately," Chris burst forth suddenly. "There was no warning.He deliberately flung himself over backward.""There was no warning," Lute concurred. "I was looking. I saw him. He whirledand threw himself at the same time, just as if you had done it yourself, witha tremendous jerk and backward pull on the bit.""It was not my hand, I swear it. I was not even thinking of him. He was goingup with a fairly loose rein, as a matter of course.""I should have seen it, had you done it," Lute said. "But it was all donebefore you had a chance to do anything. It was not your hand, not even yourunconscious hand.""Then it was some invisible hand, reaching out from I don't know where."He looked up whimsically at the sky and smiled at the conceit.Martin stepped forward to receive Dolly, when they came into the stable end ofthe grove, but his face expressed no surprise at sight of Chris coming in onfoot. Chris lingered behind Lute for moment."Can you shoot a horse?" he asked.The groom nodded, then added, "Yes, sir," with a second and deeper nod."How do you do it?""Draw a line from the eyes to the ears--I mean the opposite ears, sir. Andwhere the lines cross--""That will do," Chris interrupted. "You know the watering place at: the secondbend. You'll find Ban there with a broken back."******"Oh, here you are, sir. I have been looking for you everywhere since dinner.You are wanted immediately."Chris tossed his cigar away, then went over and pressed his foot on itsglowing; fire."You haven't told anybody about it?--Ban?" he queried.Lute shook her head. "They'll learn soon enough. Martin will mention it toUncle Robert tomorrow.""But don't feel too bad about it," she said, after a moment's pause, slippingher hand into his."He was my colt," he said. "Nobody has ridden him but you. I broke him myself.I knew him from the time he was born. I knew every bit of him, every trick,every caper, and I would have staked my life that it was impossible for him todo a thing like this. There was no warning, no fighting for the bit, noprevious unruliness. I have been thinking it over. He didn't fight for thebit, for that matter. He wasn't unruly, nor disobedient. There wasn't time. Itwas an impulse, and he acted upon it like lightning. I am astounded now at theswiftness with which it took place. Inside the first second we were over theedge and falling."It was deliberate--deliberate suicide. And attempted murder. It was a trap. Iwas the victim. He had me, and he threw himself over with me. Yet he did nothate me. He loved me . . . as much as it is possible for a horse to love. I amconfounded. I cannot understand it any more than you can understand Dolly'sbehavior yesterday.""But horses go insane, Chris," Lute said. "You know that. It's merelycoincidence that two horses in two days should have spells under you.""That's the only explanation," he answered, starting off with her. "But why amI wanted urgently?""Planchette.""Oh, I remember. It will be a new experience to me. Somehow I missed it whenit was all the rage long ago.""So did all of us," Lute replied, "except Mrs. Grantly. It is her favoritephantom, it seems.""A weird little thing," he remarked. "Bundle of nerves and black eyes. I'llwager she doesn't weigh ninety pounds, and most of that's magnetism.""Positively uncanny . . . at times." Lute shivered involuntarily. "She givesme the creeps.""Contact of the healthy with the morbid," he explained dryly. "You will noticeit is the healthy that always has the creeps. The morbid never has the creeps.It gives the. That's its function. Where did you people pick her up, anyway?""I don't know--yes, I do, too. Aunt Mildred met her in Boston, I think--oh, Idon't know. At any rate, Mrs. Grantly came to California, and of course had tovisit Aunt Mildred. You know the open house we keep.They halted where a passageway between two great redwood trunks gave entranceto the dining room. Above, through lacing boughs, could be seen the stars.Candles lighted the tree-columned space. About the table, examining thePlanchette contrivance, were four persons. Chris's gaze roved over them, andhe was aware of a guilty sorrow-pang as he paused for a moment on Lute's AuntMildred and Uncle Robert, mellow with ripe middle age and genial with thegentle buffets life had dealt them. He passed amusedly over the black-eyed,frail-bodied Mrs. Grantly, and halted on the fourth person, a portly,massive-headed man, whose gray temples belied the youthful solidity of hisface."Who's that?" Chris whispered."A Mr. Barton. The train was late. That's why you didn't see him at dinner.He's only a capitalist--water-power-long-distance-electricity-transmitter, orsomething like that.""Doesn't look as though he could give an ox points on imagination.""He can't. He inherited his money. But he knows enough to hold on to it andhire other men's brains. He is very conservative.""That is to be expected," was Chris's comment. His gaze went back to the manand woman who had been father and mother to the girl beside him. "Do youknow," he said, "it came to me with a shock yesterday when you told me thatthey had turned against me and that I was scarcely tolerated. I met themafterwards, last evening, guiltily, in fear and trembling--and to-day, too.And yet I could see no difference from of old.""Dear man," Lute sighed. "Hospitality is as natural to them as the act ofbreathing. But it isn't that, after all. It is all genuine in their dearhearts. No matter how severe the censure they put upon you when you areabsent, the moment they are with you they soften and are all kindness andwarmth. As soon as their eyes rest on you, affection and love come bubblingup. You are so made. Every animal likes you. All people like you. They can'thelp it. You can't help it. You are universally lovable, and the best of it isthat you don't know it. You don't know it now. Even as I tell it to you, youdon't realize it, you won't realize it--and that very incapacity to realize itis one of the reasons why you are so loved. You are incredulous now, and youshake your head; but I know, who am your slave, as all people know, for theylikewise are your slaves."Why, in a minute we shall go in and join them. Mark the affection, almostmaternal, that will well up in Aunt Mildred's eyes. Listen to the tones ofUncle Robert's voice when he says, 'Well, Chris, my boy?' Watch Mrs. Grantlymelt, literally melt, like a dewdrop in the sun."Take Mr. Barton, there. You have never seen him before. Why, you will invitehim out to smoke a cigar with you when the rest of us have gone to bed--you, amere nobody, and he a man of many millions, a man of power, a man obtuse andstupid like the ox; and he will follow you about, smoking; the cigar, like alittle dog, your little dog, trotting at your back. He will not know he isdoing it, but he will be doing it just the same. Don't I know, Chris? Oh, Ihave watched you, watched you, so often, and loved you for it, and loved youagain for it, because you were so delightfully and blindly unaware of what youwere doing.""I'm almost bursting with vanity from listening to you," he laughed, passinghis arm around her and drawing her against him."Yes," she whispered, "and in this very moment, when you are laughing at allthat I have said, you, the feel of you, your soul,--call it what you will, itis you,--is calling for all the love that is in me."She leaned more closely against him, and sighed as with fatigue. He breathed akiss into her hair and held her with firm tenderness.Aunt Mildred stirred briskly and looked up from the Planchette board."Come, let us begin," she said. "It will soon grow chilly. Robert, where arethose children?""Here we are," Lute called out, disengaging herself."Now for a bundle of creeps," Chris whispered, as they started in.Lute's prophecy of the manner in which her lover would be received wasrealized. Mrs. Grantly, unreal, unhealthy, scintillant with frigid magnetism,warmed and melted as though of truth she were dew and he sun. Mr. Bartonbeamed broadly upon him, and was colossally gracious. Aunt Mildred greeted himwith a glow of fondness and motherly kindness, while Uncle Robert genially andheartily demanded, "Well, Chris, my boy, and what of the riding?"But Aunt Mildred drew her shawl more closely around her and hastened them tothe business in hand. On the table was a sheet of paper. On the paper, riflingon three supports, was a small triangular board. Two of the supports wereeasily moving casters. The third support, placed at the apex of the triangle,was a lead pencil."Who's first?" Uncle Robert demanded.There was a moment's hesitancy, then Aunt Mildred placed her hand on theboard, and said: "Some one has always to be the fool for the delectation ofthe rest.""Brave woman," applauded her husband. "Now, Mrs. Grantly, do your worst.""I?" that lady queried. "I do nothing. The power, or whatever you care tothink it, is outside of me, as it is outside of all of you. As to what thatpower is, I will not dare to say. There is such a power. I have had evidencesof it. And you will undoubtedly have evidences of it. Now please be quiet,everybody. Touch the board very lightly, but firmly, Mrs. Story; but donothing of your own volition."Aunt Mildred nodded, and stood with her hand on Planchette; while the restformed about her in a silent and expectant circle. But nothing happened. Theminutes ticked away, and Planchette remained motionless."Be patient," Mrs. Grantly counselled. "Do not struggle against any influencesyou may feel working on you. But do not do anything yourself. The influencewill take care of that. You will feel impelled to do things, and such impulseswill be practically irresistible.""I wish the influence would hurry up," Aunt Mildred protested at the end offive motionless minutes."Just a little longer, Mrs. Story, just a little longer," Mrs. Grantly saidsoothingly.Suddenly Aunt Mildred's hand began to twitch into movement. A mild concernshowed in her face as she observed the movement of her hand and heard thescratching of the pencil-point at the apex of Planchette.For another five minutes this continued, when Aunt Mildred withdrew her handwith an effort, and said, with a nervous laugh:"I don't know whether i did it myself or not. I do know that I was growingnervous, standing there like a psychic fool with all your solemn faces turnedupon me.""Hen-scratches," was Uncle Robert's judgement, when he looked over the paperupon which she had scrawled."Quite illegible," was Mrs. Grantly's dictum. "It does not resemble writing atall. The influences have not got to working yet. Do you try it, Mr. Barton."That gentleman stepped forward, ponderously willing to please, and placed hishand on the board. And for ten solid, stolid minutes he stood there,motionless, like a statue, the frozen personification of the commercial age.Uncle Robert's face began to work. He blinked, stiffened his mouth, utteredsuppressed, throaty sounds, deep down; finally he snorted, lost hisself-control, and broke out in a roar of laughter. All joined in thismerriment, including Mrs. Grantly. Mr. Barton laughed with them, but he wasvaguely nettled."You try it, Story," he said.Uncle Robert, still laughing, and urged on by Lute and his wife, took theboard. Suddenly his face sobered. His hand had begun to move, and the pencilcould be heard scratching across the paper."By George!" he muttered. "That's curious. Look at it. I'm not doing it. Iknow I'm not doing it. look at that hand go! Just look at it!""Now, Robert, none of your ridiculousness," his wife warned him."I tell you I'm not doing it," he replied indignantly. "The force has got holdof me. Ask Mrs. Grantly. Tell her to make it stop, if you want it to stop. Ican't stop it. By George! look at that flourish. I didn't do that. I neverwrote a flourish in my life.""Do try to be serious," Mrs. Grantly warned them. "An atmosphere of levitydoes not conduce to the best operation of Planchette.""There, that will do, I guess," Uncle Robert said as he took his hand away."Now let's see."He bent over and adjusted his glasses. "It's handwriting at any rate, andthat's better than the rest of you did. Here, Lute, your eyes are young.""Oh, what flourishes!" Lute exclaimed, as she looked at the paper. "And lookthere, there are two different handwritings."She began to read: "This is the first lecture. Concentrate on this sentence:'I am a positive spirit and not negative to any condition.' Then follow withconcentration on positive 1ove. After that peace and harmony will vibratethrough and around your body. Your soul--The other writing breaks right in.This is the way it goes: Bullfrog 95, Dixie 16, Golden Anchor 65, GoldMountain 13, Jim Butler 70, Jumbo 75, North Star 42, Rescue 7, Black Butte 75,Brown Hope 16, Iron Top 3.""Iron Top's pretty low," Mr. Barton murmured."Robert, you've been dabbling again!" Aunt Mildred cried accusingly."No, I've not," he denied. "I only read the quotations. But how the devil--Ibeg your pardon--they got there on that piece of paper I'd like to know.""Your subconscious mind," Chris suggested. "You read the quotations into-day's paper.""No, I didn't; but last week I glanced over the column.""A day or a year is all the same in the subconscious mind," said Mrs. Grantly."The subconscious mind never forgets. But I am not saying that this is due tothe subconscious mind. I refuse to state to what I think it is due.""But how about that other stuff?" Uncle Robert demanded. "Sounds like what I'dthink Christian Science ought to sound like.""Or theosophy," Aunt Mildred volunteered. "Some message to a neophyte.""Go on, read the rest," her husband commanded."This puts you in touch with the mightier spirits," Lute read. "You shallbecome one with us, and your name shall be 'Arya,' and you shall--Conqueror20, Empire 12, Columbia Mountain 18, Midway 140--and, and that is all. Oh, no!here's a last flourish, Arya, from Kandor--that must surely be the Mahatma.""I'd like to have you explain that theosophy stuff on the basis of thesubconscious mind, Chris," Uncle Robert challenged.Chris shrugged his shoulders. "No explanation. You must have got a messageintended for some one else.""Lines were crossed, eh?" Uncle Robert chuckled. "Multiplex spiritual wirelesstelegraphy, I'd call it.""It IS nonsense," Mrs. Grantly said. "I never knew Planchette to behave sooutrageously. There are disturbing influences at work. I felt them from thefirst. Perhaps it is because you are all making too much fun of it. You aretoo hilarious.""A certain befitting gravity should grace the occasion," Chris agreed, placinghis hand on Planchette. "Let me try. And not one of you must laugh or giggle,or even think 'laugh' or 'giggle.' And if you dare to snort, even once, UncleRobert, there is no telling what occult vengeance may be wreaked upon you.""I'll be good," Uncle Robert rejoined. "But if I really must snort, may Isilently slip away?"Chris nodded. His hand had already begun to work. There had been nopreliminary twitchings nor tentative essays at writing. At once his hand hadstarted off, and Planchette was moving swiftly and smoothly across the paper."Look at him," Lute whispered to her aunt. "See how white he is."Chris betrayed disturbance at the sound of her voice, and thereafter silencewas maintained. Only could be heard the steady scratching of the pencil.Suddenly, as though it had been stung, he jerked his hand away. With a sighand a yawn he stepped back from the table, then glanced with the curiosity ofa newly awakened man at their faces."I think I wrote something," he said."I should say you did," Mrs. Grantly remarked with satisfaction, holding upthe sheet of paper and glancing at it."Read it aloud," Uncle Robert said."Here it is, then. It begins with 'beware' written three times, and in muchlarger characters than the rest of the writing. BEWARE! BEWARE! BEWARE! ChrisDunbar, I intend to destroy you. I have already made two attempts upon yourlife, and failed. I shall yet succeed. So sure am I that I shall succeed thatI dare to tell you. I do not need to tell you why. In your own heart you know.The wrong you are doing--And here it abruptly ends."Mrs. Grantly laid the paper down on the table and looked at Chris, who hadalready become the centre of all eyes, and who was yawning as from anoverpowering drowsiness."Quite a sanguinary turn, I should say," Uncle Robert remarked."I have already made two attempts upon your life," Mrs. Grantly read from thepaper, which she was going over a second time."0n my life?" Chris demanded between yawns. "Why, my life hasn't beenattempted even once. My! I am sleepy!""Ah, my boy, you are thinking of flesh-and-blood men," Uncle Robert laughed."But this is a spirit. Your life has been attempted by unseen things. Mostlikely ghostly hands have tried to throttle you in your sleep.""Oh, Chris!" Lute cried impulsively. "This afternoon! The hand you said musthave seized your rein!""But I was joking," he objected."Nevertheless . . . " Lute left her thought unspoken.Mrs. Grantly had become keen on the scent. "What was that about thisafternoon? Was your life in danger?"Chris's drowsiness had disappeared. "I'm becoming interested myself," heacknowledged. "We haven't said anything about it. Ban broke his back thisafternoon. He threw himself off the bank, and I ran the risk of being caughtunderneath.""I wonder, I wonder," Mrs. Grantly communed aloud. "There is something inthis. . . . It is a warning . . . Ah! You were hurt yesterday riding MissStory's horse! That makes the two attempts!"She looked triumphantly at them. Planchette had been vindicated."Nonsense," laughed Uncle Robert, but with a slight hint of irritation in hismanner. "Such things do not happen these days. This is the twentieth century,my dear madam. The thing, at the very latest, smacks of mediaevalism.""I have had such wonderful tests with Planchette," Mrs. Grantly began, thenbroke off suddenly to go to the table and place her hand on the board."Who are you?" she asked. "What is your name?"The board immediately began to write. By this time all heads, with theexception of Mr. Barton's, were bent over the table and following the pencil."It's Dick," Aunt Mildred cried, a note of the mildly hysterical in her voice.Her husband straightened up, his face for the first time grave."It's Dick's signature," he said. "I'd know his fist in a thousand.""'Dick Curtis,'" Mrs. Grantly read aloud. "Who is Dick Curtis?""By Jove, that's remarkable!" Mr. Barton broke in. "The handwriting in bothinstances is the same. Clever, I should say, really clever," he addedadmiringly."Let me see," Uncle Robert demanded, taking the paper and examining it. "Yes,it is Dick's handwriting.""But who is Dick?" Mrs. Grantly insisted. "Who is this Dick Curtis?""Dick Curtis, why, he was Captain Richard Curtis," Uncle Robert answered."He was Lute's father," Aunt Mildred supplemented. "Lute took our name. Shenever saw him. He died when she was a few weeks old. He was my brother.""Remarkable, most remarkable." Mrs. Grantly was revolving the message in hermind. "There were two attempts on Mr. Dunbar's life. The subconscious mindcannot explain that, for none of us knew of the accident to-day.""I knew," Chris answered, "and it was I that operated Planchette. Theexplanation is simple.""But the handwriting," interposed Mr. Barton. "What you wrote and what Mrs.Grantly wrote are identical."Chris bent over and compared the handwriting."Besides," Mrs. Grantly cried, "Mr. Story recognizes the handwriting."She looked at him for verification.He nodded his head. "Yes, it is Dick's fist. I'll swear to that."But to Lute had come a visioning;. While the rest argued pro and con and theair was filled with phrases,--"psychic phenomena," "self-hypnotism," "residuumof unexplained truth," and "spiritism,"--she was reviving mentally thegirlhood pictures she had conjured of this soldier-father she had never seen.She possessed his sword, there were several old-fashioned daguerreotypes,there was much that had been said of him, stories told of him--and all thishad constituted the material out of which she had builded him in her childhoodfancy."There is the possibility of one mind unconsciously suggesting to anothermind," Mrs. Grantly was saying; but through Lute's mind was trooping herfather on his great roan war-horse. Now he was leading his men. She saw him onlonely scouts, or in the midst of the yelling, Indians at Salt Meadows, whenof his command he returned with one man in ten. And in the picture she had ofhim, in the physical semblance she had made of him, was reflected hisspiritual nature, reflected by her worshipful artistry in form and feature andexpression--his bravery, his quick temper, his impulsive championship, hismadness of wrath in a righteous cause, his warm generosity and swiftforgiveness, and his chivalry that epitomized codes and ideals primitive asthe days of knighthood. And first, last, and always, dominating all, she sawin the face of him the hot passion and quickness of deed that had earned forhim the name "Fighting Dick Curtis.""Let me put it to the test," she heard Mrs. Grantly saying;. "Let Miss Storytry Planchette. There may be a further message.""No, no, I beg of you," Aunt Mildred interposed. "It is too uncanny. It surelyis wrong to tamper with the dead. Besides, I am nervous. Or, better, let me goto bed, leaving you to go on with your experiments. That will be the best way,and you can tell me in the morning." Mingled with the "Good-nights," werehalf-hearted protests from Mrs. Grantly, as Aunt Mildred withdrew."Robert can return," she called back, "as soon as he has seen me to my tent.""It would be a shame to give it up now," Mrs. Grantly said. "There is notelling what we are on the verge of. Won't you try it, Miss Story?"Lute obeyed, but when she placed her hand on the board she was conscious of avague and nameless fear at this toying with the supernatural. She wastwentieth-century, and the thing in essence, as her uncle had said, wasmediaeval. Yet she could not shake off the instinctive fear that arose inher--man's inheritance from the wild and howling ages when his hairy, apelikeprototype was afraid of the dark and personified the elements into things offear.But as the mysterious influence seized her hand and sent it meriting acrossthe paper, all the unusual passed out of the situation and she was unaware ofmore than a feeble curiosity. For she was intent on another visioning--thistime of her mother, who was also unremembered in the flesh. Not sharp andvivid like that of her father, but dim and nebulous was the picture she shapedof her mother--a saint's head in an aureole of sweetness and goodness andmeekness, and withal, shot through with a hint of reposeful determination, ofwill, stubborn and unobtrusive, that in life had expressed itself mainly inresignation.Lute's hand had ceased moving, and Mrs. Grantly was already reading themessage that had been written."It is a different handwriting," she said. "A woman's hand. 'Martha,' it issigned. Who is Martha?"Lute was not surprised. "It is my mother," she said simply. "What does shesay?"She had not been made sleepy, as Chris had; but the keen edge of her vitalityhad been blunted, and she was experiencing a sweet and pleasing lassitude. Andwhile the message was being read, in her eyes persisted the vision of hermother."Dear child," Mrs. Grantly read, "do not mind him. He was ever quick of speechand rash. Be no niggard with your love. Love cannot hurt you. To deny love isto sin. Obey your heart and you can do no wrong. Obey worldly considerations,obey pride, obey those that prompt you against your heart's prompting, and youdo sin. Do not mind your father. He is angry now, as was his way in theearth-life; but he will come to see the wisdom of my counsel, for this, too,was his way in the earth-life. Love, my child, and love well.--Martha.""Let me see it," Lute cried, seizing the paper and devouring the handwritingwith her eyes. She was thrilling with unexpressed love for the mother she hadnever seen, and this written speech from the grave seemed to give moretangibility to her having ever existed, than did the vision of her."This IS remarkable," Mrs. Grantly was reiterating. "There was never anythinglike it. Think of it, my dear, both your father and mother here with ustonight."Lute shivered. The lassitude was gone, and she was her natural self again,vibrant with the instinctive fear of things unseen. And it was offensive toher mind that, real or illusion, the presence or the memorized existences ofher father and mother should he touched by these two persons who werepractically strangers--Mrs. Grantly, unhealthy and morbid, and Mr. Barton,stolid and stupid with a grossness both of the flesh and the spirit. And itfurther seemed a trespass that these strangers should thus enter into theintimacy between her and Chris.She could hear the steps of her uncle approaching, and the situation flashedupon her, luminous and clear. She hurriedly folded the sheet of paper andthrust it into her bosom."Don't say anything to him about this second message, Mrs. Grantly, please,and Mr. Barton. Nor to Aunt Mildred. It would only cause them irritation andneedless anxiety."In her mind there was also the desire to protect her lover, for she knew thatthe strain of his present standing with her aunt and uncle would be added to,unconsciously in their minds, by the weird message of Planchette."And please don't let us have any more Planchette," Lute continued hastily."Let us forget all the nonsense that has occurred.""'Nonsense,' my dear child?" Mrs. Grantly was indignantly protesting whenUncle Robert strode into the circle."Hello!" he demanded. "What's being done?""Too late," Lute answered lightly. "No more stock quotations for you.Planchette is adjourned, and we're just winding up the discussion of thetheory of it. Do you know how late it is?"*******"Well, what did you do last night after we left?""Oh, took a stroll," Chris answered.Lute's eyes were quizzical as she asked with a tentativeness that was palpablyassumed, "With--a--with Mr. Barton?""Why, yes.""And a smoke?""Yes; and now what's it all about?"Lute broke into merry laughter. "Just as I told you that you would do. Am Inot a prophet? But I knew before I saw you that my forecast had come true. Ihave just left Mr. Barton, and I knew he had walked with you last night, forhe is vowing by all his fetishes and idols that you are a perfectly splendidyoung man. I could see it with my eyes shut. The Chris Dunbar glamour hasfallen upon him. But I have not finished the catechism by any means. Wherehave you been all morning?""Where I am going to take you this afternoon.""You plan well without knowing my wishes.""I knew well what your wishes are. It is to see a horse I have found."Her voice betrayed her delight, as she cried, "Oh, good!""He is a beauty," Chris said.But her face had suddenly gone grave, and apprehension brooded in her eyes."He's called Comanche," Chris went on. "A beauty, a regular beauty, theperfect type of the Californian cow-pony. And his lines--why, what's thematter?"Don't let us ride any more," Lute said, "at least for a while. Really, I thinkI am a tiny bit tired of it, too."He was looking at her in astonishment, and she was bravely meeting his eyes."I see hearses and flowers for you," he began, "and a funeral oration; I seethe end of the world, and the stars falling out of the sky, and the heavensrolling up as a scroll; I see the living and the dead gathered together forthe final judgement, the sheep and the goats, the lambs and the rams and allthe rest of it, the white-robed saints, the sound of golden harps, and thelost souls howling as they fall into the Pit--all this I see on the day thatyou, Lute Story, no longer care to ride a horse. A horse, Lute! a horse!""For a while, at least," she pleaded."Ridiculous!" he cried. "What's the matter? Aren't you well?--you who arealways so abominably and adorably well!""No, it's not that," she answered. "I know it is ridiculous, Chris, I know it,but the doubt will arise. I cannot help it. You always say I am so sanelyrooted to the earth and reality and all that, but--perhaps it's superstition,I don't know--but the whole occurrence, the messages of Planchette, thepossibility of my father's hand, I know not how, reaching, out to Ban's reinand hurling him and you to death, the correspondence between my father'sstatement that he has twice attempted your life and the fact that in the lasttwo days your life has twice been endangered by horses--my father was a greathorseman--all this, I say, causes the doubt to arise in my mind. What if therebe something in it? I am not so sure. Science may be too dogmatic in itsdenial of the unseen. The forces of the unseen, of the spirit, may well be toosubtle, too sublimated, for science to lay hold of, and recognize, andformulate. Don't you see, Chris, that there is rationality in the very doubt?It may be a very small doubt--oh, so small; but I love you too much to runeven that slight risk. Besides, I am a woman, and that should in itself fullyaccount for my predisposition toward superstition."Yes, yes, I know, call it unreality. But I've heard you paradoxing upon thereality of the unreal--the reality of delusion to the mind that is sick. Andso with me, if you will; it is delusion and unreal, but to me, constituted asI am, it is very real--is real as a nightmare is real, in the throes of it,before one awakes.""The most logical argument for illogic I have ever heard," Chris smiled. "Itis a good gaming proposition, at any rate. You manage to embrace more chancesin your philosophy than do I in mine. It reminds me of Sam--the gardener youhad a couple of years ago. I overheard him and Martin arguing in the stable.You know what a bigoted atheist Martin is. Well, Martin had deluged Sam withfloods of logic. Sam pondered awhile, and then he said, 'Foh a fack, Mis'Martin, you jis' tawk like a house afire; but you ain't got de show I has.''How's that?' Martin asked. 'Well, you see, Mis' Martin, you has one chance tomah two.' 'I don't see it,' Martin said. 'Mis' Martin, it's dis way. You hasjis' de chance, lak you say, to become worms foh de fruitification of decabbage garden. But I's got de chance to lif' mah voice to de glory of de Lawdas I go paddin' dem golden streets--along 'ith de chance to be jis' wormsalong 'ith you, Mis' Martin.'""You refuse to take me seriously," Lute said, when she had laughed herappreciation."How can I take that Planchette rigmarole seriously?" he asked."You don't explain it--the handwriting of my father, which Uncle Robertrecognized--oh, the whole thing, you don't explain it.""I don't know all the mysteries of mind," Chris answered. " But I believe suchphenomena will all yield to scientific explanation in the not distant future.""Just the same, I have a sneaking desire to find out some more fromPlanchette," Lute confessed. "The board is still down in the dining room. Wecould try it now, you and I, and no one would know."Chris caught her hand, crying: "Come on! It will be a lark."Hand in hand they ran down the path to the tree-pillared room."The camp is deserted," Lute said, as she placed Planchette on the table."Mrs. Grantly and Aunt Mildred are lying down, and Mr. Barton has gone offwith Uncle Robert. There is nobody to disturb us." She placed her hand on theboard. "Now begin."For a few minutes nothing happened. Chris started to speak, but she hushed himto silence. The preliminary twitchings had appeared in her hand and arm. Thenthe pencil began to write. They read the message, word by word, as it waswritten:There is wisdom greater than the wisdom of reason. Love proceeds not out ofthe dry-as-dust way of the mind. Love is of the heart, and is beyond allreason, and logic, and philosophy. Trust your own heart, my daughter. And ifyour heart bids you have faith in your lover, then laugh at the mind and itscold wisdom, and obey your heart, and have faith in your lover.--Martha."But that whole message is the dictate of your own heart," Chris cried. "Don'tyou see, Lute? The thought is your very own, and your subconscious mind hasexpressed it there on the paper.""But there is one thing I don't see," she objected."And that?""Is the handwriting. Look at it. It does not resemble mine at all. It ismincing, it is old-fashioned, it is the old-fashioned feminine of a generationago.""But you don't mean to tell me that you really believe that this is a messagefrom the dead?" he interrupted."I don't know, Chris," she wavered. "I am sure I don't know.""It is absurd!" he cried. "These are cobwebs of fancy. When one dies, he isdead. He is dust. He goes to the worms, as Martin says. The dead? I laugh atthe dead. They do not exist. They are not. I defy the powers of the grave, themen dead and dust and gone!"And what have you to say to that?" he challenged, placing his hand onPlanchette.On the instant his hand began to write. Both were startled by the suddennessof it. The message was brief:BEWARE! BEWARE! BEWARE!He was distinctly sobered, but he laughed. "It is like a miracle play. Deathwe have, speaking to us from the grave. But Good Deeds, where art thou? AndKindred? and Joy? and Household Goods? and Friendship? and all the goodlycompany?"But Lute did not share his bravado. Her fright showed itself in her face. Shelaid her trembling hand on his arm."Oh, Chris, let us stop. I am sorry we began it. Let us leave the quiet deadto their rest. It is wrong. It must be wrong. I confess I am affected by it. Icannot help it. As my body is trembling, so is my soul. This speech of thegrave, this dead man reaching out from the mould of a generation to protect mefrom you. There is reason in it. There is the living mystery that prevents youfrom marrying me. Were my father alive, he would protect me from you. Dead, hestill strives to protect me. His hands, his ghostly hands, are against yourlife!""Do be calm," Chris said soothingly. "Listen to me. It is all a lark. We areplaying with the subjective forces of our own being, with phenomena whichscience has not yet explained, that is all. Psychology is so young a science.The subconscious mind has just been discovered, one might say. It is allmystery as yet; the laws of it are yet to he formulated. This is simplyunexplained phenomena. But that is no reason that we should immediatelyaccount for it by labelling it spiritism. As yet we do not know, that is all.As for Planchette--"He abruptly ceased, for at that moment, to enforce his remark, he had placedhis hand on Planchette, and at that moment his hand had been seized, as by aparoxysm, and sent dashing, willy-nilly, across the paper, writing as the handof an angry person would write."No, I don't care for any more of it," Lute said, when the message wascompleted. "It is like witnessing a fight between you and my father in theflesh. There is the savor in it of struggle and blows."She pointed out a sentence that read: "You cannot escape me nor the justpunishment that is yours!""Perhaps I visualize too vividly for my own comfort, for I can see his handsat your throat. I know that he is, as you say, dead and dust, but for allthat, I can see him as a man that is alive and walks the earth; I see theanger in his face, the anger and the vengeance, and I see it all directedagainst you."She crumpled up the scrawled sheets of paper, and put Planchette away."We won't bother with it any more," Chris said. "I didn't think it wouldaffect you so strongly. But it's all subjective, I'm sure, with possibly a bitof suggestion thrown in--that and nothing more. And the whole strain of oursituation has made conditions unusually favorable for striking phenomena.""And about our situation," Lute said, as they went slowly up the path they hadrun down. " What we are to do, I don't know. Are we to go on, as we have goneon? What is best? Have you thought of anything?"He debated for a few steps. "I have thought of telling your uncle and aunt.""What you couldn't tell me?" she asked quickly."No," he answered slowly; "but just as much as I have told you. I have noright to tell them more than I have told you."This time it was she that debated. "No, don't tell them," she said finally."They wouldn't understand. I don't understand, for that matter, but I havefaith in you, and in the nature of things they are not capable of this sameImplicit faith. You raise up before me a mystery that prevents our marriage,and I believe you; but they could not believe you without doubts arising as tothe wrong and ill-nature of the mystery. Besides, it would but make theiranxieties greater.""I should go away, I know I should go away," he said, half under his breath."And I can. I am no weakling. Because I have failed to remain away once, is noreason that I shall fail again."She caught her breath with a quick gasp. "It is like a bereavement to hear youspeak of going away and remaining away. I should never see you again. It istoo terrible. And do not reproach yourself for weakness. It is I who am toblame. It is I who prevented you from remaining away before, I know. I wantedyou so. I want you so."There is nothing to be done, Chris, nothing to be done but to go on with itand let it work itself out somehow. That is one thing we are sure of: it willwork out somehow.""But it would be easier if I went away," he suggested."I am happier when you are here.""The cruelty of circumstance," he muttered savagely."Go or stay--that will be part of the working out. But I do not want you togo, Chris; you know that. And now no more about it. Talk cannot mend it. Letus never mention it again--unless . . . unless some time, some wonderful,happy time, you can come to me and say: 'Lute, all is well with me. Themystery no longer binds me. I am free.' Until that time let us bury it, alongwith Planchette and all the rest, and make the most of the little that isgiven us."And now, to show you how prepared I am to make the most of that little, I ameven ready to go with you this afternoon to see the horse--though I wish youwouldn't ride any more . . . for a few days, anyway, or for a week. What didyou say was his name?""Comanche," he answered. "I know you will like him."*******Chris lay on his back, his head propped by the bare jutting wall of stone, hisgaze attentively directed across the canyon to the opposing tree-coveredslope. There was a sound of crashing through underbrush, the ringing ofsteel-shod hoofs on stone, and an occasional and mossy descent of a dislodgedboulder that bounded from the hill and fetched up with a final splash in thetorrent that rushed over a wild chaos of rocks beneath him. Now and again hecaught glimpses, framed in green foliage, of the golden brown of Lute'scorduroy riding-habit and of the bay horse that moved beneath her.She rode out into an open space where a loose earth-slide denied lodgement totrees and grass. She halted the horse at the brink of the slide and glanceddown it with a measuring eye. Forty feet beneath, the slide terminated in asmall, firm-surfaced terrace, the banked accumulation of fallen earth andgravel."It's a good test," she called across the canyon. "I'm going to put him downit."The animal gingerly launched himself on the treacherous footing, irregularlylosing and gaining his hind feet, keeping his fore legs stiff, and steadilyand calmly, without panic or nervousness, extricating the fore feet as fast asthey sank too deep into the sliding earth that surged along in a wave beforehim. When the firm footing at the bottom was reached, he strode out on thelittle terrace with a quickness and springiness of gait and with glintings ofmuscular fires that gave the lie to the calm deliberation of his movements onthe slide"Bravo!" Chris shouted across the canyon, clapping his hands."The wisest-footed, clearest-headed horse I ever saw," Lute called back, asshe turned the animal to the side and dropped down a broken slope of rubbleand into the trees again.Chris followed her by the sound of her progress, and by occasional glimpseswhere the foliage was more open, as she zigzagged down the steep and traillessdescent. She emerged below him at the rugged rim of the torrent, dropped thehorse down a three-foot wall, and halted to study the crossing.Four feet out in the stream, a narrow ledge thrust above the surface of thewater. Beyond the ledge boiled an angry pool. But to the left, from the ledge,and several feet lower, was a they bed of gravel. A giant boulder preventeddirect access to the gravel bed. The only way to gain it was by first leapingto the ledge of rock. She studied it carefully, and the tightening of herbridle-arm advertised that she had made up her mind.Chris, in his anxiety, had sat up to observe more closely what she meditated."Don't tackle it," he called."I have faith in Comanche," she called in return."He can't make that side-jump to the gravel," Chris warned. "He'll never keephis legs. He'll topple over into the pool. Not one horse in a thousand coulddo that stunt.""And Comanche is that very horse," she answered. "Watch him."She gave the animal his head, and he leaped cleanly and accurately to theledge, striking with feet close together on the narrow space. On the instanthe struck, Lute lightly touched his neck with the rein, impelling him to theleft; and in that instant, tottering on the insecure footing, with front feetslipping over into the pool beyond, he lifted on his hind legs, with a halfturn, sprang to the left, and dropped squarely down to the tiny gravel bed. Aneasy jump brought him across the stream, and Lute angled him up the bank andhalted before her lover."Well?" she asked."I am all tense," Chris answered. "I was holding my breath.""Buy him, by all means," Lute said, dismounting. "He is a bargain. I coulddare anything on him. I never in my life had such confidence in a horse'sfeet.""His owner says that he has never been known to lose his feet, that it isimpossible to get him down.""Buy him, buy him at once," she counselled, "before the man changes his mind.If you don't, I shall. Oh, such feet! I feel such confidence in them that whenI am on him I don't consider he has feet at all. And he's quick as a cat, andinstantly obedient. Bridle-wise is no name for it! You could guide him withsilken threads. Oh, I know I'm enthusiastic, but if you don't buy him, Chris.I shall. Remember, I've second refusal."Chris smiled agreement as he changed the saddles. Meanwhile she compared thetwo horses."Of course he doesn't match Dolly the way Ban did," she concluded regretfully;"but his coat is splendid just the same. And think of the horse that is underthe coat!"Chris gave her a hand into the saddle, and followed her up the slope to thecounty road. She reined in suddenly, saying:"We won't go straight back to camp.""You forget dinner," he wanted."But I remember Comanche," she retorted. "We'll ride directly over to theranch and buy him. Dinner will keep.""But the cook won't," Chris laughed. "She's already threatened to leave, whatof our late-comings.""Even so," was the answer. "Aunt Mildred may have to get another cook, but atany rate we shall have got Comanche."They turned the horses in the other direction, and took the climb of the NunCanyon road that led over the divide and down into the Napa Valley. But theclimb was hard, the going was slow. Sometimes they topped the bed of thetorrent by hundreds of feet, and again they dipped down and crossed andrecrossed it twenty times in twice as many rods. They rode through the deepshade of clean-bunked maples and towering redwoods, to emerge on openstretches of mountain shoulder where the earth lay dry and cracked under thesun.On one such shoulder they emerged, where the road stretched level before them,for a quarter of a mile. On one side rose the huge bulk of the mountain. Onthe other side the steep wall of the canyon fell away in impossible slopes andsheer drops to the torrent at the bottom. It was an abyss of green beauty andshady depths, pierced by vagrant shafts of the sun and mottled here and thereby the sun's broader blazes. The sound of rushing water ascended on thewindless air, and there was a hum of mountain bees.The horses broke into an easy lope. Chris rock on the outside, looking downinto the great depths and pleasuring with his eyes in what he saw.Dissociating itself from the murmur of the bees, a murmur arose of fallingwater. It grew louder with every stride of the horses."Look!" he cried.Lute leaned well out from her horse to see. Beneath them the water slidfoaming down a smooth-faced rock to the lip, whence it leaped clear--apulsating ribbon of white, a-breath with movement, ever falling and everremaining, changing its substance but never its form, an aerial waterway asimmaterial as gauze and as permanent as the hills, that spanned space and thefree air from the lip of the rock to the tops of the trees far below, intowhose green screen it disappeared to fall into a secret pool.They had flashed past. The descending water became a distant murmur thatmerged again into the murmur of the bees and ceased. Swayed by a commonimpulse, they looked at each other."Oh, Chris, it is good to be alive . . . and to have you here by my side!"He answered her by the warm light in his eyes.All things tended to key them to an exquisite pitch--the movement of theirbodies, at one with the moving bodies of the animals beneath them; the gentlystimulated blood caressing the flesh through and through with the soft vigorsof health; the warm air fanning their faces, flowing over the skin with balmyand tonic touch, permeating them and bathing them, subtly, with faint,sensuous delight; and the beauty of the world, more subtly still, flowing uponthem and bathing them in the delight that is of the spirit and is personal andholy, that is inexpressible yet communicable by the flash of an eye and thedissolving of the veils of the soul.So looked they at each other, the horses bounding beneath them, the spring ofthe world and the spring of their youth astir in their blood, the secret ofbeing trembling in their eyes to the brink of disclosure, as if about todispel, with one magic word, all the irks and riddles of existence.The road curved before them, so that the upper reaches of the canyon could beseen, the distant bed of it towering high above their heads. They wererounding the curve, leaning toward the inside, gazing before them at theswift-growing picture. There was no sound of warning. She heard nothing, buteven before the horse went down she experienced the feeling that the unison ofthe two leaping animals was broken. She turned her head, and so quickly thatshe saw Comanche fall. It was not a stumble nor a trip. He fell as though,abruptly, in midleap, he had died or been struck a stunning blow.And in that moment she remembered Planchette; it seared her brain as alightning-flash of all-embracing memory. Her horse was back on its haunches,the weight of her body on the reins; but her head was turned and her eyes wereon the falling Comanche. He struck the road-bed squarely, with his legs looseand lifeless beneath him.It all occurred in one of those age-long seconds that embrace an eternity ofhappening. There was a slight but perceptible rebound from the impact ofComanche's body with the earth. The violence with which he struck forced theair from his great lungs in an audible groan. His momentum swept him onwardand over the edge. The weight of the rider on his neck turned him over headfirst as he pitched to the fall.She was off her horse, she knew not how, and to the edge. Her lover was out ofthe saddle and clear of Comanche, though held to the animal by his right foot,which was caught in the stirrup. The slope was too steep for them to come to astop. Earth and small stones, dislodged by their struggles, were rolling downwith them and before them in a miniature avalanche. She stood very quietly,holding one hand against her heart and gazing down. But while she saw the realhappening, in her eyes was also the vision of her father dealing the spectralblow that had smashed Comanche down in mid-leap and sent horse and riderhurtling over the edge.Beneath horse and man the steep terminated in an up-and-down wall, from thebase of which, in turn, a second slope ran down to a second wall. A thirdslope terminated in a final wall that based itself on the canyon-bed fourhundred feet beneath the point where the girl stood and watched. She could seeChris vainly kicking his leg to free the foot from the trap of the stirrup.Comanche fetched up hard against an outputting point of rock. For a fractionof a second his fall was stopped, and in the slight interval the man managedto grip hold of a young shoot of manzanita. Lute saw him complete the gripwith his other hand. Then Comanche's fall began again. She saw thestirrup-strap draw taut, then her lover's body and arms. The manzanita shootyielded its roots, and horse and man plunged over the edge and out of sight.They came into view on the next slope, together and rolling over and over,with sometimes the man under and sometimes the horse. Chris no longerstruggled, and together they dashed over to the third slope. Near the edge ofthe final wall, Comanche lodged on a buttock of stone. He lay quietly, andnear him, still attached to him by the stirrup, face downward, lay his rider."If only he will lie quietly," Lute breathed aloud, her mind at work on themeans of rescue.But she saw Comanche begin to struggle again, and clear on her vision, itseemed, was the spectral arm of her father clutching the reins and draggingthe animal over. Comanche floundered across the hummock, the inert bodyfollowing, and together, horse and man, they plunged from sight. They did notappear again. They had fetched bottom.Lute looked about her. She stood alone on the world. Her lover was gone. Therewas naught to show of his existence, save the marks of Comanche's hoofs on theroad and of his body where it had slid over the brink."Chris!" she called once, and twice; but she called hopelessly.Out of the depths, on the windless air, arose only the murmur of bees and ofrunning water"Chris!" she called yet a third time, and sank slowly down in the dust of theroad.She felt the touch of Dolly's muzzle on her arm, and she leaned her headagainst the mare's neck and waited. She knew not why she waited, nor for what,only there seemed nothing else but waiting left for her to do.
zpostcode
Recruit
weather
mreligion
Yellowpages
sport
constellation
shopping
name
game
directory
literature
Word
tour
furnish
Lottery
tftnews
lyrics
News
digital
car
dir
Edu
Finance
