Part 3

While all regard me, lovingly, a golden point of light enters the room, _dropping at my feet_, causing consternation in the rest. Show Off hurries out and brings a tablet; reading it they point excitedly to me; the sunburst growing, they gaze in stupor.

Not until it lessens and departs do they regain composure, when I ask, “What is it?” Robet answering, “A prophecy. This sign that has never been just this way before, heralds a new era in Arc; a new people, a new land. The latter a necessity, as Arc is just evenly full.”

My overbalanced visionary tendency becomes imbued with a new power. I rise in the air, spiritually, out of the open dome. Ascend to the high-poised golden points, still glowing, (my soul having left material enclosure) in the center, and look down a cavity miles wide in extent, whence drops the last golden ray; a black cloud receives it. A glint of silver lining and all is opaque.

I open my eyes to see Savant added to the circle, he was called, may be, at my faint. But what is strange, he seems to know where I had spiritually gone, and more, is expecting some revelation from me. I only slowly shake my head, when he abruptly turns away.

My new spiritual power says of him, “He is the greatest of living men.” I note where he disappears to sometime search him out.

The new telepathic condition I had suddenly gone into does not entirely leave me. But takes a new form, that of outwardly statue or marble state.

Seeming cold and rigid to others, I see intuitively into their minds, read their thoughts and wishes. I am conscious at times of miraculous ability, as though I could put forth my hand, and command omniscient like.

As Robet tenderly teaches us Arc ways and diversions, I see the adaptation in foreknowledge, and surprise her and the rest, so that they are getting an awe of me, and are carefully respectful of my person.

“In the depths”

Mae goes out everywhere, often alone, finding the new ways and amusements of the city.

When she finds one she thinks I will enjoy, she hurries home all out of breath to take me or tell me.

She has been hunting around the halls to-day, as if there were hidden mysteries close by. I do believe she has found one. Her hair flying and eyes dancing, I go to meet her, to see what it is; getting some emotion in my own frame. “Come in here, Auntie.” In there I go, like a lamb.

It is a glass entry of some sort. (I will stop to explain what I call glass, as it is not exactly, but some transparency quite serving the purpose.) Mae pulls certain knobs and lets in what——water!

“Auntie, this is bathday. We have on bath rigs. Put on this helmet with its tubes above for breathing.”

I do so, as the water deepens. She opens a gate now, and a flood rushes in, and takes us off our feet, which we regain by use of our elastic breathing tubes.

We pass through the gate to all the glories of the sea. A sea bath—sea mosses under our feet, shells piled in heaps, fern trees waving.

Mae dashes out and hides from view. I discover her, but cannot hold her with my wet hands.

We hear a song. In the door of a crystal grotto stands a mermaid. “Come into my bower, and I will give you amber. I am a sister of seven who combs her long hair in the deep.”

Ascending steps of dainty harpshell, we tread an anemone carpet where is a crowd of people.

Games are in order on rock ruby stands, in which I become engrossed, as a “sister” plays a cameo-mandolin; another singing a rollicking song of the sea, ending in sobs, for those who come down in ships.

There is sea-dancing—liquid symphony. I see Charley in his native element, precluding tears or weeping for joy.

We round out on a tower top, and board a nautilus with unfurled sail. We ride over a gold fish “gilt-edged” school, and a bank of red sea berries that holly-like call up to us “Merry Christmas.”

Furling our sail, we drop down into the entry, which we empty, and strange, our garments are dry.

We emerge among our friends. A sweep of robes is so close passing me, I look up at the colossal face. It is Robet, but a strained, nervous look forbids me to follow.

Toppling upon the hem of her robe, I am carried perforce in her company. She stops in a conservatory, where one grand tree is growing, and bends down a branch. I look to see it and all the tree transcribed with names—a veritable family tree. More distraught, she speaks in a loud-pitched voice, down into the face of Charley, who has followed me (seeing him not), “Have you a pedigree?” He colors up in wrath, then takes a tablet from my chatelaine, and places it in her hand, which awakes her. Smiling, she says, “I did not mean you.” Charley reacting from anger to hilarity, seizes a twig, crying. “I will write a pedigree,” as a red pollen drops, touching up my cheeks. “They need it,” he says, and goes for Mae, who now comes, and soon she glows like an Indian.

When he is gone, Mae, in order for ablution, opens near by a door, that is outwardly a picture. (More mystery).

Can it be the secret sanctum of Savant, that I have so vainly hunted? Father sits in an easy chair deeply engaged with a pictured script. I look around but see no books or apparatus—a cheerful, cosy room only. I look over father’s shoulder as he turns the papyrus leaf, holding over it a microscope. I catch sight of the meaning. Giving a sudden cry, he arouses to my presence. He takes me on his knee, and we follow together the tiny pictured lines of a story.

Anon a kitten purrs by me; I look up and see the host intently reading my expression in his own absorbed, telepathic style. Genially smiling, he takes my two hands, and kneeling places them on his head, thus confessing his service to my will. Though in my new normal state, I feel to deprecate myself, and smile in humblest mode, as he rises and sits next us in similar seat.

Before we turn to our occupation, an incandescent glow falls upon the page, causing us to raise our eyes quite wonderingly. The light emanates quite mysteriously from Robet, whom I had not before observed as thus illumined. I see in her hand a lighted lantern, which she is studying, or the shining words upon it.

That these latter are possibly a code of rules is determined by her action. Sinking down at Savant’s feet, she asks, “Do give me some new plan for court to-day.”

“I will give you one,” speaks up father. She turns full to him.

“It is lawyer, a word signifying welfare.”

I was aware my English language was prolific of varied meanings. I am pleased to hear this development. “Law,” he continues, “transposed is ‘well;’ yer is ‘fare.’”

Miss Robet has caught his idea, and elaborates it. “When I go into court, the good word shall be welfare; when I come out—farewell,” and is gone.

Dear Robet, what is her secret sorrow, that she hides in her tender breast? Her genial soul should have no rebuff. Why is her intended away, as I have heard?

Quite changeable in mood, as is Show Off, her great chum, who gets it from his mother, the latter a triplet sister with Robet, and now on a visit to the other triplet sister.

We now give attention to the story before us, but so loudly sounds a refrain in my ears, “Savant before you is the greatest of living men,” until I become impatient, and ask, “how great?” “Ask him hidden knowledge,” refrains back to me.

What can it mean?

I will treat him to some unsettled points in spiritual doctrine to test his lore.

Immortality of the soul is an universal instinct. _Phil. Schaff, D. D._

Looking to where he sits, I study one in my mind, and observe father sees my abstraction. I can tell by a wrinkling around his eyes, he is preparing himself for enjoyment of the debate.

“What is the breath of life?” I at last ask ingenuously.

“Oh, I can answer that. I have found it out since I have been here. That is an easy question. It is, my dear, electricity, which we assimilate into spirit. Simple in explanation. The electric soul batteries of our organism thus supplied by God, the maker of souls, drawn in with our breath.” Quite suavely preaches my father to me.

“Yes, but there are two electricities; how could we take both and live?”

“There are two electricities, assuredly. They assimilate; the assimilation is life.”

I feel dubious, but see clearer as he proceeds.

“The earth has negative electricity, the other positive, or masculine, comes from the sun, uniting to life.”

Suddenly I burst out, “That makes the sun our father. Pray, who is God, who made the sun?” The eye wrinkle deepens. “In that case, our grandfather.”

I scorn to smile.

“Does this soul life have bodily sense after death?” I again venture a second question.

“Yes, and bodily sustenance in the air, where is body material, tho’ invisible.”

I clasp my hands to my head, and rush out of the room. But close behind me is Savant, who is pleased to wish more acquaintance.

I overcome my awe, but do not care to inquire on abstruse subjects. We go out into the street, and traverse its length before I am attracted by a special diversion. Entering a hall to rest, we are witness, to me, of an utterly, and at first inconceivable, exhibit, unheard of before novelty. It is the paradoxic act of a Concert, or Opera, without sound—seen and not heard. Upon the stage are rows of lights (reflections) graded in size like the string of a harp. Raising and lowering these in varying figure by skilful players constituted the performance. The changing (not unison) melodies in grave or gay parts, or intermingling, swaying my emotions. I lean back in rapture.

I am studied by my escort, who has been addicted thus, since first he looked at me.

The green sward beneath our feet, as on all floors, prevents the unpleasant custom of stamping. Soon the walls moved in and out, portraying drama. A row of graded boys and girls also, carrying dolls in wickers that they stood up against the walls, bowed their heads and waved their hands in pantomime melody. Marching away, the boys carried the dolls.

We were quite diverted, laughed heartily, stamping on the sward floor, that produced no sound.

“We will tell Mae about this,” I remarked. “Let’s go home and send her here.”

We hurried to the palace to find her under a divan with her head out, though covered by the flowing robe of a doll (mother bunch) into which her hands had been made. Charley has to keep the people away, who are greatly mystified as interested, while he is asking questions, answered by bowing or head shaking of the sorceress.

Suddenly he answers for the doll in ventriloquism, from which they back in amazement.

When it is over and Mae released, so great is their awe of us, I seek to enhance it. I take my watch and convince them it is alive.

This quite overcomes them. I turn to see Charley, slowly at first, then swifter nod his head up and down, as tho’ some unusual resolve was engrossing his calculations, soon I find out. Coming around to me, he says: “I feel a call in my soul to initiate this people to serve our God. I will take this almighty dollar,” suiting in action, he goes through some wizard tricks.

We are tired before they. “Do tell us some more,” they ask.

The next day they are still curious, and keep us engaged in exhibit.

We advert to our railroads, telephones, etc., to their confusion, as we have no samples. Catching in their perplexity some similarity to their own achievements, they bring forward and strive to teach us how they move articles by a _solution_. Chairs and street cars in their wizard propulsion are solved.

“Is it a vegetable or mineral?”

“It is animal.”

Their explanation as greatly confounded us.

“We get it from a fish, which Savant found when he was last over the ice. He saw the ice strangely cracking to find the queer fish. Grasping it, there was an explosion of sound. He brought some home, but they are hard to raise.” Finding us continue in solicitude to understand, they treat us in exchange of our revelations. Our story reminds them of one to match it.

One day explaining to Robet how Unit ladies make themselves young-looking by cosmetics and pencils, she says briskly, “I will take you to-morrow where they make themselves old and wise-looking. You will be pleased; it is a fine city.”

After dinner we go. Arriving, I see the houses are crackled in straight or curved lines of beautiful design. Lines are the fashion.

The costume was striped in pattern. The sward carpet was stems in graceful arrangement.

The table for light refreshments was a single piece, curving in rings from top-vase to cake and lower fruit-trays down to numberless seals, all curls of its octopus dimensions.

As Robet said, the special fad in face garniture of the ladies, as well as the gents, was aged penciling in lines. The marks of wisdom sit quaintly on young brows. Drooping mouths are traced to upward curve. Sad eyes smile; laughing are deepened in thought.

The ribbon-dressed babies are ribboned into similar hammocks, to be swung back and forth.

Their mode of worship at court was to stand in straight lines, like soldiers of God.

Their games are sticks (kindergarten) which they also work into ingenious devises of cabinets and stands. The arches of apartments decorated thus.

Their adieu was straightening of the fingers.

When on our way home, I kiss Robet. My statue sense is wearing away. Still yet, I seem to see the past and future. Interior of minds. An aura-cathode light clarifies. I ask; to answer; my own questions.

“Are spirits before birth individuals?”

“No, only in bulk, combining chemically at birth.”

“Dangers in this life, are there dangers in the next?”

“There are.” I listen to myself statue like.

At last I ask Savant, “What is it?” He is puzzled as I, and questions me on my church faith. I tell him about Adam and Jesus; the latter to tell us all mysteries, when he comes in the clouds. He is intensely interested. I get my bible and read to him day after day.

Much affected one day, he looks up to ask: “May not he the God have sent this upon you to make you his second forerunner?”

Is the secret solved? Am I the herald-searchlight to His path?

(And is he—the Savant—my mission aid)? Near by me, concealed by art-screen, I hear a sob, and see a yellow gleam of hair drop on a loving shoulder. Saucy sobs up to a face, thinking deeply. “Cholly,” coaxing, “what shall we do—will she go up into the sky?”

A jerk of the shoulder straightens up the head, and sobers the grotesque grief of its face. “No, you do not know her. She is smart, I allow, but not so smart as she thinks.” (I feel so funny as I listen). “She is weak yet from her illness is all.”

“O!” ejaculates Saucy as she relapses to her usual self.

Something rustles under my feet. I pick up a piece of American newspaper. Saucy says behind me, “That was around my lunch mamma put up. She is still looking, I suppose,” deeply sighing.

I carefully read each precious word. A short but torn excerpt on science contains this: “I said one good thing of the soul. That it was electrified after death.”

I am at sea. It was not Savant’s lore, but my father’s, who had deceived me. I go to him with the scrap. He reads and smiles, then takes up a leaf near him. Holding over it a microscope, I see on it a picture of cloud lightening taking a spirit to the sky. A wielder of that lightening concealed afar off. I am at sea again.

I take to studying the leaves myself, seeing how useless to question Savant.

Charley and Mae too study with me. Still, the latter jealously watches Savant. Whose modes and agencies are new. Though I see magnetism appear at times, I cannot tell how produced (he works in an alcove one side).

Every morning I am a fixture here, studying, marking a place on the register to visit in the afternoon. So safe am I, now a citizen, I often go alone. Charmed as “Van Winkle,” stay long away.

I am surprised they show no solicitude. Mae one time is absent a week. Alarmed I go to Savant. He takes the register telephones of her position. Then in a shining leaf shows me in picture what has passed to her. I feel to get up and hug him. But hug Charley who is come. “You had better go after her,” he says. “Why, I know all she does.” “Yes, but you should direct what she does,” wisely.

I look to the leaf. A new impress is coming. Behind her as she is backing unconsciously toward it, is an open crevasse trench in use by a workman. I startle the air with a scream to Savant, “Call me,” says Charley, authoritatively, who looks on the plate, to call Savant himself. The latter seeing the dilemma, without leaving his laboratory, touches a button, that closes the crevasse behind Mae, as she steps on it safely. I hug Charley convulsively.

“Logic is logic. That’s what _I_ say.”—_O. W. H._

My husband, always so loving, so bonny and practical, has become sober and long-faced, no shadow of a smile. No hop, skip and jump, like Saucy Mae. Even she he passes absent-minded. If she pulls his sleeve, he does not heed, so she follows him around to find what the matter is. As she makes a body-guard, I leave her to watch him.

He has just come out of Savant’s room, absorbed in some papers, he carefully carries in his hand, assorting them as he noiselessly walks along, the genius behind failing to get a peep at their contents. Hearing me approach, he hastens to conceal them in the shrubbery, disappearing himself.

Saucy having lost him, takes up with me, and we run out and up the street, looking in at various places. Seeing familiar faces in a crowd at an opera house, we join them.

Seeing us, the crowd gives way, and gets up in front, where we become the cynosure of the audience (the performance not having commenced), who look from us to the stage, as if in connection, enigmatical to us.

Puzzled no longer, we see Charley come out and take position as speaker.

Our mouths as well as eyes open in wonder. What will happen next?

With preoccupied bearing, he explains our discovery of iron, that raised man from savagery to civilization, builds ships and houses. It was well we were before him and appreciated his discourse (the home reminiscence starts the old pain) for the audience do not understand a word he says, but connecting his gestures, they oddly imitate the latter.

He turns to us and changes to an abstruse subject, not at all congenial to him.

“Americans concede three natures to man and five senses. I will show him to possess seven natures, each represented by a sense.” We are quite attentive. “Touch, first, by his palm, denoting his acquiring nature.” I clap my hands. “Taste, second, by his tongue, denoting his sustenance nature.” I muse to myself, do we kiss because we are cannibals, and would like to eat the one we kiss?

“Social, third, by his lips, denoting his impress nature.” O yes, that is why we kiss. “Vibrative, fourth, his ear, denoting his emotional nature.” I think him quite a phrenologist. Mae is some dazed. “Atmospheric, fifth, by his nose, denoting his steam nature.” Mae sends up a prolonged shout.

“Solar, sixth, by his eyes, denoting his mental nature.” I shake my finger at him.

“Soul, by his hair, denoting electric spirit nature.” I come to my feet, raising both hands, as he proceeds.

“The hair as covering or ornament of the head has not received sufficient dignity. As telegraph lines of divine construction communes with God, raises its value.” I place my hands on each of his shoulders, as he finishes impressively.

“Above the mind, summit of senses, its own power only has revealed it even to sight.”

Remembering him coming out of Savant’s studio, I am not surprised.

But I continue the thread. Does this theory contravene the immortality of the soul, teach dissolution with the body? O, no.

The operator back of the telegraph machine does not integrate with the machine. The telegraph wires down do not signify the operator to be in the same condition.

My spirit lies, with dreamful eyes, Beneath the walls of Paradise.

I catch sight of Show Off coming leisurely toward us. Has he caught the last part of the lecture, and is he, too, of a studious disposition. For raising his eyes intelligently, he continues the discourse. “Still we are made of dust!” (What can _he_ know of dust?) “Birds,” going on, “are made of trees, for their feathers are little branches. Fishes are of waterbirth—their scales little drops. Beasts of grass, with coats of grass fur. Sheep of snow wool.” I am wool gathering. “Reptiles have clod skins. We are only of the dust—marble, granite or otherwise.” I decide to read him Genesis some day.

But now he speaks up more blithe. “We are going to-morrow to Aunt Roban’s house, where my mother Roba is, to get her,” winking his eye at Saucy.

We are delighted as we return, all together. I look at the streets and people, not knowing I shall see them no more forever.

The next morning, that is getting very late, we are placed in an open sleigh, to try the new snow, in making the trip. As it is a gala day, called Inning Day, so everybody is out. “Will everybody be at Roban’s?” I ask Show Off, who is holding Saucy by my side.

“Yes, and more too, for the Traveler will be there,” he replies moodily.

“Who is he, and where does he travel?”

“Up in the sky on his air star.”

“And what does he do up there?” I smile.

“He fishes below with a line.”

I look warily each side or me.

“Do you like him?”

“Yes, but he wants me to marry his daughter.”

“Well?”

“She won’t have me, as she loves my cousin, Aunt Roban’s son. Her father expects our betrothal at this time.” He stops a moment, then resumes. “He is engaged, himself, to be married to Aunt Robet, who does not dare to tell him of his coming disappointment.”

“How did she, so gentle, ever fancy so douty a man?”

“It was at a ride. The cavalry were going by so swift she became dizzy and was falling, when he by a deft move put her back. When he appears, ever since, she is like affected. He is coming now.”

With a start, I look up to the sky, which is clear. Then I look about at the celebrators, thinking he may be come to earth, and be among them. And though I see a strange mist in the distance, I become occupied in studying the various modes of conveyance close around. Of every odd design, one vehicle is oddest. It is a round glass globe that rolls over and over, bearing its inmates upright, ballasted in the interior. It has only ladies, so I look ahead.

Ahead is a bridge, shaped like a flight of stairs (rests for the horses). Around the farther tower arches—strong supports of the suspended ends—a mist is twining and winding, glistening peculiarly. Show Off seeing my intent gaze looks there, and hastily takes from his father’s pocket a glass and absorbedly scans the mist. I had forgotten the Traveler’s approach, of shock to Robet, who leans back her head gasping faintly. But directly over us is the shocking man, on a high seat, over high runners, between which glides our humble sleigh. At Show Off’s shout, he looks down, his stern face relaxing genially, recovering Robet.

Thus disturbed, Show Off drops the glass, which I pick up, wonderingly.