Part 6

"You and Mrs. Edgerton really do too much," commented Edgerton, politely. "We are apt to underestimate a woman's cares and burdens, Reggie," he added, addressing Caroline.

"Indeed we are," Caroline asserted, readily, in my deep voice. "I'm inclined to think, Edgerton," she continued, giving a splendid imitation of my most impressive manner, "that we do scant justice to our wives, while we are forever harping upon our own importance."

"Hear! hear!" cried little Van Tromp, playfully. I manfully resisted an inclination to hurl a wine-glass at his too picturesque head.

Mrs. Edgerton smiled at me. "What has happened to Mr. Stevens, Caroline?" she cried, jocosely. "Unless my memory is at fault, I have heard him say that you and I are 'long on leisure and short on work.'"

"An epigram!" piped the poet, rolling his eyes in exaggerated rapture.

"Did I ever make that remark?" I heard my voice asking in surprise. "I'm afraid, Mrs. Edgerton, that you have misrepresented the source of what Mr. Van Tromp has mistaken for an epigram. It sounds to me, who never said it, more like a Wall street bull."

"I can't bear that," I ventured, in Caroline's merriest tones, and Miss Van Tromp giggled.

"The point at issue, as I understand it," began Edgerton, genially, "is whether Reggie is making a confession. Did you cry 'Peccavi!' old man?"

"You are as great a sinner in this matter as I am," answered Caroline, seriously, looking at Edgerton. "How often have I heard you complain of overwork, my dear fellow! They were saying at the club this afternoon that you seldom reached there before four o'clock."

A flush came into Edgerton's face, and Mrs. Edgerton laughed aloud.

"Betrayed! betrayed!" she exclaimed, gleefully. "Reggie has deserted you, hubbie dear."

"This is absolutely shocking!" cried Miss Van Tromp. "I shall never marry."

"Let us change the subject," I suggested, suppressing a shudder as Jones glided past me. "We have become a horrible warning to our two unmarried guests--ah--Reginald."

"I am not easily frightened, Mrs. Stevens," the poet dared to say, looking at me courageously.

"Discretion is the better part of bachelorhood," I retorted, and Van Romeo collapsed at once.

"I am so excited at the prospect of meeting Yamama," said Mrs. Edgerton, presently. "He says such wonderful things!"

"And does 'em, too," I murmured, under my breath, and flashing a glance at my smiling face across the table.

"What does he say?" asked Miss Van Tromp, with youthful curiosity.

"Oh, I can't begin to tell you," protested Mrs. Edgerton, and then began: "He says that poetry suffices; that he cannot understand why prose was invented."

"Hear! hear!" cried little Van Tromp, with enthusiasm.

"He abhors egotism. Intellectual self-satisfaction is hideous, he says."

"He ought to know," I exclaimed, and Caroline had the audacity to laugh.

"Go on, Mrs. Edgerton," cried the Van Tromps with one voice.

"Yamama tells us that our Western world is not only self-satisfied, but ignorant. We are contented with half-truths. Science makes a discovery, as it imagines, and, behold! it is something that the East has known for ages."

"But how about the famine in India?" asked Edgerton, argumentatively. "If they know so much, these Eastern wise men, why don't they make grain grow in a dry season? They are great frauds, eh, Reggie?"

"I don't agree with you, Edgerton," I heard my voice in answer. "You fail to get their point of view."

"Betrayed again, Edgerton," laughed the poet.

"What's their point of view?" grumbled Edgerton, casting a glance of surprise at Caroline.

"If you believed in reincarnation," exclaimed my wife, in my somewhat overbearing manner, "you would look upon death as merely a stepping-stone to a higher existence. A famine, don't you see, helps a large number of souls up the spiral."

"Mr. Stevens has become a theosophist," cried Mrs. Edgerton, in exaggerated amazement.

"How perfectly lovely," commented Miss Van Tromp, somewhat irrelevantly. I saw Jones pouring wine at the poet's corner, and I thought that his hand trembled. I'm sure that my voice was unsteady as I remarked:

"But--ah--Reginald, what about snakes and--ah--frogs? Starvation is bad enough, but you aren't going up a spiral if you are changed into something that squirms and crawls."

"It's not like climbing a ladder," answered my voice, authoritatively. "You may go down, now and then, but as the ages pass the general trend is upward."

"It's awfully interesting," reflected Miss Van Tromp, aloud. "But how is it done?"

"It isn't done!" exclaimed Edgerton, almost angrily, "it's only half-baked. Of all the absurd nonsense that is talked this Oriental mysticism is the worst. That's why I was glad to get this man Yamama to come here this evening. I want to prove to Mrs. Edgerton that he's just about as significant as a Bab ballad."

"Do you think that Yamama will be inclined to do--ah--stunts, Mr. Edgerton?" I faltered, catching the butler's eye, and wondering why Caroline's toes got cold so easily.

"What do you mean by stunts, my dear?" Caroline asked, using my voice, rather sternly. "Yamama, I imagine, would not understand the word. He is not here to play tricks."

"What is he here for--ah--my dear?" I asked, in a falsetto that was too shrill to be good form. Mrs. Edgerton looked annoyed, and Edgerton said, half-apologetically:

"Really, Mrs. Stevens, I thought that you would be glad to have Yamama come to us to-night. Frankly, I wanted to make a closer study of the man, and your husband assured me that it would be pleasing to you to have him here."

"Don't think me inhospitable and ungrateful, Mr. Edgerton," I began in Caroline's smoothest manner. "I shall enjoy meeting Yamama, of course. But do you really think that a man who prefers poetry to prose can be trusted?"

Van Tromp gasped and glanced furtively at Caroline. The latter raised her wine-glass, smiled at me gaily, and I heard my voice crying:

"Here's to you, my dear, good as you are!"

"What are you staring at, Jones?" I asked, angrily, turning sharply toward the butler. He continued his task of serving the course without noticing my reproof. My wife and guests were gazing at me in surprise.

"A toast! A toast!" cried little Van Tromp, almost hysterically.

Edgerton laughed aloud. "Let us drink to the mysterious East," he suggested, like one who bore an olive branch in his hand.

"To the secrets of the Orient and Yamama!" amended Caroline, showing my teeth to me in a cruel smile.

"Yamama! Yamama!" murmured my guests.

As we sipped our wine, I glanced at Jones. There was a flush on his phlegmatic face, but he appeared to be paying no attention to anything but his duties.

*CHAPTER XII.*

*YAMAMA AND RELEASE.*

Then dimness passed upon me, and that song Was sounding o'er me when I woke To be a pilgrim on the nether earth. --_Dean Alford_.

On our return to the drawing-room, I found myself annoyed by the attention of little Van Tromp and appalled by the imminent advent of Yamama. A new and most distressing dread had crept into my errant soul. I had begun to think that I should come to hate my wife, unless she altered at once her mode of procedure. The fear was upon me that she had enjoyed the day's experience sufficiently to tempt her to make existing conditions permanent. Angry as I was with her, I realized that diplomacy was a better tool at present than denunciation.

"I must speak to her at once," I mused aloud, glancing at my manly, patrician, well-groomed outward seeming as Caroline stood at the further end of the room, chatting with Miss Van Tromp and the Edgertons. An exclamation beside me convinced me that little Van Tromp was very wide-awake.

"Shall I take you to her, Mrs. Stevens? There is no sacrifice that I would not make for you. You would go to Mrs. Edgerton?"

"Mrs. Edgerton?" I exclaimed, somewhat dazed for the moment. "No; I was referring to--ah--Reginald. Tell him I want to see him, will you, old man? These infernal skirts are such a nuisance!"

The poet's eloquent eyes recalled me to my senses. He was gazing at me in amazement, evidently wondering if I had drunk too deep a toast to Yamama.

"What a pitiable fate is mine!" murmured Van Romeo, gloomily. "I have been dreaming of this moment for days, and, lo! you destroy my happiness by a word. Chasing a rainbow is so much more delightful that summoning your lesser half!"

"Lesser half, indeed!" I could not refrain from saying, bitterly. "My three-quarters, or more. Look here, Van Tromp, if you don't move more rapidly I shall read those silly verses of yours to Yamama when he arrives, and he'll turn you into a green-and-yellow parrot. Good heavens, man, it's too late! There he is!"

Unannounced and unattended, Yamama glided into the drawing-room. I recognized him at a glance, and Caroline's bosom heaved with a conflict of emotions. Little Van Tromp had jumped to his feet.

"Isn't he stunning?" he exclaimed most unpoetically.

Yamama was, indeed, pleasing to the eye. His light-brown complexion, dark brilliant eyes and gorgeous costume made a picture that gave an Oriental splendor to our drawing-room. He stood motionless for a moment, half-way between Caroline and me. Suddenly it flashed upon me that I had a duty to perform. Caroline and I reached Yamama at the same time.

"It was so kind of you to come to us," I heard Caroline saying to the adept. "Mrs. Stevens was overjoyed to hear that you had consented to honor us."

Yamama's black, fathomless eyes smiled at me, like deep, dark pools touched by sunshine. A chill ran through me, but I found strength to say, falteringly:

"Glad to see you, Mr.--ah--Yamama. We're so interested--ah--Reginald and I--in Bhesotericuddhism! Glad to see you! Aren't we--ah--Reggie?"

I suspected that Caroline chuckled behind my beard. I am sure that the smile in Yamama's eyes deepened.

We had grouped ourselves around the adept, who stood calm, picturesque, silent, in the center of the room; the majesty and mystery of the brooding East seeming to fill the universe of a sudden. It was as some priceless Oriental rug had become on the instant not merely an ornament, but a creation of infinite psychical significance.

"Does he talk?" Edgerton whispered to me, and I glanced at him, reprovingly. Mrs. Edgerton was gazing, awestruck, at Yamama. Presently, the adept spoke, in a voice that drove from my fevered mind all thoughts of frogs, snakes and tadpoles.

"Man is composed of seven principles, a unit, but capable of partial separation."

"Well, rather!" I could not refrain from saying, but Yamama ignored my rudeness. He went on impressively, while the group surrounding him listened eagerly, fascinated by his appearance and manner.

"The evolutionary process demands a number of planets, corresponding to the seven principles. On each of these planets a long series of lives is required before a full circuit is made."

"How wildly exciting!" cried Miss Van Tromp. Yamama smiled, indulgently. Then he said:

"Before reaching the perfection attainable, every soul must pass through many minor circuits. We are said to be in the middle of the fifth circuit of our fourth round, and the evolution of this circuit began about a million years ago."

"It knocks the Ferris Wheel silly," I overheard Edgerton mutter to himself, and I felt an unaccountable anger at his flippancy.

"I should so like to ask you a question," faltered Miss Van Tromp, and Yamama bowed his inspired head, resignedly.

"How soon do we come back after we die?"

"When a man dies," answered the adept, in his low, soft, musical voice, "his ego holds the impetus of his earthly desires until they are purged away from that higher self, which then passes into a spiritual state, when all the psychic and spiritual forces it has generated during the earthly life are unfolded. It progresses on those planes until the dormant physical impulses assert themselves, and curve the soul around to another incarnation, whose form is the resultant of the earlier lives."

"That's easy," muttered Edgerton, at my shoulder.

"I've often felt that way," exclaimed Van Tromp, gazing ecstatically at Yamama.

"Are you making converts?" asked Mrs. Edgerton.

A haughty smile, dark-red streaked with white against a brown background, the whole lighted by two eyes of marvelous power, met our gaze.

"Only by soul itself is soul perceived," answered Yamama, somewhat irrelevantly, I thought.

"You're out, my dear," whispered Edgerton, playfully, to his wife.

"May I trouble you, my dear sir," began Van Tromp, pompously--"may I trouble you to explain to a mind darkened by Occidental erudition why it is that the West is so blind to the mighty truths that you teach?"

"That's a touchdown," muttered Edgerton.

Yamama gazed fixedly at the poet for a time. Then he said:

"The West is not blind to the mighty truths of which you speak. You only imagine that you do not see them. Your great thinkers have taught what we teach. Schopenhauer, Lessing, Hegel, Leibnitz, Herder, Fichte the younger, are with us. Your great poets sing the eternal verities. It is nothing new, that which I bring to you from the East."

"Is there--ah--any reason to fear," I dared to ask, "that when we--ah--change around again--I mean--ah--get reincarnated, you see, that we become--ah--frogs or--or snakes--that is, if we don't--ah--so to speak, stay put?"

My voice had been gradually ascending Caroline's scale until it hit the interrogation mark in a sharp falsetto. As Yamama's eyes met mine I thought for an instant that I had been struck by lightning. What his strange glance--cutting through me until I knew that I had no secrets left--meant I had no way of determining. I was like a rabbit fascinated by an anaconda.

"There is salvation for him whose self disappears before truth, whose will is bent upon what he ought to do, whose sole desire is the performance of his duty. The root of all evil is ignorance." Thus spake Yamama, whether in answer to my question I could not decide.

"What's the matter with the love of money?" asked Edgerton, in an unconventional tone of voice. His bump of reverence is not well developed.

"'Tis but a small part of the ignorance that enfolds you like a worthless garment," answered the adept, coldly.

"That's one on me," I heard Edgerton mutter, while Mrs. Edgerton laughed, softly.

"The Enlightened One," went on Yamama, literally in a brown study, "saw the four noble truths which point out the path that leads to Nirvana or the extinction of self."

"Good eye!" murmured Edgerton, and his wife whispered "Hush!"

As I glanced at Caroline, I saw that my face had undergone a change. She was watching the adept with my eyes, but the expression on my countenance was wholly her own.

"The attainment of truth," continued Yamama, "is possible only when self is recognized as an illusion. Righteousness can be practiced only when we have freed our mind from the passion of egotism. Perfect peace can dwell only where all vanity has disappeared."

"I've known that for years," exclaimed Van Tromp, brushing his hair back from his forehead in a self-conscious way.

I had begun to feel faint.

"Won't you be seated--ah--Mr. Yamama?" I asked, hoping that he would observe my indisposition. Even as I spoke, I lost sight of him. The lights went out of a sudden, and a sharp, exquisite pain shot through me. I was surrounded by a fathomless gloom, as if the universe had turned black at a word. I was conscious, but seemingly alone in a dark void. For a moment only was I cognizant of self. Then there came a flash of dazzling light, and I knew no more.

My testimony is at an end. A week has passed since Caroline and I awoke one morning to find our souls transposed. We are still confined to our rooms, suffering, our physician tells us, from acute nervous prostration. But "Richard's himself again!" When we recovered our senses--for Caroline had fainted at the moment when Yamama dissappeared from my sight--we found ourselves restored to our respective bodies; but the shock of our psychical interchange had left us physically weak and depressed.

I have not yet had the energy to compare notes with Caroline in regard to our uncanny experiences. But, fearing that my memory might play me false, I have relieved the tedium of my convalescence by jotting down the foregoing presentment, in the hope, as I have said before, that the data may prove of interest to minds more erudite than mine and my wife's.

Jenkins has returned from Hoboken--or wherever he went--and I have had him remove my beard. It had become a horror to me. Suzanne is very attentive to Caroline, and seems to have recovered her spirits.

One significant fact I have reserved for the last. It has caused me much uneasiness, not unmingled with a sense of relief. Jones has not been seen since the night of our weird dinner-party. No trace of him has been found. I have advertised for a butler, but have not yet received an application that appealed to me in my present supersensitive condition. What I want is a butler as unlike Jones as possible. Unfortunately, he was a pattern of his kind. But I hate the very thought of him, and so I shall drop my pen at this point and watch Suzanne and Caroline through the open door. I think I shall try to get down to the club to-morrow to see the boys.

*II.*

*How Chopin Came to Remsen.*

_There cometh evil to my house,_ _And none of ye have wit to help me know_ _What the great gods portend sending me this._ _THE LIGHT OF ASIA._

*HOW CHOPIN CAME TO REMSEN.*

*CHAPTER I.*

*CHOPIN'S OPUS 47*

It brings an instinct from some other sphere, For its fine senses are familiar all, And with the unconscious habit of a dream, It calls and they obey. N. P. WILLIS.

It has been with the greatest reluctance that I have agreed to submit to the public all the details, so far as they are known to me, of my husband's seemingly miraculous change from an average man into a genius. Poor Tom! He was so happy as a phlegmatic, well-balanced, common-place lawyer and clubman, devoted to his wife, his profession and his friends! But now, alas, his amazing eccentricities demand from me a presentation of his case that shall change censure into sympathy and malicious gossip into either silence or truth.

I am forced to admit at the outset that Tom is justified in attributing his present predicament to my own fondness for music. He had protested, gently but firmly, against the series of musicals that I had planned to give last season.

"They'll be an awful nuisance, my dear," he had remarked, gloomily, gazing at me appealingly across the table at which we were dining _en tete-a-tete_. "Why not substitute bridge whist in place of the music? Why will you insist on asking a crowd of people who don't care a rap for anything but ragtime to listen to your high-priced soloists? A musical, Winifred, is both expensive and tiresome."

"What a Philistine you are, Tom!" I exclaimed, protestingly, knowing, however, that my dear old pachyderm would not wince at the epithet I had hurled at him across the board. Tom's vocabulary is not large, and possesses a legal rather than a Biblical flavor.

"What's a Philistine?" he asked, indifferently. "If it's a fellow who objects to inviting a lot o' people that he doesn't like to listen to a lot o' playing and singing that _they_ don't like, well, then, I'm it. But what's the use of my getting out an injunction? If you've made up your mind to give these musicals, Winifred, I might as well quash my appeal. I've no standing in this court."

One of the advantages of living with a man for ten years is that one is eventually confronted by a most fascinating problem. "Why did I marry him?" is the question that adds a keen zest to existence. We derive a new interest in life from the hope that the future may provide us with an answer to this query. I can remember now, to my sorrow, that I gazed across the table at Tom's heavy, immobile face, and longed for some radical, perhaps supernatural, change in the man that should render him more congenial to me, more sympathetic, less practical, matter-of-fact, commonplace. A moment later I felt ashamed of myself for the disloyalty of my wish. It may be that subsequent events were preordained as a punishment to me for the internal discontent to which I had temporarily succumbed.

"Tom doesn't look quite fat, my dear," remarked Mrs. Jack Van Corlear to me early in the evening of my first--and last--musical. "Is he working too hard? Jack tells me that Tom has been made counsel for the Pepper and Salt Trust."

"It's not that," I answered, lightly, glancing at Tom and noting the unusual pallor of his too fleshy face. "He's expecting an evening of torture, you know. He hates music. He can't tell a nocturne from a ballade--and they both torment him. But he's an awfully good fellow, isn't he? See, he's trying to talk to Signor Turino. I hope he'll remember that Verdi didn't write 'Lohengrin.' I've been coaching Tom for several days, but it's hard, my dear Mrs. Jack, to make a man who doesn't play or sing a note remember that the Moonlight Sonata is not from Gounod's 'Faust,' and that it's bad form to ask Mlle. Vanoni if she admires 'Florodora.'"

My duties as hostess and the pronounced success of the earlier numbers of my program led me presently to forget Tom's existence. He had been cruelly unjust to my guests in asserting that they would prefer ragtime to the classics. The applause that had rewarded the efforts of both Turino and Vanoni had been spontaneous and genuine. Signorina Molatti had created an actual furor with her violin solo, intensified, no doubt, by her marvelous beauty. It was Molatti's success that presently recalled Tom to my reluctant consciousness. As the dark-eyed, fervid young woman responded smilingly to an insistent encore, I caught a glimpse of my unimpressionable husband, standing erect at the rear of the crowded music-room and watching the girl's every movement with eyes alight with interest and approval. I had not seen his unresponsive countenance so animated before in years. Mrs. Jack Van Corlear had followed my glance, and a mischievous smile was in her face as she leaned toward me.

"Perhaps Tom is more musical than you imagine, my dear," she whispered, maliciously.

"Do you think it's the violin?" I returned, laughingly, ashamed of the feeling of annoyance that her playful pin-prick had given me.

Jealous of Tom! The idea was too absurd. I had so often wished to be, but his devotion to me had always been chronic and incurable. "It's really bad form," I had once said to him; "your indifference to other women, Tom, causes comment. Overemphasis is always vulgar. You underscore our conjugal bliss, my dear boy, in a way that has become a kind of silent reproach to other people. You must really have a mild flirtation now and then, Tom."