Victor Ollnee's Discipline Part 12

Witness Bernard Shaw's play."

"Oh, I'm not looking down on any job just now," he disclaimed. "All I ask is a chance to earn a living while I'm finding out what my best points are."

Mr. Wood beckoned and Leo rose to meet him. "We must be off," he said.

Victor bade Leo good-night with such feeling of intimacy and friendliness as he had not hoped to attain for any one connected with Mrs. Joyce. There was something in the pressure of her hand and in the sympathetic tone of her voice at the last that he remembered with keen pleasure.

Mr. Carew was deep in conversation with Mrs. Ollnee, and Victor drew near with intent to know what was being said. The lawyer was very gentle, very respectful, but Mrs. Ollnee was undergoing a thorough investigation at his hands. He represented the calm, slow-spoken, but very keen inquisitor, and the psychic was already feeling the force of his delicate, yet penetrating sarcasm.

"I would advise you not to trust your Voices in matters that relate to life, limb, or fortune," he said, suavely, and a veiled threat ran beneath his words. "These Voices may be deceiving you."

Mrs. Ollnee protested with vehemence. "Mr. Carew, I am content to put my _soul_ into their keeping."

He bowed and smiled. "Your faith is very wonderful." Then he added, with a glance at Mrs. Joyce, who was listening, "For myself, I would not put my second-best coat in their keeping."

Mrs. Joyce intervened at this point, and, after some little discussion of a conventional topic, offered to send Victor and his mother home in her car. Victor was not pleased by her offer. It was only putting him just that much deeper into her debt, but he could not well refuse, especially as his mother accepted it as a matter of course.

On the way he took up the question of Carew's warning. "He's right, mother. You must stop advising people to buy or sell."

"Why so, Victor?"

"Suppose you should advise buying the wrong thing?"

"But they don't advise the wrong thing, Victor. They are always right."

"Always?"

"n.o.body has ever reported a failure," she declared.

"Well, it's sure to come. Why should father or grandfather know any more about stocks now than he did before he died?"

She was a little nettled by his tone. "They have the constant advice of a great financier on that side."

"So Miss Wood told me. Who is this great financier who is so willing to help you decide what to do with other people's money?" he asked, cuttingly.

She hesitated a little before saying "Commodore Vanderbilt."

He could not keep back a derisive shout. "Vanderbilt! Well, and you believe 'the great commodore' comes to our little hole of a home to advise us? Oh, mother, that's too ridiculous."

"My son," she began with some asperity, "we've been all over that ground before. You don't realize how you hurt, how you dishonor me when you doubt me and laugh at me."

He felt the pain in her voice and began an apology. "I don't mean to laugh at you, mother. But you must remember that I have been a student for four years in the atmosphere of a great university, and all this business--I've got to be honest with you--it's all raving madness to me.

You certainly must stop advising in business matters. Mr. Carew to-night intended to give you warning."

"I know he did," she quietly responded.

"He meant to be kind. He meant to say that you were liable at any moment to be held accountable for advice that went wrong. He told me that the courts were full of cases where mediums had led people into willing their property away, or where they had juggled with somebody else's fortunes. He told me of having convicted one woman of this and of having sent her to jail."

"But have I prospered from these advices?" she asked, indignantly. "Can any one accuse me of getting rich out of my 'work'? Please consider that."

"That does puzzle me. I can't see why 'they' help others and leave us with a bare living. And, most important of all, why do 'they' permit you to be hounded this way? Why didn't 'they' warn you? Why don't 'they'

help me?"

She sighed submissively. "Of course they have their own reasons. In good time all will be revealed to us. They are wiser than we, for all the past and all the future are unrolled before their eyes."

This reply silenced him. Small and gentle as she was, Victor realized that she could resist with the strength of iron when it came to an a.s.sault upon her faith.

Above the k.n.o.b of their own door they found a folded newspaper, and this Victor seized with misgiving. "I wonder what is coming next?" he said.

She paled with a definite premonition of trouble. "Open it at once," she commanded.

He was as eager as she, for he, too, foresaw some new attack upon their peace. Lighting the gas, he opened the paper with trembling hands. On the first page was his own photograph and the story of his leaving college to defend his mother. Everything, even to the parting with Frenson, was set down, luridly, side by side with the report of a celebrated murder trial.

At sight of this new indignity his sense of youth and weakness came back upon him and, crumpling up the paper, he flung it upon the floor in impotent rage.

"That ends the fight here," he said. "How can I go about this town seeking work to-morrow? Everybody will know my story, and, what's more, here is your address given in full. Don't you see that makes it impossible for either of us to remain here another day?"

For the first time in her life the indomitable little psychic quailed before the persistent malice of her foes. The splintered altar of her faith lying in a disordered heap upon the floor symbolized the estrangement which she felt between her invisible guides, her son, and herself. Her maternal anxiety had developed swiftly in these few hours of blissful companionship, and the world of wealth and comfort--for her boy's sake--had become suddenly of enormous importance to her. She wished him to be a happy man, and this desire weakened her abstract sense of duty to the race. She spoke aloud in a tone of entreaty, addressing herself to the intangible essences about her. "Father, are you here? Speak to me, help me, I need you."

Victor turned upon her with darkened brow. "Oh, for G.o.d's sake, stop that! I don't want any advice from the air."

She persisted. "Paul, come to me! Tell me what to do. Please come!"

Her voice was thrilling with its weakness and appeal, but Victor was furious. He refused to listen. His brow was set and stern.

At last she cried out, poignantly, "They are not here. They have deserted us. What shall I do?" She turned toward the table. "Rebuild my altar. You said you would. Restore that and perhaps they will come to us again. They are angry with me now. They have left me, perhaps forever."

"If 'they' have I shall be glad of it," he returned, brutally. "'They'

have been a curse to you and to me, also. We are better off without them. Come, let us pack up the few things we have and go away into the West, where no one will know even so much as our name. That is the only way left open for us."

"No, no," she cried out, "that is impossible. I must remain here. I must wait until they come back to me. I can't go now, and you must not desert me," she ended, and in her voice was something very pitiful.

He moved away from her and took his seat in sullen rage. For a long time he did not even look at her, though he knew she was waiting and listening.

At last he rose, and his voice was harsh and hoa.r.s.e. "Mother, my mind is made up. There's no use talking against it. I leave this city to-morrow morning. I shall go as far as my money will carry me. I shall change my name and get rid of this whole accursed business. I've hated it, I've hated your 'ghost-room' and your Voices all my life, and this is the end of it for me. If you will not go with me then I must leave you behind."

She uttered a moaning cry of grief and ran like one stricken into her room, flinging herself face downward upon her bed. He listened for a few moments with something tugging at his heart-strings, but his face was set in unrelenting lines. Then he rose and set to work repacking his trunk.

VI

VICTOR IS CHECKED IN HIS FLIGHT

When Victor woke from his uneasy sleep next morning his first glance was toward his mother's room wherein he had seen her vanish in an agony of grief and despair. All was quiet, and after dressing himself--still firmly resolved upon flight--he went to the door and silently peered in.

She was sleeping peacefully, her thin hands folded on her breast, and he drew a sigh of relief.