“Easy get there, Mr. Gentleman,” said the voice, answering his unspoken thought. “Daddy strong man. Daddy lift Wee One on to table. Now I show what Daddy not able to do.”
“The trumpet’s up!” cried Bolsover.
The little circle of luminous paint rose noiselessly into the air. Now it was swaying above their heads.
“Go up and hit the ceiling!” cried Bolsover. Up it went and they heard the metallic tapping above them. Then the high voice came from above:
“Clever Daddy! Daddy got fishing-rod and put trumpet up to ceiling. But how Daddy make the voice, eh? What you say, pretty English Missy? Here is a present from Wee One.”
Something soft dropped on Enid’s lap. She put her hand down and felt it.
“It’s a flower — a chrysanthemum. Thank you, Wee One!”
“An apport?” asked Mailey.
“No, no, Mr. Mailey,” said Bolsover. “They were in the vase on the harmonium. Speak to her, Miss Challenger. Keep the vibrations going.”
“Who are you, Wee One?” asked Enid, looking up at the moving spot above her.
“I am little black girl. Eight-year-old little black girl.”
“Oh, come, dear,” said mother in her rich, coaxing voice. “You were eight when you came to us first, and that was years ago.”
“Years ago to you. All one time to me. I to do my job as eight-year child. When job done then Wee One become Big One all in one day. No time here, same as you have. I always eight-year-old.”
“In the ordinary way they grow up exactly as we do here,” said Mailey. “But if they have a special bit of work for which a child is needed, then as a child they remain It’s a sort of arrested development.”
“That’s me. ‘Rested envelopment’,” said the voice proudly. “I learn good England when big man here.”
They all laughed. It was the most genial, free-and-easy association possible. Malone heard Enid’s voice whispering in his ear.
“Pinch me from time to time, Edward — just to make me sure that I am not in a dream.”
“I have to pinch myself, too.”
“What about your song, Wee One?” asked Bolsover.
“Oh, yes, indeeda! Wee One sing to you.” She began some simple song, but faded away in a squeak, while the trumpet clattered on to the table.
“Ah, power run down!” said Mailey. “I think a little more music will set us right. ‘Lead, Kindly Light’”
They sang the beautiful hymn together. As the verse closed an amazing thing happened — amazing, at least, to the novices, though it called for no remark from the circle. The trumpet still shone upon the table, but two voices, those apparently of a man and a woman, broke out in the air above them and joined very tunefully in the singing. The hymn died away and all was silence and tense expectancy once more.
It was broken by a deep male voice from the darkness. It was an educated English voice, well modulated, a voice which spoke in a fashion to which the good Bolsover could never attain.
“Good evening, friends. The power seems good tonight.”
“Good evening, Luke. Good evening!” cried everyone.
“It is our teaching guide,” Bolsover explained. “He is a high spirit from the sixth sphere who gives us instruction.”
“I may seem high to you,” said the voice. “But what am I to those in turn who instruct me! It is not my wisdom. Give me no credit. I do but pass it on.”
“Always like that,” said Bolsover. “No swank. It’s a sign of his height.”
“I see you have two inquirers present. Good evening, young lady! You know nothing of your own powers or destiny. You will find them out. Good evening, sir, you are on the threshold of great knowledge. Is there any subject upon which you would wish me to say a few words? I see that you are making notes.”
Malone had, as a fact, disengaged his hand in the darkness and was jotting down in shorthand the sequence of events.
“What shall I speak of?”
“Of love and marriage,” suggested Mrs. Bolsover, nudging her husband.
“Well, I will say a few words on that. I will not take long, for others are waiting. The room is crowded with spirit people. I wish you to understand that there is one man, and only one, for each woman, and one woman only for each man. When those two meet they fly together and are one through all the endless chain of existence. Until they meet all unions are mere accidents which have no meaning. Sooner or later each couple becomes complete. It may not be here. It may be in the next sphere where the sexes meet as they do on earth. Or it may be further delayed. But every man and every woman has his or her affinity, and will find it. Of earthly marriages perhaps one in five is permanent. The others are accidental. Real marriage is of the soul and spirit. Sex actions are a mere external symbol which mean nothing and are foolish, or even pernicious, when the thing which they should symbolize is wanting. Am I clear?”
“Very clear,” said Mailey.
“Some have the wrong mate here. Some have no mate, which is more fortunate. But all will sooner or later get the right mate. That is certain. Do not think that you will not necessarily have your present husband when you pass over.”
“Gawd be praised! Gawd be thanked!” cried a voice.
“No. Mrs. Melder, it is love — real love — which unites us here. He goes his way. You go yours. You are on separate planes, perhaps. Some day you will each find your own, when your youth has come back as it will over here.”
“You speak of love. Do you mean sexual love?” asked Mailey.
“Where are we gettin’ to?” murmured Mrs. Bolsover.
“Children are not born here. That is only on the earth plane. It was this aspect of marriage to which the great Teacher referred when he said: ‘There will be neither marriage nor giving in marriage’. No! It is purer, deeper, more wonderful, a unity of souls, a complete merging of interests and knowledge without a loss of individuality. The nearest you ever get to it is the first high passion, too beautiful for physical expression when two high-souled lovers meet upon your plane. They find lower expression afterwards, but they will always in their hearts know that the first delicate, exquisite soul-union was the more lovely. So it is with us. Any question?”
“If a woman loves two men equally, what then?” asked Malone.
“It seldom happens. She nearly always knows which is really nearest to her. If she really did so, then it would be a proof that neither was the real affinity, for he is bound to stand high above all. Of course, if she . . . ”
The voice trailed off and the trumpet fell.
“Sing ‘Angels are hoverin’ around’!” cried Bolsover. “Smiley, hit that old harmonium. The vibrations are at zero.”
Another bout of music, another silence, and then a most dismal voice. Never had Enid heard so sad a voice. It was like clods on a coffin. At first it was a deep mutter. Then it was a prayer — a Latin prayer apparently — for twice the word Domine sounded and once the word peccavimus. There was an indescribable air of depression and desolation in the room. “For God’s sake what is it?” cried Malone.
The circle was equally puzzled.
“Some poor chap out of the lower spheres, I think,” said Bolsover. “Orthodox folk say we should avoid them. I say we should hurry up and help them.”