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WHAT is this, Lynde?”

Dr. Pendegrast had walked
to the farther end of my room,
and stood looking at a pale, unbloomed
flower sealed in a glass
globe. The globe rested on a
slight Gothic pedestal, and was
covered by a yard or two of
gauze, thrown over it carelessly. The doctor had
drawn aside the covering, and was regarding the
flower with an air of interest.

“That,” said I, closing one finger in my book,
“is where I keep the soul of Cecil Roylstone —
shut up in the calyx.”

[figure description] Page 012.[end figure description]

The doctor started.

“The soul — really! That is quite odd, now
You never told me of this, Lynde.”

Dr. Pendegrast is a physician of considerable
repute with whom I have recently become acquainted.
A singular intimacy has sprung up
between us. Dr. Pendegrast labors under the
delusion that he is treating me professionally for
some sort of mental disorder, and I, indulging the
good-natured whim, throw his prescriptions out of
the window, and in the meantime enjoy unrestrained
intercourse with the dector, who is not
only a skillful practitioner, but a thinker, and —
what is seldom the case with thinkers — a fine
conversationalist.

He frequently drops in to spend an hour with
me, and appears to derive much satisfaction in
examining the microscopes, galvanic batteries,
wooden models, and various knick-knacks in fluor
spar — the accumulation of years — with which
my apartment is crowded. The place has quite
the air of a miniature museum.

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Dr. Pendegrast stood looking at the imprisoned
flower with fresh curiosity. I drew my chair
nearer to the fire, and fell into a brown study.
The doctor's question had indirectly suggested to
me the expediency of writing out the odd experiences
of my life.

There comes to every man, sooner or later, a
time when he pauses and looks down on his Past,
regarding it as an existence separate from himself.
As one in a dream, stands beside his own coffin,
gazing upon his own features. That moment of
retrospection was mine.

Dr. Pendegrast placed the tip of his forefinger
on the globe.

“And who is Cecil Roylstone?”

“The woman I loved, long ago.”

“Dead?”

“Many years since.”

The doctor mused.

“And her soul, you say —”

“Passed into that flower the day she was
buried.”

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“But the flower,” said Dr. Pendegrast, stooping
down, “is as fresh as if it were plucked
yesterday.”

“True. By a process well known to chemists,
I have preserved the lily in its original freshness;
even the dew still glistens on it. See! Cecil's
breath has clouded the glass. The flower is
moving! Mute, mute, — if she would but speak
to me!”

“And you really think this pretty world is inhabited
by a spirit?”

“There's not the slightest doubt of it.”

“Would it not be well,” remarked Dr. Pendegrast,
lifting his eyebrows speculatively, “to look
into this? For our own satisfaction, you know,
to say nothing of the spirit, which must be very
uncomfortable in such snug quarters. Suppose,
for instance, we take a peep in at the petals?”

“Not for worlds! Our grosser sense would fail
to perceive the soul within. I have thought of it.
The thin shell which separates us, has baffled my
endeavor to reach her. Once I dared to dream it

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possible to hold communication with Cecil — by
means of a small magnetic telegraph, my own
invention. But the experiment threatened to annihilate
the flower. Since then, it has lain untouched,
sealed hermetically from the air, in its
transparent prison.”

Dr. Pendegrast smiled.

“You are laughing at me, doctor,” said I,
sharply.

“Not I! It's the most interesting circumstance
that ever came under my observation.”

“No doubt it sounds strangely to you, doctor.
I have, before now, encountered people who
thought me a little out on the subject, and said so
flatly.”

“They were very injudicious.”

“To be sure; but I always observed that they
were persons of inferior intellect — believing only
what they could comprehend, they were necessarily
contracted. To metaphysicians, students of life
and death, the facts which I could unfold relative

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to this flower and other matters, would afford
material for serious speculation.”

“I believe you,” said Dr. Pendegrast.

“And I am strongly inclined to give the scientifie
world the benefit of my memoirs. Indeed, it
is a part of my destiny to do so.”

“You delight me,” said Dr. Pendegrast. “Do
it at once. It will be a healthful relaxation. You
are working too hard on that infernal machine of
yours.”

“You mean the Moon-Apparatus.”

“I beg your pardon, I meant the Moon-Apparatus.”

“I will commence my memoirs to-morrow.”

“And I shall hold it a privilege,” said the
doctor courteously, drawing on his glove, “to
follow the progress of your work.”

“You shall do so.”

Dr. Pendegrast took his leave.

“O, Lynde, Lynde!” I heard him exclaim as
he went down stairs.

That man appreciates me.

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A week has elapsed since this conversation occurred,
and I still linger at the threshhold of my
confessions. I half dread to ring up the curtain on
such a sorrowful play as it is, for the dramatis
personæ are the shades of men and women long
since dead. Their graves lie scattered over the
world, north, south, east, and west. It seems
almost cruel to bring them together on the stage
again. Who that has fretted his brief hour here
would care to return? Yet I must summon
these shadows, for a moment, from the dark.

p448-027

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