The white flame

Chapter I

Some one was sitting in my chair! The chair was a recent purchase from a dealer on whose sign was a pictured hand preceded by the word “Second” and followed by “Store.”

My grandfather was an antiquarian, and I am a victim of the inexorable law of heredity. I adore an object touched by the rust of ages. I believed, when the chair came into my possession,! had found such — although the Israelite who beguiled me into emptying my purse for it could not positively affirm that it was landed from the Mayflower. He declared he could produce evidence proving it was in existence in the “old country” generations before the landing of the Pilgrim Fathers.

Deep hidden secret was the reason he could afford to sell it so “scheap,” and if not satis- 5

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fied, I might return it and he would refund half the “prize" I had paid.

The antique curiosity in question had stood in the corner of my sleeping apartment since morning, and whenever during the dav I chanced to enter the place where this late addition to my furniture lent its charm, I feasted my eyes upon it with unmingled pleasure. Massive in structure was it, and nearly square the seat, from which the back rose high in perpendicular exactitude. On its topmost brace of hard dark wood was beautifully carved the coat-of-arms, presumably, of its original owner, a lion rampant its distinguishing feature. Great arms, invitingly extended in straight lines, also bore marks of the genius of the carver, as did the well-braced legs ; but like the war-scarred veteran who has escaped with his limbs, the old relic bore abundant evidence of its battle with Time.

With the eagerness of a lover looking forward to an interview with his mistress, I waited for evening, when I might enjoy a season in the embracing arms of my treasure ; but the unexpected presence of friends kept me until a late

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hour. It was long past my usual time for retiring when I entered my room, knelt and offered my nightly devotions without once glancing at my precious possession. When at length I turned my eyes in that direction, some one was sitting in my chair!

A faint cry of surprise escaped me.

“Are you afraid?” asked the figure, in a kindly, reassuring voice, which accorded well with his appearance of dignified old age.

“No,” I replied, quickly recovering myself. “But who are you?”

“I am the First Owner of this chair,” replied the figure, changing his position to one of easy indolence, “and I always occupy it shortly before the midnight hour!”

Although his tone was conciliatory, and it occurred to me that he might be acting under compulsion, yet I could not but regard the speaker with a touch of indignation that in a measure counteracted the awe which his venerable presence inspired; for he had, to my mind, unceremoniously taken possession of my property, and purposed appropriating it to his use on future occasions.

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Belonging evidently to a generation of the past, his dress indicated the fashion of a century agone— a sleeved tunic of scarlet, gold laced, and confined at the waist by a girdle. An ample velvet mantle worn over this, partially concealed the outlines of his form, but, falling open in front, displayed the cross gartering of his hose, and low shoes encasing his feet. Abundant hair of snowy whiteness swept his broad shoulders, and ripples of long silken beard lay upon his breast like a drift of snow. He glittered with jewels. They hung from his well-formed ears, clasped his girdle, fastened his mantle, sparkled upon his shapely white fingers, and were on the buckles of his shoes. Above all this bewildering brilliancy, his deep set eyes shone like two violet sapphires, and in their translucent depths was an expression of settled regretfulness which appealed to my sympathies and modified my resentment, making it possible for me to say, “Had I known what you have told me, I should not have bought the chair.”

“No, but Nathan knew it,” he said sorrowfully. “Nathan, who sold it to you, is not honest as he should be. He has sold this chair to hundreds, and all have returned it, receiving from him half the price paid.”

‘‘The cheat!” I ejaculated hotly. ‘‘I will not put him in the way of adding to his illgotten gains. He shall never own that chair again. ’ ’

My strange visitor sighed. ‘‘Nathan is surely a fit subject for your prayers,” said he.

“Prayers!” I repeated, “I have just Offered prayers for my parents and sister, and all whom I love, but who would think of asking a blessing on such a cheat?”

“I know of One,” was the answer, “who prayed for wrong-doers ‘Father, forgive them/ ”

During the brief silence that fell between us, my visitor raised his eyes to the clock on the mantel.

“Ten minutes of twelve,” said he, “and I am to leave at midnight, for I am appointed to convey an infant soul to a country far away.”

“O, tell me of that far country!” I cried.

“Not now. While the chair remains I must

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come every night, and we may converse, but not in the presence of others. Only the owner of the chair can perceive my presence. To all others I am invisible.”

The clock struck twelve. A white flame flashed before the chair and left it vacant.

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Chapter II

In common with the human race, the seed of superstition is within me, and although unconscious of having experienced fear or dread of him who claimed to be the First Owner of my chair, during our interview, the instant he disappeared cold shivers shook my frame. Though physical demonstration of the strain upon my nerves was soon overcome, my mind was in a whirl of excitement which banished sleep. Tumultuous speculations rioted in my mind concerning the strange personage who had forced himself into my presence, or been forced to come — I knew not which — with all the possibilities involved in future visits.

Not for an instant did I harbor the idea of attempting to prevent his coming by removing the chair, but I resolved that our nocturnal interviews should remain a secret between ourselves, for a time at least. I confess a feel-

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ing of relief when I considered that my little sister, Marie, who was my usual bed-fellow, was to return home the following morning from a few days’ visit in the country, and would be present in my room when my expected guest should appear, even though she would probably be fast asleep. My tenderest love was lavished upon her and all sisterly duties, performed for her a pleasure. I delighted especially sitting by her bedside, listening to her nightly song — for she always sang herself to sleep — and to her prayer which I had taught her. This brought to my remembrance that the wraith had recommended Nathan, the cheat, as a subject for prayer. Prayer 4 ‘ for them which despitefully use you and persecute you ” had been taught me since childhood, but this was my first real test by this sacred text. Though at first disposed to rebel, I could only acknowledge its justice. Before having learned of Nathan’s depravity, I had always performed my religious duties. But this was a severe test.

Sleep snatched in the early morning, however, calmed my perturbed spirit, and when the

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breakfast bell awoke me, I was unconscious of the resentment which still lurked in my unforgiving heart. In truth, as I looked at the innocent cause of my enforced vigils, I wondered if my visit from the First Owner was not all a dream, and poor Nathan’s crime wholly imaginary. Before the question was settled to my entire satisfaction, the door was flung open and my little sister bounded joyfully into the room, sprang upon the bed and threw her arms around my neck.

“Oh, Frank!’’ she exclaimed, “I could just hug you to death! I’m so glad to see you. I haven’t had anybody to kiss me to sleep, or hear me say my prayers and sing my songs, as you do, and I’ve been awfully lonesome nights. But the days — oh, the days, the glorious days! Romping in the daisy field! Why, Frank, there’s a whole field on the farm, as big as this city, full of daisies. I wish you could see it. Oh, my ! It looks as if the stars had all tumbled down there. And you ought to see the trees in the orchard, Frank, and — why, Frank, where did that big chair come from?”

Marie, for the first time, noticed my treasure,

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and as I answered laconically, “I bought it,” she hopped from her perch on the bed to examine the chair. The coat-of-arms attracting her attention, she climbed into the seat saying: “I must see the lion on the back,” and having satisfied her curiosity, nestled quietly down between the arms.

After a while, observing her calmness I asked: “Did your early drive tire you, Marie?”

“O, no!” she replied, “I am not a bit tired, but I feel lazy, and I’ve felt so ever since I sat here. I don’t want to get up and I don’t want to do anything! I just know who sat in it last though!”

“Who?”

“Why, Aunt Susan, of course! She always makes the chair she sits in feel this way to me. It catches her feelings and gives them to me. I know, Frank, things that people sit on and handle do this, for I’ve tried a lot of chairs and sofas and they all feel differently.”

“Some are hard and some are soft?” I suggested.

“No, no; I don’t mean that! I mean everybody leaves something where they go, that we

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cannot see but we can feel . I believe Aunt Susan was in this chair last. ”

“No, Marie, Aunt Susan has not been in this room since I bought the chair.”

The aunt alluded to, was my mother’s foster sister and her original small property had accumulated in the hands of my grandfather to a handsome sum. She had never married, and, being without kindred, often intimated she would leave her property to my mother with whom she now made her home. Her love for ease was her most prominent characteristic.

It occurred to me while Marie was so positively asserting her opinion as to the last occupant of the chair, that the pose of the child and of its first owner was similar to the restful attitude in which I had often seen Aunt Susan. Moreover, a mental comparison of the features of all strongly suggested a family resemblance.

A second summons to the morning meal interrupted my train of thought and the busy day which followed nearly banished it from my mind. But when Marie’s dreaded bed-time came and the spoiled little thing was being coaxed into compliance, she again called up the

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subject by saying, with a saucy toss of her curly head; “I’ll go to bed after you let me sit in your new chair. ’ ’

My consent gained, with the proviso that she would confine herself to a five-minute indulgence, she gayly tripped after me, up the winding stairway to our room and planted herself in the coveted seat.

“Now, Frank,’’ said she, “I’ll count sixty, five times, and then I’ll undress.’’

It was fully ten minutes before the little witch had drawled out “sixty” for the last time and the prolonged sigh which followed trenched largely on another sixty seconds, which she was bound to stretch to the utmost limit before commencing her customary dilly-dally process of disrobing. This she invariably began, as was her habit when about to make a dreaded effort, with the sage remark “If I must I must,’’ and having so delivered herself she stooped to unlace her shoes.

One slender foot was at length bared and rested on the rug in front of the chair, and as she drew off her other stocking she remarked, “I think I’ll hang my things on the arm of the

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chair and lay my dress and skirts on the seat and let them soak all night in the feeling Aunt Susan left there.”

“I reckon,” she continued, carrying out her plan, “if any cunning little elves did hop from under the daisies and hide in my ruffles, they could snuggle right down here and not have to go to bed as I do!”

Saying this she looked mournfully in the direction of our couch and, after a moment’s hesitation, started toward it remarking: “If I must I must!”

Her prayers being said, her head soon rested upon her pillow, which she begged me to share with her.

“Please, Frank,” she said, “lie down here until I sing myself to sleep. I always see strange faces in the dark but when you are here I’m not afraid.”

Her pleadings won me and, my previous night’s rest having been broken, sleep quickly overcame me.

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Chapter III

I awoke about midnight. The first object that met my view was my visitor of the previous night snugly ensconced in the chair where Marie’s stockings were dangling from the arms, although her other articles of dress were concealed by his figure. He was arrayed in the same garments and jewels which he wore the evening before. His face turned toward the clock and his lips moved as if counting the seconds. As I lay watching him, for a moment hesitating what course to pursue, he looked suddenly around and shot a piercing glance into my staring eyes. “Too late!” said he, “Sleep on; take your rest. I shall be in the chair to-morrow night.”

As before, and as afterward, he disappeared in a white flame. It was twelve o’clock. I went to the chair in which remained Marie’s garments, heaped in the same orderly pile she had left then. Not a fluted flounce had been

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crushed, nor was there any indication that the lightly deposited articles had been subject to the slightest pressure. Indeed, the little girl herself, who was the perfection of order, indulged in many self-congratulations the next morning on her fortunate selection of what she called the ‘ ‘ chair wardrobe. ” “ For, ’ * said she,

“a chair-wardrobe is the most convenientest in the world. Nobody wants to sit in it, and there is no door to open, and my dress isn’t crowded and mussed.”

“There’s another thing, Frank,” she continued, mysteriously rolling up her blue eyes at me as she tugged at an unruly button, “That chair is full of something I can feel and I want it to get into my clothes, ’cause I like it”

“O, you are imaginative,” I said.

“What’s that?” she asked quickly.

“Why, you said last night you saw faces in the dark when you were alone. You don’t really see faces but you think you do. That is being imaginative. ’ ’

“How do you know , Frank, I don’t see faces in the dark?”

“When you are older and can understand

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better I will explain to you how I know,” wa.s my reply.

“Then will you tell me how you know the chair doesn’t feel to me as I think it does, Frank?”

“I’ll try, Marie.”

She was silent for a moment before propounding the question : “Say, Frank, did you ever think you saw something you didn’t see, or felt something you didn’t feel?”

My ambiguous answer, “I am not imaginative, Marie,” did not satisfy the little investigator, and she responded in a disappointed tone: “I wish you had said ‘yes’ or ‘no’ ; I

like a sure word. ’ ’

“But suppose I am not quite sure?” I said soothingly.

‘ ‘ Oh, my ! Haven’t you sat in your new chair yet? Try it, Frank, try it this minute! I’ll just push you into it.”

Suiting the action to the word, she made the attempt, in which I laughingly acquiesced.

“Now, Frank, tell me, honest, don’t you get a still, creeping feeling like you never had before?”

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“I am very comfortable,” I said, ignoring her question, for I was unwilling to admit, even to myself, the strange languor I experienced on coming in contact with the chair.

“Oh, Frank, you won’t own it, but you are just the least little bit imaginative too; now aren’t you, honest, aren’t you?”

Standing in front of me, her bare arms akimbo, her bright countenance was aglow with expectation, awaiting my answer.

Always showing a peculiar sensitiveness to the subtle influences which are the concomi- * tants of human character on one of her impressional nature, I could not deceive her, had I wished. She further impressed this fact upon me, when, observing my uneasy silence, she said: “You don’t like to say ‘yes,’ do you, Frank, ’cause you think, it’s foolish to be ’maginative?”

I did not deny that she had in part read my secret thought, and answered: “You haven’t guessed quite right, Marie, but I’ll give you all day to guess again, and we’ll talk it over when you go to bed. ”

It is doubtful if the subject crossed Marie’s

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mind again during the day, for a children’s party which she attended absorbed her attention, and she was so thoroughly fatigued when she retired at night that sleep overcame her in the midst of her drowsy song.

Weary myself, for I was a teacher of music and some of my pupils had been more trying than usual, 1 almost envied the innocent sleeper, by whose bedside I sat, her care-free repose, she being the only member of our family so favored.

My father, an attorney, had been a confirmed invalid for years, and during that time mamma had comfortably maintained him and her two daughters by a few select boarders, having ample accommodations. Therefore it was a relief to her when my musical education was so far advanced as to enable me to become selfsupporting. Proud of my financial independence, I seldom consulted my prudent mother concerning my expenditure. To this lack of filial duty was due the imposition practiced upon me by Nathan, of whose unforgiven trickery I was reminded as I looked toward my inviting chair. I would gladly have rested

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there but for the dread of usurping the claims of another now probably on his way to redeem his promise of the night before. I sat still and waited the coming of the First Owner of the chair.

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Chapter IV

Long time were my eyes fastened on the vacant chair. Suddenly it was occupied by the expected visitor. He simply appeared in it. I did not see him enter the room nor did I see him take his seat. I only knew he was there ; and without ceremony he immediately addressed me: “Have you offered prayers for Nathan?”

Now, I regarded myself as very religious, and his question annoyed me, as it seemed to imply a doubt of my having performed the duty he had suggested, and to which I was little inclined. I was impatient to hear of his world, so I made no excuses but simply answered, “No.”

He sighed, and said, “Neglect of duty is the bane of spiritual life !” Sighing again, he continued, “Had I done my duty, I would not now be compelled to occupy this chair.”

His remarkable statement diverted me from

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asking information, exciting my curiosity to such a degree that I hastily replied: “Have you any objection to telling me to what duty you allude?”

“No,” he replied, “but the story is a long one and would occupy all the time I shall be at liberty to give you for a long while.”

“1 should like to hear it,” I persisted.

“Shall I begin now?” said he, settling back in the chair.

“I would like to know first,” I said, remembering that I might learn that for which I thirsted, “about the far country to which you conveyed the infant soul.”

“My story,” said he, “leads to the very confines of that country, and I will tell you all that I am permitted to; there will be ample time, if you have determined to keep the chair.”

“But,” said I, intent on fathoming at least one mystery, “you will be so long telling your story, that I would like to ask one question before you begin.”

“Speak on,” said he.

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“Why did a white flame blaze up so I could not see you leave?”

“That,” said he, “represents theWhite Flame of Mercy. It flashes up whenever I am leaving the chair. Although invisible to all except the eyes of the one who owns the chair and can see me, it always burns. The White Flame of Mercy always burns!”

“Pardon my impatience,” I said, yet I felt sure my tone betrayed satisfaction at having learned something concerning the White Flame.

“You are excusable,” was the kind reply. “It is hard for youth to know patience.”

“Frank!”

My little sister was sitting up in bed rubbing her eyes. “Frank,” she repeated, “who are you talking to?”

I was bewildered and silent.

4 4 The child can not see me or hear my voice, ’ ’ said the person in the chair.

Reassured, I said, “Lie down and go to sleep, Marie; you have been dreaming.”

4 4 But I heard you speak, Frank. Is Aunt Susan here? I feel as if she were. ”

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“No, Aunt Susan is not here. Lie down and go to sleep,” I said coaxingly.

“You spoke to somebody,” persisted the child; “who was it?”

My truthful answer, “I don’t know,” was not favorably received. Her wide open eyes wandered around the room, but, unable to detect the presence she declared she felt , she finally crept out of bed and pushed aside the portieres of the alcove. Baffled in her search, she walked slowly to the haunted chair and leaned against it with her hand upon the arm. Her white night dress brushed the occupant’s velvet cloak, and her hand touched the sleeve of his tunic.

“Frank,” she said, “I afo/hear you speak.”

I was silent.

“Now what did you say?”

“I think I said ‘Pardon my impatience.’ ”

“Why, Frank, you ought to have told me you were saying your prayers, and I would not have interrupted you.”

“It’s all right, Marie,” I said encouragingly. “You had better go to bed now. ”

“O, Frank, don’t ask me to go to bed until

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you go with me. I’m all trembling and I feel as if there was somebody here. I can’t sleep a wink without you. I know I can’t.”

Before I could reply, my visitor, unseen and unheard by Marie, said in a fatherly tone, ‘‘Indulge your sister. The weak should be helped.”

As he was speaking Marie came and patted my cheek coaxingly and said, ‘‘Let me stay up with you, and I’ll undo your hair so you will sleep the best you ever slept.”

It was nearly midnight and while Marie followed her own sweet will in removing comb and pins from my hair, the White Flame flashed up, and from out of the flame came the words : * ‘ Pray for N athan ! ’ *

Marie owned that she was imaginative, ‘‘for, ” said she, ‘‘it did seem for awhile as if Aunt Susan were really here and now I don’t feel her at all — you talk to the chair don’t you, Frank?” she asked searchingly, but I ignored her question and as the clock struck one she fell asleep beside me.

The strange relation which the chair, and Aunt Susan bore each other, in Marie’s sensi-

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tive mind, was a mystery that I did not at that time attempt to solve ; I was disturbed that I had been exhorted to especially pray for Nathan, and for his welfare could not pray sincerely. I fell asleep in the vain endeavor to reconcile duty and inclination.

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Chapter V

Sounding in my ear a voice awakened me at sunrise. It said: “Pray for Nathan!”

I opened my eyes and glanced around the room in mute astonishment not unmixed with trepidation. A flood of golden light streaming in at the window, bathed everything in its glory, nearly blinded me, but under the influence of its heavenly sheen I experienced a sense of reassurance.

“A dream,” was my mental disposal of the matter. But next instant it occurred to me that the voice which had disturbed my morning slumbers was the same with which I had become familiar in my intercourse with my nightly visitor. Involuntarily I glanced toward the chair, half expecting to see it occupied.

Although I saw no wraith and heard no audible voice, a thousand invisible tongues seemed to whisper to me, with one accord: “Pray for Nathan!”

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Distracted with conflicting emotions, I sprang from my couch saying to myself : “No, no; I will never pray for Nathan! He is unworthy of my prayers!”

Immediately the whispers ceased, but I was not at rest. Although my willful decision seemed to have silenced them, I could not so easily shake off the impression of unwisdom. I stubbornly adhered to it, until, having considered it in all its bearings during the hour in which I was engaged in making my toilet, I began to waver.

I really wanted to forgive Nathan but found myself lacking in courage as I knelt in my usual place at the bedside of Marie, who lay apparently sound asleep. Suddenly the child cried out: “What’s the row now?”

“Why, Marie,” I exclaimed, “I am astonished to hear such an expression from you.”

“Oh, that’s nothing!” she replied, unconcernedly. “I heard it every day at the farm. If the chickens got into the garden, or the milk was spilled, and Mr. Peters didn’t know what Mrs. Peters was worrying about, he would say ‘What’s the row now?’ I’ve been

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watching you out of the corner of my eye ever so long, and I know you are so worried you don’t even want to say your prayers, now, do you?”

“Yes, Marie, I do want to say my prayers!”

“Then what are you standing there for with that naughty frown upon your face instead of doing what you want to do? When I feel, as you act, Frank, I always say, ‘Dear Lord, please forgive me,’ and I feel better right away.”

“But how do you know the Lord will forgive you for feeling naughty if you don’t forgive those who have been naughty to you?”

“I do forgive ’em. I forgived Jimmy Dunn when he stole my pencil and Horatio Peters when he pulled my hair and the old toy man that cheated me when I bought my doll and

“Stop, stop, Marie!” I exclaimed, stung by the innocent exhibition she was making of her generous nature; “you make me ashamed of myself. ” Turning my back upon her T quickly left the room.

“Come back, Frank, and say your prayers,”

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she cried. But I hurried out of the sound of her voice. Not long afterward she appeared in the library where I was practicing on the piano. Determined not to be ignored she lingered near my side and at an opportune moment threw her arms around my neck and whispered in my ear: “Frank, I’ve found a lovely place for us to say our prayers. It is right in front of your new chair. The seat is just high enough to lean on, and the bed, you know, is rather high. Then, too, the chair is so resty. You can’t touch it without feeling still and good. Will you try it, Frank?’’

The negative motion of my head was a rebuff so discouraging that Marie stole silently away. I next heard her voice out on the veranda addressing the young pastor of our church, whose home was with us. Him she innocently made her confidant in all matters pertaining to the religion of the family.

“I guess,’’ she said, in a confidential tone, “Frank don’t intend to say her prayers any more, for she didn’t say ’em this morning and I think she ought to be spoked to about it."

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“Her little sister might speak to her,” suggested the wise shepherd of our flock.

“She don’t want me to,” was the reply. “She shook her head at me and wouldn’t listen, and she didn’t seem a bit afraid that the bad one would get her. She is very dary , Mr. Booth, she is very, very dary. I never saw her afraid of anything; but if she don’t say her prayers to-night I shall be afraid to sleep with her. Something awful might happen. Don’t you think so, Mr. Booth?’’

His answer though inaudible to me evidently quieted Marie’s apprehensions, for she came directly back without alluding to the subject and calmly intimated that she was ready for her morning lesson.

“I heard you talking about me to Mr. Booth,’’ said I, ignoring her errand and looking at her searchingly.

She burst into tears. “Frank,’’ said she, “it’s dreadful for you to stop saying your prayers, and I had to speak to him about it.’’

“What did he say?’’ I asked, regarding the trembling little culprit with all the severity I had the heart to assume.