The solution : a story of the new medication

Front matter

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Foreword

This is the day of advance. The human mind is more than ever seeking for the ways and means of combating the forces inimical to human existence. Even as the wisdom of Noah led to his construction of the biblical ark; as Ponce de Leon sought the fountain of eternal youth, so today science is directing its greatest achievements to make life happier and more enduring. Notwithstanding this, the applications of discovery continue to be obstructed by conventions of thought and shortness of vision. The present story is an account of difficulties presented in extending the old by the new. It may interest the reader to know that the fiction of the present story is but a subtle statement of actual difficulties and how they are being overcome. It is further true that the psychical features are recorded as they were actually experienced.

Chapter I

Some years ago, in a quaint old house nestling under the eaves of the big Hotel St. George and within a stone’s throw of the historical Plymouth Church, our story begins. This had been at one time the old aristocratic section of Brooklyn. It was now about equally claimed by the old families and the new.

In the second floor front of this house sat a young woman whose attention was equally divided between the disordered condition of the room which indicated either a fire or a recent move and six bright and shining objects resembling percolators which were displayed on the table before her. She was now studying the lines of these objects, anxious to make them conform to the excellence of the interiors. For it was the contents of these objects that had cost Catherine Summers many years of study and experimentation.

Catherine, though still young in appearance, was no longer gay and lively. The dimples had vanished 9 from her cheeks, and to her mouth had come a set expression that did not indicate levity. Her hopes had soared valiantly one day only to be dashed into an abyss of fear the next when one chemical did not work, or the flux was not right. She had endured a constantly changing life in which no living creature but herself could enter, — alone with her hopes, — alone with her fears, — deserted by her friends, whom she no longer had the time nor the inclination to entertain.

Trained as an artist, in spite of her several years^ experience with chemicals, Catherine still retained the artist’s keenness in observation. This had proved to be of infinite use to her in her later studies. She had been a successful artist, too, earning quite enough to indulge her hobbies for horses and boats, which she considered promoters of her health. Colds had always harassed her from October until May, but she noticed that these abated during the summer when she had lived aboard her big houseboat. It was then she conceived the idea of drawing the oxygen from water to purify the blood.

This, then, had been the beginning of her dream, a mechanism to convert water anywhere and everywhere in the world into a beneficial water which would purify, making puny bodies strong and healthful ; a living water, with public fountains where the myriads of poor in all the great cities could come and drink. In the row of bright and shining objects before her she saw her dream taking material shape, becoming an established fact, a disputed fact, a very disturbing fact, with some people, but a persistent fact, nevertheless.

For now Catherine was no longer distracted by colds all winter, and many, besides herself, had found the same relief. These many had begun to hand in their observations to her. These were to become the nucleus of her dreams. Out of the nebula of her past hopes and fears a strange courageous sun had taken shape and power to come forth into the rosy dawn of a marvelous new day. . . .Yes, that one had the best lines . . . she picked up one of the “percolators,” and set it off by itself. The sun had begun to rise for all the world to see.

Her meditations were disturbed by a knock at the door. It was her cousin Franklin, from Summerstown, who had come to the city to learn the banking business. He was young and full of enthusiasm, and though but recently come into Catherine’s life, she prized his companionship.

“Hello, Catherine,” he greeted her. “What is this display.? Got all your babies here to-night, I guess.”

Catherine was in the habit of referring to the latest of her inventions each time as “her youngest child.” So she laughed, knowing perfectly well that he was alluding to her “percolators,” as he sometimes called them.

“Yes,” she answered, “I brought them all over from the shop purposely to see you. Now,” as she surveyed the shining row, “it is your duty and privilege to judge which one is the prettiest.”

“This one I don’t like,” said Franklin, picking up one with a rather heavy cornice-like ring in the center. “It looks too much like a Gold Dust Twin, this does. And this one, the faucet is too long. It looks like an old man with a hook nose.” He looked the others over without much more irrelevant comment. Finally he decided on the very one which Catherine had chosen.

“Well done,” said Catherine, giving Franklin a look which he knew meant that she was pleased with his selection. “That was my choice, too. You have quite a deal of the artist in you despite your preference for the hum-drum vocation of banking.”

“It wasn’t that I yearned to be a banker, you know. The vocation was, more or less, thrust upon me,” said Franklin. He then turned to observe Catherine’s Aquariums, consisting of three fish globes arranged in a row on one of the deep window seats. These fish were a constant source of amusement to Franklin. But their purpose to Catherine had been the more expedient one of instruction and experimentation. She frequently referred to them as, “My friends, the Fishes.”

Franklin watched her as she changed their water.

She filled one globe with water from one of the machines, the next with water from another machine, and the last with tap water. Franklin asked whether the oxygenated water would go to their heads, and make them silly. Catherine looked at the fish critically then, wondering if those in the treated water waved their tails and wiggled their fins more rapturously than those in the tap water. Honesty was one of Catherine’s virtues. She was forced to admit that they were all about equally joyous. She had bought some of the black and gold specimens which the Japanese are said to breed in such a way that they acquire the black spots. Franklin wondered if the treated water would take out the black spots, causing them to become all gold again. Catherine wondered what the effect would be, too ; and so she divided these about equally in the three globes to await results. They both found endless amusement watching the fish with a preponderance of fins and tails. Franklin said that they looked like ladies with so much train and clothes that they could hardly navigate.

As they were making comments upon the different fish some one knocked in a peremptory manner. Catherine did not respond by the informal ‘‘Come in,” but opened the door.

“Good evening,” said the newcomer, in a crisp and jerky way to Catherine; then he addressed

Franklin with, “Hello, mate, how have you been?” Franklin enjoyed the distinction of being mate on Catherine’s only remaining boat, the Tip Top, her big houseboat having burned. He seemed glad to greet the newcomer, Mr. Mills, who shook hands very heartily with him. Then Mills turned to Catherine, and said, “Now that you are out of business, and can do these men no more favors, I’m afraid some of them are going to get mean about paying”; for collecting had been Mr. Mills’ vocation when Catherine had had her studio, and he was well adapted in handling delinquents. His eyes were not sharp and blue for nothing ; and there was alertness and decision in his every move.

“I know you can get the money from them if any one can,” she told him. She knew that she had not the gift of persuasion to extract money from an obdurate clientele that Mr. Mills had. She was very glad that he had undertaken to collect the outstanding debts.

Franklin suspected that they might wish to have some business conversation together. So he gracefully lied by saying he had an engagement.

“Oh, nonsense, just an engagement to study,” said Catherine. “Here is some fish food. You may feed the fishes while Mr. Mills and I go over this account; it won’t take very long, will it?” and she turned to Mills for the hearty approbation she did not get. Mills evidently had other things on his mind. Franklin was quick to see this. Despite Catherine’s protests he took his leave, promising to call in again soon.

Mr. Mills looked relieved when he had gone, though he liked the boy well enough. He really wanted to persuade Catherine to give up her experimenting. For in spite of the improved condition of her health and the concrete results of her labors now arrayed on the table before them, to his finite mind she seemed headed for destruction.

“For heaven’s sake,” he warned, “take care of this money !” He handed her the fruits of his labor consisting of half a dozen checks and bills. You don’t know how many years it may be before you can make any money on these things,” and he pointed somewhat contemptuously at the six bright objects on the table.

“How dare you be so scornful of my children!” she exclaimed, smiling. “Every one says they are very bright-looking children.”

Mills seemed amused for a moment at the play on words. “Yes, bright and shiny enough,” he said. Then he went on abruptly. “You know everybody thinks this idea of yours is impracticable. I would advise you to buy back the studio ; for if this idea of yours fails you will have to start all over again. Unless,” — ^and here he interrupted himself by giving her an oblique glance, “unless you expect to get married.”

“Which idea is absurd. Marrriage, is an act I have no desire of committing,” she said, looking straight at Mills. He returned her look, searchingly. Had she refused him so many times because of some one else whom she loved, he wondered.^ Or had she really become so immersed in this invention.^ He wondered if she was grieving for Mr. Burrell, a very good and old friend, who had made money for Catherine to experiment with. Mr. Burrell had recently met with foul play when carrying a large sum of money on his person. There would be no more fortunate turns on Wall Street from that quarter. Was Catherine grieving for him.? He was silent for several minutes, a very unusual condition for Mills, who was ordinarily the embodiment of nervous activity.

Catherine broke in upon his meditative mood by remarking: “IVe just had a letter from Mr. Spots; you knew that he went West.?”

Catherine had dropped into a daydream when Mills replied, “I should think he would want to go West after making you lose all the money that poor Mr. Burrell had made for you.” Since Mr. Burrell was out of the running as a suitor for Catherine’s hand. Mills could now alford to be sympathetic in his behalf.

“He didn’t make me lose it. He advised against my doing just what I did,” countered Catherine.

“Anyway,” said Mills, “you can’t deny that he introduced you to the old rascal,” for Mr. Spots had become a very sore spot with Mills. In studio days, Mr. Mills had been the custodian of the bank account, and had taken great pride in the achievement of Mr, Burrell, whenever he increased Catherine’s account by several clever turns on the market. But when Mr. Spots had come along and had been the means of introducing Catherine to Mr. Roace, a wily old rascal who had depleted the bank account, even the ruin of Mr. Spots also did not excuse his behavior in the eyes of Mr. Mills. “Well, what does Mr. Spots say.? Any chance of getting your money from that old fraud Roace.?”

“Not much chance, I guess,” said Catherine.

“Well, I could have told you there wouldn’t be the ghost of a show. Now I suppose he’ll be supporting the old man’s wife, and probably sending flowers to the crazy old fool, besides. I just calculated that rascal would be foxy enough to go crazy if he were caught. He was smart enough for that, all right.”

Mills had been standing, during this conversation, for there seemed to be objects piled on every comfortable chair. Catherine had not as yet found the time to put her things in order. Her quarters, too, were much more cramped here than in New York. Her real reason for moving to Brooklyn had been for economy’s sake and the chance to give her undivided attention to what she now considered her life purpose. Mills now proceeded without ceremony to unload the things occupying the most comfortable chair upon one less desirable. “There,” he decided, when he was ensconsed, “that is more like it. Do you think you will ever get this place to look nice and cozy like the place on the Avenue.'* Looks to me as if you had brought enough junk to furnish a flat instead of a moderate-sized room.”

“I suppose I will have to get rid of it,” said Catherine, looking rather helplessly at the disorder.

“But of course you won’t dispose of those fool fishes, and you will take up your table space with those ‘Aquators,’ or whatever you call them.”

“Dear me,” said Catherine, somewhat wearily, “I do wish you would come in sometime when you were less fault-finding.”

“Nice polite way of asking a fellow to leave after he has collected a bunch of bills for you. I’m not going, though, not just yet. But if you don’t consent to marry me, I’m going to leave for good and all. Of course you’ve told me that you wouldn’t, but remember you haven’t the friends you had when you entertained on the houseboat and on the Avenue. Even your oldest standby, Mr. Burrell, and Mr. Spots are gone now. And the best and kindest of them all, a real true blue, — I’d call Miss Russell, — has gone away. Why, you haven’t any one now but your uncle and a cousin or two that you see once in a blue moon.”

“Yes, I know that I’m very much alone; but I have had to have seclusion for my experimenting. I shall miss Miss Russell more than any one, for she was always interested and optimistic.”

“I suppose she writes regularly?” asked Mills.

“Oh, yes,” replied Catherine. “But I don’t think I should have left New York so soon if it hadn’t made me so homesick to go past my old home there.”

Mills had, with malice aforethought, tried to make her feel her loneliness. He judged that here was a proper pause in which to make his stand.

“Now, see here, Catherine,” he said, in about as persuasive a tone as he could assume (persuasion of the softer kind not being in his line), “if you don’t marry and settle down pretty soon you will be a lonely old maid all your life.”

“Do you think I wouldn’t be lonely if I married you?” asked Catherine.

“Nobody has ever complained of loneliness when I was around,” said Mills. “I can usually stir things up.”

“That’s quite true. No one has ever complained of monotony when you were near. But I should be lonely, — for you haven’t the slightest interest in what I am trying to do. I should be very, very lonely if I married you. Mills.”

“Oh, darn it, then don’t,” said Mills, petulantly, feeling that he had lost out in this, his hundredth and avowedly last proposal to Catherine. “But I will get married, just the same. You’ll see. And I’m not going to stay around here and collect your bills. You have been making a fool of a fellow.”

“Nonsense !” said Catherine, this time somewhat nettled herself. “Our business relations have kept us friends. You were of value to me, and I have been of value to you. Your position was a good one, and you enjoyed the freedom it gave you. Now you needn’t say I’ve made a fool of you at all, for I haven’t.”

“Well, then, you haven’t,” and, feeling in a somewhat repentant mood, he added, “Well, I’ll finish the collecting for you, anyway.”

“That’s a good old Towser dog,” said Catherine, “always watching my bank account.”

“The chances are that you won’t have any to watch very long,” he told her. “Well, good night,” he said abruptly and carefully slammed the door.

“Dear me,” mused Catherine, “there was a splendid man simply spoiled because his mother didn’t spank him when he was young. But I’m not going to make the corrections his mother neglected. Some other woman can assume that undertaking.”

She looked about the room then to find a suitable place to put several books that were on the desk. She liked to keep her desk clear, for she often wanted to write when an idea came to her out of the clear skies, a bolt from the blue, as she called it. Then she would write rapidly on a scrap of paper which she carefully filed. As she had taken the comfortable chair which Mills had relieved of its burden of books she rested her head against its cushions while her hand rested lightly on the table still holding the pencil. No human being seemed to be within the radius of her thought. A peculiar drowsiness came over her. Then, without her volition, her hand moved and begun to make some sort of characters on the paper. This had the effect of rousing her. She wondered what was moving her hand, as she did not direct it, it could not be herself. She did not get frightened, for she was too thoroughly curious. The hand continued to try to make characters. When it reached the bottom of the page Catherine could resist her curiosity no longer. She rose then, and turned on the light. She saw a great number of scrawls from which she made out one message that was repeated three times.

“M. K. S. is in trouble.” There were other scrawls, and an occasional word could be made out. But there was no doubt about the legibility of “M. K. S. is in trouble.”

Catherine had heard that there was such a thing as “automatic writing,” but she had never considered herself as a medium. It now occurred to her to ask, “Who is M. K. S..?^” She wrote her question at the top of a fresh page, and turned olf the light again, waiting to see what would happen. The answer came quite promptly in a very big scrawl:

“Your Mother.” Catherine’s own mother’s name had been Mary Katherine, the “K” being used as the initial. She believed, but did not know for certain, that she had been called by^the two names. So she asked, “Which mother, — my living mother ?” This time the answer was very prompt: “No, your own mother !”

This caused Catherine to think very hard, indeed. Her feeling of loneliness was now assuredly gone. She felt that the room was filled. But she was not sure that she liked it. She did not remember her mother, so she felt no grief at her loss. She had sometimes wondered, since her experimenting, if her dead mother would have been in sympathy with her had she been living. At times Catherine felt that she might be near her. But she had not supposed that such a direct communication, even in the wildest flights of her fancy, would have been possible.

Now Catherine sat quietly thinking for some minutes ; she was aware of the fact that there was such a thing as the subconscious mind. She thought that might be directing her hand. Then she resolved to treat the supposed communicator as if it were her mother. So she wrote: “Have you seen Grandpa Summers lately?” Each time after she asked a question she allowed her hand to remain passive. Almost immediately this time it wrote: “No, I don’t see him very often. He has gone to another plane.” Then followed a great deal of illegible writing with only a word now and then that was plain. But at the end it said : “He has not the same interest in remaining near the earth plane as I have.”

Catherine remembered to ask : “What was the trouble you spoke about in your first message.?”

The reply was, “M. K. S. has been trying to reach you for a very long time. The trouble was that I could not seem to make your hand move so as to convey any meaning. When you assert yourself I am powerless.”

Catherine then wrote, “I have been in some little seances. Why did you not take advantage of the opportunity to communicate.?”

“Because I did not think the mediums were sincere.”

Catherine now felt tired, and she was not one to overdo a new experience. She wished to think it over in broad daylight. This time she did not write her thought. She said to herself, “I think I shall go to bed.” Then she relaxed her hand, and the answer came as promptly as when she had written the questions : “Good night, dearest.”

Catherine immediately turned on the light and saw that it was nearly two o’clock. It was ten o’clock when she had first sat down, and she must have been in a half-trance since. She prepared herself for bed, and was soon sound asleep. When she awoke the next morning her first thought was of her experience of the night before. She actually thought then that she must have dreamed it. But she went to the desk where she remembered putting the papers, and found the sheets. She looked at them curiously. “I will try again to-night,” she thought, “perhaps it is only transient.”

Then she went to a small closet-like place which she had had built. Here she evaporated the waters from her different machines. She noticed that some alloys made blue water, and others red and orange. She recalled the dream she had had long ago where a fountain with multicolored sparkling waters fell in a pool and mingled, and became a fountain for healing. She wondered if there could be any connection between that dream and her present experience, if there could be a great power directing her. She would ask that question this very night, she thought.

Later in the morning Catherine went over to her little shop, or rather, a part of a shop, and busied herself. But contrary to her custom of thinking continuously of her invention her thoughts would recur to the events of the night before. The laboratory part of her work she had long since moved to the suburbs. For she had had several successful “fire scares,” and had been obliged to take her experiments out of the city, — ^by the special request of landlord and neighbors. When she got back to her room she found she still had plenty of work to do, for she had not yet succeeded in getting settled in her new quarters. She became almost exasperated trying to find places for various books, ornaments, and some of her experimental paraphernalia for which she had had plenty of room in her spacious Fifth Avenue studio, but which filled her present big room to overflowing. She finally came to the conclusion that, if she were ever to get order out of chaos she would have to dispense with many of her treasures.

She went to her landlady, Mrs. Goodwin, and told her trouble. “I think I had better send a lot of these things home,’^ she said. “Do you know where I can get a large box.?’^

“You won’t need a box, for I have some very large canvas bags you may have,” said the good-natured Mrs. Goodwin. She disappeared into a remote and dark closet which were common in the old-style houses, and brought forth two extremely large bags.

Catherine was elated at the find. “Thank you, they are just the things I need. Now I’ll see if I can evolve some order out of this confusion. I’ll send them home. For they have plenty of room there, and if I need anything, I can get them out when I go up.”

When Catherine began packing her superfluous belongings she sobered somewhat, wondering dubiously if they would want to care for her things there. Catherine’s experiments had been a sore trial to both her stepmother and her sister Nella. “For your own good,” Tier stepmother would say, who opposed Catherine vigorously. The idea of converting ordinary water into a beneficial one by simply adding an attachment had seemed too preposterous to them for serious contemplation. Finally there was a tacit understanding that the subject should not be mentioned.

Catherine's reflection that her things might not be welcome did not deter her, however. She packed vigorously. When she had finished she dragged the ponderous bags out into the spacious square hall.

“I’ll send a call for them to-night, and just write that they are coming,” she said.

Then she looked at the improved order of things, and reflected, with great relief, that one could now find a place to sit in contort without seeming to intrude one’s self on literature or art objects. The one big window-seat she would keep for a studio, and the other for a combined aquarium and laboratory, she decided. So, with a parting glance at what now appeared to be a nice cozy room she departed in search of her solitary evening meal. She wandered up Fulton Street looking in each restaurant to see how inviting it looked, and if there were ladies at the tables.

She finally came to a restaurant with the democratic cognomen of “Joe’s” and noticed that the waiters were attired in faultless white. There was some appreciation of art, too, for the walls were decorated with pretty mosaics. She thought she would give “Joe’s” place a trial. She found the service and the food good but she did not enjoy it to the extent it merited. She was thinking of “M. K. S.,” and wondering if she would return to-night.

When she reached her room again she made herself comfortable and rested her hand lightly upon the paper as before. But this puzzling thought kept coming to her. “Why, if it is possible to communicate in this way, did not the experience come before Anyway, it probably is the subconscious mind, which is known to be a great impersonator, she thought. Her hand did hot move at all now, and she felt distinctly disappointed. “Perhaps my mind isn’t passive enough,” Catherine thought. Her hand quivered, but did not actually move. Finally it did move. And then, in a rather large and clear scrawl it wrote, “M. K. S. is so glad to tell you that she still lives, and is much happier than when on the earth plane.”

Catherine then wrote, “If this is really my mother, cannot you say something reassuring and convincing?”

The reply was : “I am with you always, even when you are busiest, and I will never leave you.”

This was a very lovely thought, but it did not serve to convince Catherine. She was so accustomed to look for physical cause and effect that she was somewhat out of touch with the spiritual. She thought she had become too literal.

Catherine wrote: “Are you with papa and Nella also.?”

“They are ever in my thoughts, but I am not their guide. I am yours.”

“Does this mean that you are with me all of the time.?”

“M. K. S. does not leave you unless you are sleeping. Then she often takes you up in the eighth plane where we have many friends.”

Catherine remembered that she was familiar with the sensation of having returned from afar when she aWoke. But she had always thought it a vague dream. She now made no attempt to ask a question but remained relaxed. Soon the hand started again and wrote:

“M. K. S. is waiting for you and Papa to come.”

Visions of the traditional heaven, where the inhabitants played on golden harps and wore crowns came to Catherine, and she could but smile at the thought of her father in this position. So she asked : “Will papa have to play a harp.? Are there no funny or witty spirits.?”

The reply was : “M. K. S. thinks that Papa would be very much out of place playing a harp. He will simply develop along the lines of what his individuality has been on the earth. Yes, we do have witty spirits here, who make harmless sport of things which are not sacred. But they do not have their merriment at the expense of some other spirit. Your ‘fun^ on earth is usually at the expense of some other mortal.”

Catherine stopped to slip another piece of paper under her hand. But when the pencil again started it was nothing but scrawls. She did not understand this, so she willfully stopped. After a few moments she again relaxed, and the pencil wrote: “There was no other spirit trying to interfere, as you thought. M. K. S. will not allow it. But sometimes you try to control your hand, and then I cannot write. Sometimes I wish to express something which I cannot readily translate into your symbols.”