Marianne was not looking forward to the dinner party. The presence of one man whom she had tried to slap and another whom she had not only slapped, but struck with her fist, was enough to promise discomfort. Add to them Dr. Gruffstone, who thoroughly disapproved of her, the Duke, the most accomplished little Paul Pry of all time, Lady Annabelle and her cats…
Yet the meeting turned out to be surprisingly successful. Dr. Gruffstone met her kindly, taking her hand and asking with concern how she felt. "Have you been sleeping?" he inquired. "You appear a little pale."
"This is not your consulting room, Horace," the Duchess said with a smile. "You medical men, always seeing symptoms where there are none! Marianne has had a long day in the fresh air and feels splendid, don't you, my love?"
Carlton's greeting, too, was pleasant. "I am happy to report that the lost treasure has been found," he said lightly. "Your hat is being refurbished and will be returned to you by morning, plumes and all."
To be sure, Victor sulked, but he did not dare do it ostentatiously. Marianne thought she was the only one who noticed his reproachful and pleading looks until Carlton said sotto voce, "Have you been forced to put our Irish Frenchman in his place? I trust he did not make rude advances to you."
"How absurd," Marianne said haughtily.
But the big surprise was Lady Annabelle, who appeared on time, without cats, and wearing quite a nice gown from which most of the cat hairs had been removed. It was obvious that the doctor was the cause of her transformation. To say that she fawned on him or flirted with him would be inaccurate; rather, she courted his approval and hung on his pronouncements. There was no denying that the plain, aging man radiated a strong aura of fatherly authority when he chose. Even Henry was on his best behavior.
When the ladies retired to the drawing room, Marianne felt an immediate change in the atmosphere. It originated with the Duchess, who showed signs of increasing agitation as time wore on and the men lingered in the dining room. Marianne offered to play, but was refused, though in a kindly fashion. Lady Annabelle, removed from the doctor's presence, relapsed into a peaceful doze.
Finally a burst of laughter from Carlton heralded the appearance of the gentlemen. They sauntered into the drawing room with the smug sleepy look of men who had drunk quite a quantity of good port.
"What a long time you have been," the Duchess exclaimed. "I hope you were not telling stories – you know the kind I mean – in front of Henry, or that you did not let him drink with you."
"He had a single glass of port," the doctor said, giving Henry a paternal pat on the shoulder. "He must learn to handle his wine like a gentleman, Honoria; he is growing up."
Henry's chest swelled visibly.
"Well and good; but it is time for him to go to bed now," said the Duchess.
"Oh, no, not yet! I'm too old to be sent off to bed like a baby. Besides, I want to see the table turning."
The doctor's face lost its good humor and became thunderous. "Honoria, you gave me your word -"
"I did nothing of the sort! In any event I refuse to discuss it in front of Henry. Monsieur Victor, assert your authority."
"Certainement, madame la duchesse." Said Victor, with a look of utter incompetence. "Henri -"
"No, I won't. I want to stay."
"Off with you, young man," the doctor said. "I intend to test your progress in Latin tomorrow, and I promise you you will need your wits about you."
"But… Oh, very well."
The doctor beamed approval. Marianne was not so sanguine; she had caught a familiar expression on Henry's face and suspected he had some scheme in mind.
He went off quietly, however, with Victor trailing after him. Then Gruffstone turned to the Duchess.
"Honoria, have you been up to your tricks? I told you -"
"You told me and I chose to dismiss what you said. What – am I some dependent of yours, that I must obey your every whim? Are you Socrates or Solon, always right? Either you participate or you remove yourself, Horace. There are no other possibilities."
"I do participate then," said the doctor heavily. "With profound misgivings. I warned you, Honoria."
"So you did. We will adjourn to the other room now. Annabelle, will you join us?"
"Yes, I think so," Lady Annabelle replied, yawning. "That is, if Dr. Gruffstone approves."
"Certainly," the doctor said with a sigh. "The more, the merrier."
The White Room had been prepared. A fire blazed on the hearth and the draperies had been drawn. A screen shielded the firelight.
Marianne's pulse was fast as she took her place, and Carlton must have felt it when he clasped his fingers around her wrist; he gave her a strange look, but said nothing. The circle of hands was formed, Lady Annabelle participating as if this were no new thing for her.
She was the calmest of them all, and for once Marianne found her bovine placidity soothing.
"What is going to happen?" she inquired. "Will David come at last, do you suppose?"
"Perhaps," the Duchess replied.
"Well, if the girl is his daughter -"
"Please, Annabelle. You know the rules. No more talking."
Scarcely had this last request been made when there was a sharp rap, seemingly from under the table. The Duchess's fingers clamped down on Marianne's hand.
"They are strong tonight," she murmured.
"They are," Carlton agreed. "Your Grace, may I suggest that we take the usual precautions to make sure no one is tapping with his, or her, foot? Unconsciously, of course."
The Duchess nodded impatiently and moved so that the sole of her slipper rested lightly on Marianne's left foot. Carlton placed his foot, not so lightly, on her right shoe.
Two more raps echoed. The table lifted and dropped down.
"We will communicate in the usual way," the Duchess said. She began to recite the alphabet, intoning each letter slowly and solemnly, like a litany. When she reached the letter G, another rap sounded. By this means the phrase "Good evening" was spelled out. A snort from the doctor's end of the table greeted this courteous remark.
"Be quiet," the Duchess snapped. "Will the spirit who is present indicate its name?"
This time the alphabetic method produced the letters "puden," and the Duchess exclaimed, "Pudenzia! Is it you?" A vehement rap confirmed this.
"Who the blazes is that?" Lady Annabelle inquired.
"Never mind. This takes too long," the Duchess said. "I trust you skeptics will have no objection to our reverting to written letters so long as we all keep our hands in plain sight?"
No one objected, though it was clear that the men were not in favor of the suggestion. Marianne flexed her fingers. Her left hand had gone quite numb from the pressure of the Duchess's grasp.
From a drawer under the table the Duchess produced a printed list of the letters of the alphabet and an ivory stylus. As she began to run the point of the stylus down the list, Marianne saw the advantage of the process. The stylus could move much more quickly than the voice could pronounce the letters.
After the first few letters had been designated by means of the familiar raps, Marianne lost track of what was being spelled. The affair confounded her; it was so brisk and matter-of-fact, rather like writing out a telegram; yet she could not understand where the raps were coming from. Carlton's suggestion that someone was tapping with a foot was ridiculous. The sounds were too sharp and distinct to have been produced by leather on wood or carpeting.
"Most interesting," the Duchess said, after an interval. "Did the rest of you follow that?"
"No," Carlton said.
"It is as I thought," the Duchess said, repressed excitement coloring her voice. "Pudenzia says she was a Christian maiden in early Rome under Diocletian, to be precise."
"Poor old Diocletian," said the incorrigible Carlton. "He and Nero are blamed for everything that went wrong with the Christians. I suppose the lady was martyred?"
"If you cannot be serious, Roger, you will have to leave."
"I beg your pardon."
"Pudenzia refuses to speak of the manner of her death. Quite understandable. She says that we must think of love, not hate; of life, not death."
"A very pretty, pious, pointless sentiment," Carlton muttered under his breath.
Apparently the Duchess did not hear this. She went on. "She is your control, Marianne."
"My what?" Marianne looked alarmed. Up to that point she had found the process only mildly bewildering. She was not the focus of attention; all she had to do was sit and listen. "I don't understand. I don't know what to do."
"You have done very nicely so far," said Carlton, in the barely audible murmur he had adopted, designed for her ears alone.
"I think we have spent enough time on the alphabet," the Duchess said. "If you will darken the room, Roger, we will try for more direct contact."
The lawyer did as he was directed, extinguishing one candle after another until the only light came from the fire. At the Duchess's order he drew the screen closer, so that the room was in almost total darkness. He stumbled over something on his way back to the table, and Marianne thought she heard a rude word, quickly stifled. He had barely taken his place before the Duchess said, "We are waiting, Pudenzia. Show us a sign."
At the rim of the table a pallid glow appeared and gradually took form. At first it was only a thick, short column of pale luminescence. Then, with a bizarre suggestion of sprouting, five stumps appeared and lengthened into fingers and thumb.
Lady Annabelle coughed. "Quite nice," she said approvingly. "May I touch it? Will it shake hands with us?"
The table began to rock wildly, as if offended by the suggestion. Carlton swore again without bothering to muffle his voice; Marianne deduced that he had tried to leave his place and had been soundly rapped by a table leg. Her mouth was dry with excitement and fear. In the darkness she seemed to see the vicar's earnest face with its halo of sunlit hair. "I beg you, Miss Ransom, that you will not take part…" Was she responsible for the raps, for the phantom hand?
"Sit still," the doctor's voice exclaimed. "I tell you this is sheer delusion – absolute balderdash!"
Marianne heard someone screaming. She was screaming. Varied sensations pounded at organs that had been shocked into renewed life after a period of interminable and chaotic darkness. In that darkness she had struggled, lost and alone, with some detestable adversary.
A glass pressed to her lips and a sharp burning liquid filled her mouth. She choked and pushed the glass away, but the liquid etched a path down her throat and helped to restore her.
She opened her eyes. An oil lamp stood on the table, casting eerie distorted shadows over the faces of the others. The doctor held the glass of brandy that had been forced against her lips. She recognized the taste now; the squire's breath had often smelled of it. Carlton held her by the arm.
"What happened?" she whispered.
"Her Grace would call it a trance, no doubt," Carlton said. "But this was not such a smooth performance as the other; were the questions too difficult for you?"
"Enough, Roger," the doctor broke in. "Miss Ransom, can you remember nothing of what you said?"
"No. It was horrible! Like dying… and being forced back into my body."
The Duchess started to speak; her old admirer cut her off with a forceful gesture. "Be still, Honoria. Miss Ransom. You were in obvious distress from the first, writhing and moaning. Suddenly you began to shout, No, no, and went on until Roger here caught hold of you. Did something occur to upset you?"
"It is wrong," Marianne said confusedly. "He told me… The Devil…"
"Who told you?" the doctor demanded sharply.
"Some other entity, obviously," the Duchess said. "There are elemental spirits, soulless creatures of chaos… Pudenzia is inexperienced, no doubt she has not yet learned to keep such intrusive spirits away."
The calm description was so like an appraisal of a new housemaid that Marianne felt a hysterical desire to laugh. The sound came out as a moan, however, and the doctor said firmly, "Bed for you, young woman.
I will come in to see you later. We will tell your maid you were taken ill, a fit of giddiness -"
"Always thinking of appearances, Gruffstone," Carlton said with a sneer. "You fool, every servant in the house knows quite well what is going on. It's a wonder they haven't fled screaming into the night."
The attitude of Marianne's maid, when she finally answered her bell, substantiated the lawyer's suggestion. Annie rolled her eyes till the whites showed every time Marianne moved, and once Marianne was in bed she literally ran from the room. The doctor had been waiting in the hall. Marianne heard him speak and Annie answer. She could not make out the words, but after an exchange or two, the maid's voice lost its nervous stammer. She even giggled.
The doctor went through the usual routine, checking Marianne's pulse and inspecting her tongue. He then made her take a dose of a mild sleeping medicine.
"You do believe me, don't you, sir?" Marianne asked pathetically. "I wasn't pretending; really I wasn't."
Gruffstone's grim expression softened.
"In all honesty, child, I don't know what to make of it. I assure you I am not leaping to conclusions. There is such a thing as…
But I do not want to frighten you."
It was the second time that day someone had expressed that sentiment; on the first occasion Carlton had frightened her, rather badly. Marianne looked apprehensively at the doctor.
"Have you ever heard of a condition called hysteria?" Gruffstone asked.
"Yes, of course. I was hysterical, for a few minutes, but I never -"
"You don't understand what I mean. I use the term in its medical sense. It is a pathological nervous condition which may occur when there is a conflict between the natural impulses and the demands of duty, loyalty, or moral standards. Is that clear?"
It is doubtful whether Marianne would have fully comprehended this description even if she had been fully alert. Now, with the effects of the sleeping draft creeping over her, she replied drowsily, "No, sir."
"Well, well, never mind; perhaps," the doctor said, half to himself, "perhaps it is just as well you don't. Sleep, child; rest. You are at peace and need fear no harm. Do you believe in your heavenly Father and His abiding love? Do you say your prayers?"
"Yes, sir. Always…" Marianne felt herself drifting off.
"Then you know he will watch over you.
Say with me: 'Our Father which art in Heaven…"'
The doctor sat with her for some time after her voice had died away. When he left she was sleeping peacefully, with a contented smile on her face.
Next morning she felt perfectly wretched. Squire Ransom could have told her what ailed her: the aftereffects of a combination of wine, brandy, and laudanum, which would have affected even a practiced toper. Marianne did not know why she felt so terrible, but she forced herself to dress and go down to breakfast. After a few cups of strong tea and a piece of dry toast she began to feel that she might live through the day. But she was still tired and queasy when she crept out to the garden and took her seat under the rose arbor. She had slept late, the morning mist had been burned away by the sun and it was a fine, brisk day.
Marianne had brought her needlework with her, in the pretty embroidered bag she had made under Mrs. Jay's supervision. But the bag concealed a less innocent object than her Berlin work. She had brought it to this distant spot, braving the chilly air, so that she could read without fear of discovery. There was no way of approaching her without crossing a stretch of gravel, and she hoped the sound would alert her in time for her to hide the volume.
Her sense of guilt and shame about participating in the seances had not been entirely dispelled, but she appreciated the doctor's attempt to restore not only her body but her distracted mind. Most reassuring of all was her memory of praying with him. Surely no one possessed by a devil could repeat the Lord's Prayer. Once she had had a nursery maid who had told her horrible stories about ghosts and witches. The girl had been dismissed when her exercise in sadism had been discovered, but Marianne had never forgotten the gruesome tales. One of the worst had concerned a demon who had taken possession of a poor farmer's body and had occupied it without suspicion until a clergyman had spotted the intruder and forced him to betray himself by repeating the Lord's Prayer. The demon had said it backwards.
Folktales, repeated by an ignorant, superstitious woman? Oh, certainly; but in the past weeks Marianne had seen things she would once have dismissed as fiction. Perhaps the vicar's books would help to explain them. She opened the one she had brought with her and began to read.
"Can it be, that this is the beginning of Satan's last struggle, that on the imposition of hands the table is endued with power from the Devil? I merely ask, can it be?"
But the author obviously thought he knew the answer. Marianne read on, puckering her forehead over some of the more ponderously illogical sentences. So absorbed was she that, after all, she failed to hear the crunch of gravel. A shadow fell across the page; she looked up, with a startled scream, to see Carlton looming over her.
She made a belated attempt to hide the book. Carlton's eyebrows lifted and he twitched the volume neatly out of her hands.
"Good heavens," he said disgustedly, after a glance at the title, "where did you get this rubbish? No, let me guess. Who else but St. John?"
"How can you call it rubbish? You said yourself you do not believe that the spirits of the blessed dead return -"
"I don't believe anything returns," Carlton replied irritably. "But this is even worse than the Duchess's theories."
He turned over a few pages, scanned the print, and burst into a shout of laughter.
"Here we have the interrogator asking the spirit where Satan's headquarters are. 'Are they in England?' A slight movement of the table. 'Are they in France?' A violent movement. 'Are they at Rome?' The table seemed literally frantic… Really, Miss Ransom, how can you read such bigoted trash with a straight face?"
Marianne ought to have been offended. Instead his laughter made her feel better.
"Do you really think it is trash?"
"Of course. This is the worst possible thing for you, huddling here in the cold straining your eyes and your poor little conscience. Come for a ride. The exercise will do you good. At least it does me good, after a night of overindulgence."
"How can you say such a thing?" Marianne protested. But she took the hand he extended and allowed him to raise her to her feet.
"You had too much brandy for someone who is not accustomed to spirits," was the reply. "I suppose Gruffstone concluded that it was better for you to be tipsy than hysterical. However, the morning after is not pleasant. Hurry now; I will meet you downstairs in ten minutes."
It took Marianne longer than ten minutes, for she had to go to the kitchen to beg some carrots. Stella received the offering graciously.
"What a glorious day," Marianne exclaimed, removing her hat and lifting her face to the sun. "Thank you, Mr. Carlton. This is just what I needed."
"I have had considerable experience in these matters," Carlton replied.
They rode on in comfortable silence, side by side. Then Marianne asked, "Have you had any word about Maggie?"
"Hardly; I only dispatched the new information yesterday. I also requested my people to find out what Bagshot is doing just now."
"I am sure your concern on that point is unnecessary," Marianne said, with more confidence than she really felt.
"No doubt. At this moment I am much more concerned about another matter. Miss Ransom, have you considered what you are doing? How long do you plan to continue this masquerade?"
"You still think me a cheat, then." Marianne felt more weariness than anger.
"I don't know what you are! Gruffstone has another theory. I am forced to admit there may be some truth in it."
"Theory? Oh, yes. He said something to me last night, but I did not understand his meaning – something about hysteria. He was very kind."
"He is too inclined to take people at face value," Carlton replied cynically. "However, I respect his medical knowledge, and he tells me that there has been considerable research into this phenomenon of hysteria. Some fellow at the Salpetriere in Paris – Chariot?… Charcot, that was the name – at any rate, he and some others have learned that illnesses of certain patients are purely mental in origin, and can be cured by suggestion. These patients believe themselves to be ill, so they become ill. I suppose I am explaining it badly, for he bombarded me with medical terms I didn't understand; but the gist of it is simple enough. People believe what they want to believe, and some people are more susceptible to self-delusion than others."
"But there is nothing scientific about that! In any case," Marianne added haughtily, "I am not deluding myself."
"My dear girl, we all do, to varying degrees. The doctor believes that all men – and women – are basically good; the Duchess believes the spirits of the dead talk to her -"
"And what makes you so sure they are wrong?"
"That is my form of self-delusion," the lawyer said wryly. "That I know better than they. See here, Miss Ransom, I am not such a pompous fool as I sound. Most of what I have seen and heard about spiritualism strikes me as absurd, but I am not so dogmatic as to insist there may not be a germ of truth in it. Would you be willing to let me subject you to some kind of physical restraint the next time Her Grace insists on a performance?"
"What did you have in mind?" Marianne asked doubtfully.
"Nothing more than most mediums now accept. That you be bound to a chair – I promise I will only use the softest of cloths – which is bolted to the floor."
"Certainly," Marianne replied. "That seems reasonable."
"Also…"
"Well?"
The lawyer coughed self-consciously. "That you be searched. Oh, not by me! Lady Annabelle will oblige, I am sure."
"It sounds most disagreeable," Marianne grumbled. "However, if it will settle your doubts, I agree. Not that I am anxious to repeat the performance. Do you think the Duchess might give up -"
"Her seances? Never! Believe me, I would not ask you to go through another one solely to satisfy my curiosity; I only propose these means because I know you have not the strength to resist her demands. Those demands will not stop. Don't you realize that the anniversary of Holmes's death is less than a fortnight away? She will not rest until she receives some message from him."
Marianne shuddered. "It is wrong. I can't help but feel that."
"It is," Carlton agreed. For once his face and his voice were quite serious. "Wrong not to accept God's will; wrong to call those who are at peace back from their rest. Whether one believes that they come or not, the very demand is mistaken and harmful. Ah, I've had enough of this somber talk. Come, I will race you back to the road."
Marianne took off her hat and reveled in the wind's strong fingers running through her hair; but as she urged Stella on, she was pondering a new and startling idea. What if the Duchess were to receive a message from David Holmes telling her to abandon her attempt to reach him, to let him rest? Marianne had not the capability to perform such a trick; but if she had, she would have been sorely tempted to try it, as much for her kind friend's sake as for her own.
As the party assembled in the White Room that evening, Marianne was struck by the difference in atmosphere from the preceding night. Then darkness and mystery and distress had filled the air. Tonight, thanks to Carlton, the affair had the brisk efficiency of a scientific experiment.
Lady Annabelle had agreed to cooperate, even though her offer of the cat Horace, as a sniffer out of evil spirits, had been firmly declined. In the music room next to the parlor she searched Marianne, while the Duchess looked on. She was surprisingly efficient, shaking out each petticoat as it was handed to her, and running light fingers over Marianne's body once the girl had removed all her clothing except her drawers and bodice. She even asked Marianne to unpin her hair.
"That is that," she announced, motioning Marianne to resume her clothing. "I can testify, Miss Ransom, that you have no infernal devices about you. How silly this is! No self-respecting animal would engage in such a performance."
"Animals have no souls," the Duchess said.
"I am not convinced of that," Lady Annabelle retorted. "I can tell you, at any rate, that if my cats don't go to Heaven I won't go there either."
She stalked out of the room. The Duchess smiled apologetically at Marianne.
"She is such a strange mixture of child and woman. Thank you, my dear, for taking this so well."
"Candidly, it is a relief to me," Marianne replied, tying the strings of the last petticoat. The Duchess helped her into her gown, it having been decided that the servants should not be involved in the affair.
"I don't blame you for being confused," she said. "Or for doubting your own powers. It is frightening at first, and I would not have pushed you as I have, but… There is a reason, Marianne."
"The anniversary?" Marianne asked.
She had no need to be more specific. For the tormented woman there was only one date in all history worthy of remembrance. "You know, then," the Duchess said.
"Mr. Carlton told me."
"Marianne, I must hear from him – I must! I will go mad if that day passes without some word. I know this is hard for you; but I will repay you, child, never fear. I will make sure you have -" She caught sight of Marianne's face and began murmuring apologies.
"No, I didn't mean that. I know you need no reward. Forgive me."
"Of course. Please don't distress yourself."
There was a knock on the door – Carlton, impatiently demanding whether it took all night to tie a few ribbons and button half a dozen buttons.
The Duchess had accepted Carlton's suggestion of restraints. She had insisted on only one point: total darkness. It was well known, she said, that the vibrations of light were hurtful to the discarnates.
Marianne was led to an armchair, upholstered in the seat and back, but with legs and arms of plain wood. After asking if she was comfortable and receiving an affirmative reply, Carlton proceeded to fasten her wrists to the arms of the chair. Her ankles were tied together and bound to the cross-piece. When Carlton rose after performing this last task, his face was redder than usual. Marianne had felt herself blushing too; it was the first time since childhood that a man's hands had touched her lower extremities, and although Carlton had been quick and respectful, the pressure of his fingers had felt… strange. Marianne wondered what the vicar would have said about that slightly indelicate act. She forced the thought from her mind.
It would not do to think of the vicar now.
Carlton turned to the doctor, who had been watching morosely. "Would you like to test the fastenings, Gruffstone?"
"My dear boy, don't be ridiculous. You are sure the chair itself is firmly anchored?"
"I did not have the heart to ask that bolts be driven into this beautiful old flooring," Carlton replied. "But the chair is extremely heavy; I doubt that a slight woman like Miss Ransom could budge it. However, I intend to remove any doubts on that score by sitting here beside her." And he drew up a low stool with a petit-point floral scene and sat down at Marianne's feet.
"Quite satisfactory," the doctor replied. "Er – Honoria?"
The Duchess was flushed with excitement. "Quite, quite," she said impatiently. "Get on with it, Horace. The lights, if you please – and draw that screen closer to the fire."
She took her place at the table, turning her chair slightly so as to face Marianne. Lady Annabelle took another chair; her hands moved restlessly, as if stroking an imaginary cat. The doctor dealt with the lights.
"Curse it," came his plaintive voice, from the darkness that followed the extinction of the last candle. "I can't see a thing, Honoria.
Can't we have just one light so I don't fall and break a limb?"
"Sit down there, where you are, and stop fussing," the Duchess said sharply.
Marianne was nervous, but it was no more than the nervousness of a performer before she goes on stage – a sensation with which she was tolerably familiar. She feared only one thing, a repetition of the horrid trance state, if that was what it was. To lose control of one's body is frightening in itself, but the experience of the previous evening, the bodiless struggle in darkness with some unseen force, was an experiment she did not care to repeat.
The silence continued for a long time, so long that it was at last broken by the unmistakable sound of a soft snore. Carlton emitted a snicker of amusement, but he did not speak, and Lady Annabelle continued to snore until the well-known rap was heard. Annabelle snorted. "What?" she began sleepily.
"Quiet," the Duchess ordered.
A perfect fusillade of cracks replied. A creak from somewhere in the darkness was followed by Annabelle's exclamation. "The table is moving. It is lifting, tilting… Ow!"
"Really, Annabelle, if you cannot refrain from crying out you will have to leave the room," the Duchess said.
"It came down on my foot," Annabelle replied angrily.
"Then tuck your feet under your chair. I warn you, one more word…"
But the apparitions did not seem to be inhibited by conversation. The cracks reverberated from all corners of the room, and others pieces of furniture began to creak and sway. At least Marianne assumed that was the cause of the sounds she heard. Her eyes had become more accustomed to the darkness, but since her back was to the scanty illumination of the well-screened fire, she could not even make out dim shapes.
A faint glow heralded the appearance of a mandolin, outlined in fire, hanging unsupported in midair. A strain of soft music sounded.
"David," the Duchess whispered. "David, is it you?"
The mandolin swooped up and down, still playing.
Hands fumbled at Marianne's feet, touched the bonds on her ankles, and moved up to her wrists.
"I beg your pardon," Carlton whispered. "I only wanted to make certain -"
"Your head is in my way," Marianne answered, straining her neck to watch the gyrations of the flying mandolin.
"Stop squirming! How can I be sure -"
"Move your head! Oh – oh, it is gone."
The luminous mandolin had indeed disappeared.
A medley of music followed – bells rang, chords sounded on the piano, a tambourine jingled. They were pleasant-enough sounds, though they formed no pattern and no recognizable tune.
Then there was a brief pause, as if the spirit needed rest after its strenuous efforts. In the silence Marianne heard the Duchess's breath coming in quick, sobbing pants, and her initial fascinated interest faded. She felt sad and a little giddy, and wished she had not taken quite so much wine at dinner.
The next demonstration was of a luminous hand that appeared suddenly in midair. Marianne could see it was not the same shape as the one that had materialized on the previous evening, being long and slim with delicate fingers.
This time the Duchess's cry was one of recognition.
"David – it is you!" A scrape of wood and a rustle of skirts told Marianne that the distraught woman had left her chair to pursue the phantom hand. As if to tease her, it darted back and forth. Panting and gasping, the Duchess stumbled after it.
"Stop her," Marianne exclaimed. "Oh, stop her; this is dreadful! She will fall and hurt herself -"
She pulled against the bonds that confined her hands., but Carlton had tied the knots too well. The struggle made her dizzier than before; she felt herself on the verge of swooning.
The grotesque, pitiful chase had only lasted for a few seconds, in fact, and Carlton was rising to his feet when the voice came.
"Silence. Be still. Silence."
It was hardly more than a whisper, but it had a hollow, penetrating quality that echoed as if the words had been pronounced in some other place, much larger than the parlor.
"Honor," the whisper came again. "Honor, listen and do not speak. I have little strength. I may not stay. The day approaches, be ready for me then. Now let me rest. I must have rest…"
The final sibilant turned into an insect buzzing that went on and on. Marianne felt as if it sounded inside her head. She shook that member and at once regretted the movement, for the darkness blazed with colored cartwheels and rings of fire. An icy wind touched the back of her neck.
With an effort she kept her senses. The eerie effects seemed to be over. The cold wind ceased to blow, the whispering voice was no longer heard, and she was beginning to relax when a new outburst brought her upright and shaking. This was the worst yet: a cry of wordless, almost animal, rage, a crash, a thud as of a heavy body falling – and then a horrible choking rattle and drumming.
Brightness flared, and she realized that Carlton had had the foresight to provide himself with a lamp and the means of lighting it. He held it high.
Writhing on the floor, his heels pounding in jerky spasms, foam issuing from his mouth, was a form Marianne scarcely recognized as that of the Duke. The tutor stood over the boy, wringing his hands and looking half-witted. Marianne could only think of the vicar's warnings and the old horror tales of men possessed by demons.
Then Carlton said sharply, "Don't stand there gaping, man; you know what to do"; and Victor, after a startled glance, dropped to his knees beside the boy.
" 'Twas dark; I could not see," he stammered, forgetting his French accent in his agitation.
Scarcely had this crisis been dealt with -
Marianne realized that it had, though she still did not understand its precise nature – than a stifled cry from the Duchess drew her attention in that direction just in time to see the lady's slender form crumple to the floor, one hand pressed against her heart.
The doctor, who had started toward the fallen boy, wheeled around and hurried toward her. Marianne tugged against her bonds.
"For pity's sake," she exclaimed. "Mr. Carlton, please -"
Carlton did not move. He stood staring at the Duchess's still form.
"What is it?" he mumbled. "What?"
"Her heart." Gruffstone's hands moved with deft quickness, quite unlike his usual clumsy motions. "Fortunately I brought my bag with me. Annabelle! On the table by the window – step lively -"
So admonished, Annabelle moved quickly, and after a few moments the doctor looked up. His face was shining wet in the lamplight, whether with perspiration or tears or a blend of both Marianne could not tell.
"She lives," he said. "We must get her to her room now. Call the servants. Victor, how does the boy?"
"As usual," the tutor replied.
Marianne did not know which way to turn. She continued to wriggle and protest, and finally Carlton broke through his paralysis and untied her.
"At any rate," he remarked, with a ghastly attempt at jauntiness, "I can testify that you did not free yourself. These are my knots, no question about it. I'm sorry to have left you so long, but a string of horrors like this is really a bit much, even for me."
"The night is not over," the doctor said. "Annabelle, ring again; where in heaven's name are those worthless servants? One of the footmen can carry the boy, but I want a thin mattress or cot for Her Grace; she must be transported as gently as possible."
It was done as he directed. Before long Marianne found herself alone with Carlton. The Duke had recovered from his fit and seemed better although he was sobbing softly – possibly with embarrassment, for a damp stain on the Persian rug indicated that he had suffered an accident more explicable in a much younger child.
"Will she be all right?" Marianne asked.
Carlton shook his head. "If anyone can save her, Gruffstone can. I knew her heart was weak, but… I suppose seeing the boy was the final straw. She has seen it before, but it seems to grow worse each time, and after the emotional strain of this evening…"
"What is wrong with Henry?"
"He is an epileptic, of course." Carlton gave her a derisive look, though he was still pale and his disheveled hair had tumbled over his brow. "Did you think him a victim of demonic possession?"
"You could hardly blame me if I did, after all the other things that happened."
Carlton flung out his arms in a gesture of despair that was nonetheless genuine for looking so theatrical.
"For heaven's sake, let us not even think of that! My brain is reeling; I cannot think sensibly. You look as if you could do with a restorative. A glass of wine, perhaps?"
"I have had too much wine," Marianne said faintly. "I don't seem to be accustomed to it."
"You only had two glasses," Carlton said. "I wonder… Never mind that now. Let me help you upstairs."
Marianne was glad to take his arm. "I could not possibly sleep," she insisted.
"Nor I. Perhaps we could both do with that universal nursery panacea, a cup of good strong tea. There is a little sitting room upstairs, not far from your bedchamber; the Duchess meant – means – to have it refurbished for you, but it is habitable. We will wait there for news."
The Duchess's illness had roused the household. The servants seemed genuinely devoted and concerned; they hovered anxiously about the stairs and jumped to obey Carlton's orders. A fire was lighted in the sitting room he had mentioned, and the housekeeper herself brought tea and biscuits. The poor old creature's eyes were suffused with tears when she asked about her mistress, and Carlton patted her hand as he tried to find some answer that would combine truth and comfort.
"We know everything is being done, Mrs. Kenney. Dr. Gruffstone is a first-rate physician."
"He won't let her die," the old woman quavered; and Marianne realized, from her upturned glance and clasped hands, that she was not referring to the doctor. "What will become of us if she goes? Oh, sire, I don't want to sound selfish -"
"I know, I know. I'll tell you what, Mrs. Kenney; this may be a long night and we are all tired; why don't you put together some food in case the doctor requires refreshment? A good mutton roast, or salmon, or one of your magnificent trifles."
Despite the absurd selection he had found the way to distract the housekeeper. Her face brightened.
"And some soup," she exclaimed. "Her Grace might fancy some nice strengthening broth when she feels a little better. There is nothing like it, I always say. I'll do it right away, Mr. Carlton."
She hobbled out.
"What will become of them?" Carlton muttered, staring after her. "All the misfits, the unemployables, whom she has taken in? Who else would find a place for them?"
"I am sure she has made provisions for them," Marianne said absently. "A woman so kind would not neglect old servants. Mr. Carlton, can we not tiptoe down the hall and look in? I am so anxious."
"Gruffstone said he would send for us if… if we could be useful," was the reply, made in an abstracted voice, as if the lawyer had something else on his mind.
"Whatever possessed you to order that ridiculous amount of food? It would be impossible to eat anything."
But when, sometime later, trays of sandwiches and salad were brought up, she found that she was ravenous. The food and the strong tea removed the last traces of her dizziness; she felt keyed up and alert and too restless to sit or be silent. Talking seemed to relieve her mind. Unfortunately Carlton did not share this weakness, if weakness it was. He sat hunched in his chair staring into space and responded to her irritable comments in monosyllables, if at all.
It was almost dawn before the doctor came to them. "She will do now," he said. "It was not as serious as I feared, but I stayed with her till she slept."
"You look very tired," Marianne said. "Can you take some food before you retire, or a cup of tea? I have kept the water hot."
"I have no appetite." But he began to nibble on a sandwich and Marianne poured him some tea. "You realize," he continued, with a severe look at the girl, "that she must have quiet and rest. The least excitement -"
"And how do you propose to accomplish that?" Carlton demanded. Now that his anxieties were relieved he had reverted to his old snappish manner. "The Duchess creates her own excitement. After that purported message tonight she will be on pins and needles till she hears the great revelation."
"We have a little time to prepare," the doctor replied heavily. "If, as I suppose, the reference was to the anniversary of that scoundrel's death, it is almost a fortnight away – the thirteenth of November, to be precise. Perhaps by then I can persuade her…"
"To do what?" Carlton seemed determined to be objectionable. "Give up hope of contacting that scoundrel, as you call him? Never believe it. Or have you some other scheme in mind? I warn you, Gruffstone, that any frustration of her hopes will prove as severe a shock as the message itself."
"Don't try to teach me my own profession! I know that as well as you do. I have an idea…" This time Carlton did not interrupt him, and after a moment of hesitation and a sidelong glance at Marianne, the doctor continued, "I can at least hope to strengthen her, to prepare her for the inevitable disappointment."
"Why should you suppose she will be disappointed? The agency that produced those obscene demonstrations tonight is quite capable of doing it again, unless we can discover how it was done and prevent it. Ah – your face is too open, Doctor; it gives you away. That is what you plan, is it not? What do you have in mind?"
The doctor did not reply.
Marianne said quietly, "Dr. Gruffstone prefers not to speak in front of me. I will go."
"No, no, it doesn't matter." The doctor waved his arm and gave a great yawn. "Only you will have to let me express my ideas without regard for your feelings, Miss Ransom, and not take offense. At the present time I have no plan, I have only theories – too many of them."
"You can dismiss Miss Ransom from consideration," Carlton declared. "I will swear she could not have freed herself."
"Are you sure? You did your best, but you have not studied, as I have, the tricks these charlatans employ. I made it a point to investigate them when the Duchess became so infatuated with – with spiritualism. Not that it was any use, exposing the tricks to her; she merely replied that because a thing could be done in a certain way did not prove it was done in that way. This, despite the fact that phenomena such as we saw tonight can be duplicated by any clever conjurer."
Carlton shook his head. "I don't believe Miss Ransom could have managed it." But he sounded less certain.
"I am not accusing her. I am merely pointing out a possibility. There are others. Young Henry, for instance, is quite bright enough and mischievous enough to perpetrate such antics. I am not convinced that Holmes did not install mechanisms of various kinds in that room. Even without such aids Henry could have crept in, by means of one of the secret passages he boasts of knowing so well – or hidden himself in the room beforehand – and done everything that was done under cover of darkness. His seizures are brought on by excitement; it would not be surprising if one followed a performance such as that."
"Hmm." Carlton nodded. "That is a possibility that did not occur to me. Though I believe the seizures began when that idiot tutor, trying to recapture him, laid violent hands on the boy. And what of M. Victor himself? He's a wretched creature, capable of playing tricks for the fun of it."
"He is," Marianne declared.
"I won't ask how you know that… Well, Doctor, you are a clever fellow, you have given me much to think about."
"I am not done," the doctor declared. "I cannot wholly discount the operation of some unknown force – not the sentimental twaddle about spirits, but a form of animal magnetism that can move objects at a distance. Certain cases of haunted houses suggest that possibility; the agent is usually a young person, who is quite unaware of his, or her, abilities. Well." He put his cup down and rose to his feet. "I must have a few hours' sleep before returning to my patient. Good night."
Carlton also said good night. Marianne went to her bed, but she did not fall asleep immediately.
She knew why the doctor had not voiced one of the theories that must have been in his mind. She, too, was reluctant to admit it; yet to an objective observer, the Duchess had to be considered a suspect. It was absurd, of course, to suppose that she would deliberately play tricks on herself, but the doctor's theory of hysteria, if Marianne understood it correctly, could explain a great deal. "We believe what we want to believe," Carlton had said. He might have added, "Some of us will go to any length to prove that what we believe is true."
There was one other suspect. Perhaps the doctor had reasons for dismissing her from consideration, or perhaps he had simply forgotten about her, for she was a shadowy figure at best. Marianne had never set eyes on her, unless the retreating figure she had seen the first night had indeed been the Duke's mother.
I will make an effort to meet her tomorrow, Marianne thought drowsily – if she exists at all, and is not another of the Duchess's fantasies.