The Seance

by John Harwood

  "Mama will never approve," I replied. "You know what she thinks of artists; it will mean a complete breach between us. And there is no reason to tell her yet; not until we can afford to marry."

  "Perhaps not," she said, "but you must think of the scandal that would follow if—if it appeared that Edward had seduced you under our roof. If your mother ever found out, she would certainly write to the bishop, and George would lose his living."

  "But he has not seduced me! I am of age, and I adore him, and I do not need Mama's consent to marry him—"

  "That would not prevent her from making a scandal. And besides, a man—even a good man, as I am sure he is—can take advantage of a woman's love for him, especially when they are thrown very much together, as you are here, with no immediate prospect of marriage. Do not think me unfeeling, dearest; I know very well what it means to—to long to be with the one you love—but you have only known him a week, and it is simply too soon to be sure of him, or even of yourself—especially when you are still convalescing."

  "Yes, but I have already seen far more of him than Sophie has ever seen of Arthur Carstairs. I will never be surer than I am now; and the visitations, I am sure, were only brought on by the strain of things at home .... Do you mean that Edward cannot remain with us?"

  "I fear not—not until you have told your mother that you are engaged."

  " Then I shall tell her," I said, "though I am sure she will not give us her blessing. But please let Edward stay—a few more weeks at least."

  And so, despite Ada's misgivings, it was agreed that Edward could remain for the present. He insisted upon contributing as much as he could afford to the household expenses, as I had done with the pound a week my mother had allowed me for the visit. Though still very poor, he was beginning to make his name as a painter. Several of his pictures had been sold by a private gallery, "at the wrong end of Bond Street," as he cheerfully put it, but Bond Street nonetheless. Beyond his study of Orford Keep, I had seen only a few recent canvases sent on from the inn at Aldeburgh, all of them studies of ruins or wild places, and all displaying the same qualities of seeming verisimilitude and dreamlike immediacy. Ada had offered him a choice of rooms—the rectory had evidently been built with an immense family in mind—and he had taken a disused sitting-room on the first floor with high windows and a good north light, which would serve as both bedroom and studio. And within days of our engagement, he was back at work in earnest. Though he spoke lightly of producing masterpieces, I knew how deeply he longed for recognition; he was sure of his talent, and needed only the world's acknowledgement to set the seal upon it.

  I thought a good deal about how I might bring the day closer by earning some money of my own, but to no purpose. Taking a situation as governess or companion—even if one were offered me—would mean being parted from Edward, and from my friends, yet I knew I could not live on George's charity indefinitely, much as I dreaded returning to Highgate. Which in turn raised the fearful prospect of writing to tell my mother, for to delay much longer would not be fair to Ada and George, now the whole village knew that Edward and I were betrothed. Yet delay I did, for every time I sat down to begin, the thought of my mother's fury would rear up like a thundercloud, blotting out all else. I had told Edward of my difficulties with Mama, even the threats of confinement to an asylum, but attributed these to my sleepwalking rather than the visitations, the one thing I could not bring myself to speak of; I did not quite know why. Did I doubt his love? I would ask myself.—No, of course not.—Then why not tell him? My conscience seemed to think I ought; but then he would only worry about me, and really there was no need, now that I was well again.

  My only other cause of anxiety was the recurring sense that I had met Edward somewhere before, and that it was important—I did not know why—that I should remember where. I would sometimes find myself gazing at my beloved, thinking, where have I seen you? Feeling the answer hovering like a forgotten word upon the tip of my tongue, but unable to summon it. Nor did I understand why this preoccupation should be linked to an uneasy feeling that everything—save the impending confrontation with my mother—was too perfect, my happiness too complete: a vague, superstitious dread that only troubled me when I was alone. I sought to convince myself that these anxieties were merely the shadow of my former indisposition—which was now, of course, entirely cured.

  A few weeks later, Edward decided to visit his father in Cumbria. I would have loved to go with him, but to travel together unchaperoned, without my mother's permission, was out of the question. Edward wanted to tell his father in person, and so I set myself to the business of writing to my mother on the morning after his departure. I had tried and discarded half a dozen variations upon "I know you will not approve ..." or "I fear you will be displeased ..." before I settled upon "You will be surprised but not, I hope, displeased, to hear that I am engaged to be married to Mr. Edward Ravenscroft, the artist." It seemed best not to mention that Edward was staying at the rectory; the difficulty, indeed, was to think of anything whatever that would not simply heighten my mother's displeasure.

  I was still struggling with my letter when George returned from a visit to Aldeburgh with the news that he had run into John Montague, an acquaintance of whom he had spoken, in the company of a very agreeable man who turned out to be Magnus Wraxford, the prospective owner of Wraxford Hall; so agreeable, indeed, that George had invited them both to dine with us the following evening. I was sorry that Edward would miss the occasion, for Mr. Montague was a keen amateur painter as well as solicitor to the Wraxford estate, but Dr. Wraxford was only in town for a few days, to attend a hearing into his uncle's disappearance.

  Ada, despite the lack of notice, was pleased for George's sake. "He has so little opportunity to talk to men of ideas," she said, "and whilst Edward is always delightful company ..." I could not disagree, for Edward's theology went no further than "If, when I die, I discover there is an afterlife, I shall be pleasantly surprised—at least, I trust the surprise will be a pleasant one—if not, it will be mere oblivion. Carpe diem for me, I'm afraid." But rather than seizing the day, I used the welter of preparation as an excuse to set my letter aside, with the result that it was not finished until the following morning, and then only because Ada insisted that if we were to speak of my engagement before Dr. Wraxford—a London physician with, presumably, a large acquaintance—the letter must absolutely be in the post to my mother before the gentlemen arrived.

  Ada and I were standing by the drawing-room window, as our guests were shown in. I was wearing a plain white gown of which my mother deeply disapproved (on the ground that it was so out of fashion it might have been worn in the last century); Ada was in deep blue, and I suppose with the last of the evening sun picking up the lights in our hair, we made something of a picture. But I was quite unprepared for its effect—my effect, as I soon realised—upon Mr. Montague.

  At first glance, however, my attention was captured by Magnus Wraxford. He was only an inch or two taller than John Montague, though broader in the shoulders, but beside him Mr. Montague seemed to be moving in deep shadow as they advanced across the carpet. Magnus Wraxford looked no more than thirty-five, with thick black hair, a clipped black beard which gave him a slightly Mephistophelian air, and dark eyes of remarkable luminosity. Though George had said he was handsome, the sheer force of his presence took me by surprise. The saying that eyes are the windows of the soul flitted across my mind as I extended my hand, but I had the discomfiting sensation, as our fingers touched, that my own soul had become momentarily transparent to his gaze.

  "I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Unwin." His voice was low and resonant, reminding me of someone, I was not sure whom.

  "And this is Mr. John Montague," said George.

  I turned to greet him—a spare, dark-suited man with brown hair already receding—and realised that he was deeply agitated. John Montague was staring at me—and struggling, as our eyes met, to conceal his emotion—as if I had been a ghost.
Something in his haunted expression brought back a fleeting memory of my last visitation, an ominous shadow from which I recoiled as swiftly. The hand that clasped mine was cold, and trembled perceptibly.

  "And I, too, Miss—Unwin, am—am very much delighted," he said, stumbling over the words.

  "Thank you, sir. I am only sorry that my—my fiancé, Mr. Ravenscroft, could not be here to meet you."

  I had not meant to declare my engagement so precipitately, but his agitation compelled me to it. He started visibly at the word "fiancé," and seemed to make a great effort to bring his emotions under control.

  "Mr. Ravenscroft is an artist by profession," said Ada, "and travels a great deal in search of subjects."

  "Most remarkable," said Mr. Montague, with his gaze still fixed upon me. "I mean ... that is to say ..." There was an awkward pause while we waited for him to continue.

  "Miss Unwin," he said at last, "you must forgive me. The fact is—you bear an extraordinary likeness to my late wife Phoebe, and it has rather shaken me."

  "I am very sorry to hear of her death," I replied. "Was it very recent?"

  "No—she died five years ago."

  "I am very sorry to hear it," I repeated, and could not think of anything else to say; at that distance, his shock at the resemblance was all the more unnerving. Ada, to my relief, led him a little away from the rest of us, and Dr. Wraxford began to converse with me.

  "Does Mr. Ravenscroft live in this part of the country?"

  "Not always," I said uncomfortably. "As Ada mentioned, Edward travels a great deal. He has gone to Cumbria to visit his father."

  "Edward Ravenscroft ... I don't think I know his name, but I wonder if I have seen some of his work."

  "Perhaps not yet," I said. "Edward is still making his way in the world—he is only twenty-six, you see—though I am sure he will succeed."

  " Then I shall look forward to seeing the fruits of it. I take a keen interest in painting, Miss Unwin, especially in the work of my contemporaries."

  "As it happens, sir," I said hesitantly, "we have one of his pictures here; I am sure he would not mind your seeing it—and Mr. Montague also, if he would like to."

  Edward's study of the keep at Orford had been framed, and was hanging in the sitting room opposite. Both men—John Montague had by now recovered his composure, though I sensed his gaze straying toward me whenever he thought I was unaware of it—examined the picture in silence for some time whilst George and I awaited the verdict; Ada had gone to see about the dinner.

  "This is very fine—very fine indeed," said Dr. Wraxford at last. "And most original—has Mr. Ravenscroft been to Paris?"

  "No," I replied, "though he hopes to, before very long." Edward was determined that we should go there for our honeymoon; I felt my colour rising at the thought of it.

  "Even more impressive, in that case. Don't you think so, Montague?"

  "Er, yes, yes—very fine, as you say. I must have made a dozen attempts at this very subject—none half so accomplished as this."

  "Come, come, my dear fellow," said Dr. Wraxford, "you know that your picture of the Hall can stand in any company—in fact, there's something about this that reminds me of it. Mr. Montague," he explained, "has painted a superb study of Wraxford Hall by moonlight."

  "Which I fear will be my swan song. You may have heard, Mr. Woodward, of the superstition amongst the poaching fraternity: that anyone who sees the ghost of the monk will die within the month. In my case (though I saw no ghost), it seems to have been my talent, such as it was, that died." He spoke lightly, but the undertone of bitterness was plain.

  "I am sure," said George, "that your talent only needs to lie fallow for a while. Besides, you are a professional man, with many calls upon your time; you cannot expect to outdo the work of men who do nothing all day but paint."

  Mr. Montague's expression suggested that he did not at all agree, but whatever reply he had been contemplating was forestalled by the bell announcing dinner.

  By the time the fish service had been cleared, it was quite dark outside. George was sitting at the head of the table, his back to the unlit fire, with Ada and Magnus Wraxford on his right, and myself and John Montague on his left, facing the windows, an arrangement for which I was grateful, as I did not have to meet his gaze unless he addressed me directly, which he seldom did. I was still struggling to shake off the foreboding he had inspired.

  The conversation thus far had ranged from Mr. Millais' recent election to the Royal Academy, to the new Biblical scholarship, to the efficacy of mesmerism in alleviating pain and even curing disease, a practise which, according to Dr. Wraxford, had been prematurely rejected by the medical profession. He spoke for some time about the nature of mesmeric suggestion, and how it could influence even the action of the heart.

  "For all our talk of progress," he said in conclusion, "we—that is to say, the majority of my colleagues—seem positively to spurn any treatment, however effective, for which we cannot account in material terms. Such is the great difficulty with mesmerism; that, and its misuse by mountebanks and quacks. You must forgive me, Montague—he has heard me on this theme before."

  John Montague murmured something I did not catch.

  "Is it possible," asked George, "to mesmerise someone against his will?"

  "Possible, yes, given an impressionable subject; but only a charlatan would attempt it."

  "And once mesmerised, is the subject compelled to do whatever the mesmerist commands?"

  "I doubt whether a mature, rational individual could be compelled to act against his deepest instincts: further than that I shouldn't care to go."

  "You remarked, I think," said Ada, "that in a state of trance, a subject can be instructed to see persons who are not actually present?"

  I divined, from the way she avoided my glance, that she was asking on my behalf.

  "Yes—quite correct."

  "And might this explain, do you think, how spiritualists—spirit mediums—believe they can have commerce with the dead?"

  "It might indeed, Mrs. Woodward—at least, those who are not simply perpetrating a fraud, which is regrettably common in spiritualist circles."

  "And is it possible," I asked, striving to keep my voice steady, "for a person to fall into a trance without being aware of it, and thus to see—people who are not there?"

  Dr. Wraxford regarded me for a moment before answering. I felt that he was seeking to divine the thought behind the question; it was quite unsettling, the way his dark eyes held the candlelight.

  "Possible, yes. But for a subject to become deeply entranced without being aware of it; that would be most uncommon, Miss Unwin, unless you mean that state between sleeping and waking?"

  "No," I replied, summoning my courage. "I suppose I mean ... a friend once told me of a strange experience: she walked into a room one afternoon where her mother and sisters were sitting, and saw a young man upon the sofa, a young man she had never seen before. But then she realised that he was invisible to the others. He got up and walked toward her—she was not afraid—and then—seemed to dissolve into the air. And so I wondered ... whether she might have fallen into a trance."

  "I don't think trance will explain it—and you are presumably sure your friend was not deceiving herself, or..."

  "I am certain the experience was exactly as she described it."

  "And your friend was not afraid—that is most unusual."

  "Not afraid of the young man—she said she did not think of him as a ghost because he seemed so ordinary—she could hear the sound of his tread upon the floor. But it left her very shaken, knowing the others had not seen him."

  The room was suddenly very quiet. I was aware of John Montague glancing from me to Dr. Wraxford and back again.

  "And was that your friend's only such experience?"

  "I believe so ... It was some weeks after a bad fall, which left her unconscious for many hours."

  Again I felt the pressure of Dr. Wraxford's scrutiny, as if he knew
what I was leaving out.

  "It may well be—of course I would have to examine the young lady to be sure—that your friend has suffered a lesion of the brain, which will probably heal itself in time."

  "I am sure she will be very relieved to hear it, sir."

  "Relieved, Miss Unwin?"

  " That it will heal, I meant."

  "I see."

  Dr. Wraxford continued to regard me with speculative interest. I felt that he was willing me to say more, until Ada broke the silence by asking if there was any news of the hearing into his uncle's disappearance.

  "I believe, Mrs. Woodward, that the judgement of his decease will be granted fairly shortly. But Mr. Montague is better placed to answer you."

  "It ought to be straightforward," said John Montague. "In a case such as this, where there are no conflicting interests—no one, that is, who stands to lose by a ruling of decease—the business of the court is simply to decide whether, on the evidence available, it is overwhelmingly probable that the missing person is dead. And given that Cornelius Wraxford was a frail, elderly man, the fact that he has not been seen since the night of the storm three months ago is alone sufficient: however he got out of the house, he could not have survived a night in the forest.

  "The only real difficulty is to explain how he got out of his apartment at all. Drayton, his manservant, told me that he saw him retire at seven that evening, before the storm broke. When I arrived some twenty-four hours later, all of the doors appeared to be locked and bolted from the inside, so that I was obliged to break down the door to the study. All of the windows were certainly shut and latched—and they are in any case far too high for him to have reached. So either he left by way of some secret passage—though a careful search revealed no trace of any such thing—or Drayton and I were mistaken. Drayton is beyond questioning: he collapsed and died, as you may have heard, whilst I was making my search. I have since wondered whether the gallery doors—which I opened from inside the room, in a state of considerable agitation—might simply have been stuck, rather than secured, as the inspector of police believed; it is easier to doubt my own recollection than to believe that a man simply vanished into thin air; and that, I expect, will be the finding of the court."