by John Harwood
"Our visitor is leaving us," I heard her say. "You may show her to the door." Her footsteps receded along the passage and up the stairs.
"Will you kindly summon me a cab?" I said as the girl appeared. "I am feeling faint, and must have a moment.... "
She took the coin I offered her, glancing fearfully toward the ceiling, and left. I must get away from here, I told myself, and moved unsteadily to the door and along the hall as far as the entrance to the drawing room. There I was forced to stop, grasping the frame for support. The door stood open, as it had been on the fateful afternoon of the Carstairs' visit. There was the sofa where Mama and Sophie had been sitting; there was the place opposite where my mother had asked me to sit. I saw, as if it were yesterday, the slender young man in his dark suit of mourning, and I realised with horror exactly where I had first seen Edward Ravenscroft.
I cannot recall how I got out of the house. I suppose the maid must have helped me into the cab, but there is only a blank interval between that moment and finding myself jolting through the reeking streets of Shoreditch. The train journey passed in a haze of numbness, during which I seemed mercifully incapable of thought, and it was only when I saw Ada standing at the rectory door that the emotions of the day came flooding back. The interview with my mother was more than enough to justify my distress, and recounting it to Ada served, at least, to reduce the memory of what I had seen to a small, cold weight in the pit of my stomach. But alone in my room that night, with the bed seemingly swaying like the carriage, and the clack and rattle of the train still ringing in my ears, I was forced to confront the image of the young man upon the sofa.
Superficially, the two were quite different: Edward's hair was long and unruly, whereas the young man's had been short and scrupulously brushed; his complexion had been smooth and pale, whereas Edward's was roughened by wind and sunshine; the young man had sat very straight and still, with his hands clasped upon his knees, whereas Edward tended to sprawl. But their faces were the same: they were the same height, and had the same figure. You had only to imagine that one had gone into the law and the other into art to see that the young man might have been Edward's identical twin brother. How the likeness had eluded me I could not now imagine, unless some protective instinct had shrouded my memory.
If a young man of that exact description were to die ...Of course Edward is not going to die, I told myself desperately; it is all coincidence; I was overwrought after the scene with Mama; I have exaggerated the likeness. But dread would not release its grip. Would I ever be able to look at Edward again without seeing the apparition's face in his?—or fearing that Edward himself might be—not what he seemed? We knew nothing of him, after all; he had sprung, seemingly, from the earth; I did not know for certain that the address he had given me in Cumbria was indeed his father's ... or even that he had a father. Absurd, absurd, said the voice of reason: it is not clairvoyance, I said to myself, only—what did Dr. Wraxford say?—a lesion of the brain, and will heal itself in time. But the phrase went spinning from one fearful thought to the next—a lesion of the brain, a lesion of the brain—until it became the sound of train wheels clattering through a dream in which I was compelled to return again and again to London.
If Ada had asked me directly whether something else was troubling me, I think I should have spoken, but she naturally blamed my anxiety and depression of spirits upon the confrontation with my mother. I said nothing about the apparition in my long letter to Edward, and endured several days of foreboding—he had warned me that he was a very poor correspondent—before a cheerful note from Cumbria banished the wildest of my fears. All was well, he wrote; he was sure that his father would give us his blessing, and that my mother would "come round in time." "I have begun a new canvas," he wrote, "for which I have great hopes—it may be another fortnight before I see you again, my darling girl, but do write every day, and forgive me if I do not—I shall make it up to you when I return."
For Ada, who had always been on the most affectionate terms with her own mother and sisters, the idea of a permanent breach was almost unthinkable.
"You must try and make it up with her, Nell," she said, as we were walking back from the village one day. "It would be a terrible thing, to lose your mother forever, no matter what has passed between you."
"But she has forced me to choose between her and Edward," I said. "Blood is not always thicker than water—it sounds strange, when you turn it that way round, but Sophie and I have not been close since we were children, and I have been nothing but a disappointment to Mama. What I really fear is that she will make trouble with the bishop once Sophie is married; I shall never forgive myself if George loses his living because of me."
"I don't think she will do that," said Ada. "Making a scandal after the wedding would still be an embarrassment to Sophie. You must see, Nell, that there is nothing unreasonable, from Society's point of view, in her wanting you both to make good marriages—don't frown, dearest, you know very well what I mean. I know how difficult she can be, but I pray, nonetheless, that you will be reconciled. If something were to happen to George and me—"
"But you just said you don't think she will make trouble," I replied uneasily. "And I would rather live upon bread and water in a hovel with Edward than go back to Mama, even if she would have me."
"You would not speak so lightly of hovels if you had a child," said Ada quietly. "What I meant was: supposing you were left quite alone in the world, you would bitterly regret this estrangement."
I thought of her own sorrow, and changed the subject, but I could not help wondering if Ada felt I had treated my mother harshly, whereas I could not see what else I could have done, for her sake as much as my own, and so the question hung between us like an unspoken reproach. Which was perhaps why, the following afternoon, I broke with our usual custom of walking together after luncheon, and slipped quietly out of the house on my own.
Though it was still supposedly high summer, the air was cool and damp, the sky a steely grey. I let my feet carry me where they chose, which turned out to be southward, along the path George had taken us on the day we first met Edward. Absorbed in my thoughts, I did not notice how far I had come until the path began to climb, and I realised that Monks' Wood lay just beyond the skyline. Gorse and tussocky grass stretched away from me on every side; there was no sign or sound of life except for the distant bleating of sheep and the desolate cries of birds. In George and Ada's company, the loneliness had seemed merely picturesque; now I felt suddenly small and conspicuous.
As I stood wondering whether to go on or retreat, a figure on horseback appeared upon the ridge ahead of me, heading away to my left, then paused, as if the rider were surveying the prospect. To my alarm, he turned and began to descend, making directly for me. Not knowing what to do, I stood motionless, with my heart beating very fast as the horse drew nearer, until the figure in the saddle resolved itself first as a tall man with a short black beard, and then as Magnus Wraxford.
"I thought I recognised you, Miss Unwin. This is a lonely place to be walking," he said as he drew up a few paces from me. He was dressed like a country gentleman on his way to the hunt, in a short black riding jacket and white stock, russet-coloured breeches and polished boots.
"I wished to be alone," I said, and immediately regretted the words as too intimate.
" Then I apologise for disturbing your solitude," he said, smiling down at me, but making no move to turn his horse. Again I had the uncomfortable sensation that my thoughts were on display.
"I did not mean that, sir, only ..." I did not know what else to say.
"Then, if I am not intruding, may I accompany you?"
"I thank you, sir, but I have come far enough today. I must return to Chalford, which would take you far out of your way."
"Not in the least, Miss Unwin; I shall be delighted, if you will permit me, and my horse will be glad of the rest." He means to question me about my "friend," I thought. It was on the tip of my tongue to decline, when I reali
sed I must ask him not to speak of my engagement, and so agreed, whereupon he dismounted and began to walk beside me, leading his horse by the bridle. I was relieved that he did not press me to take his arm.
At first we—or rather he—made small-talk, whilst I tried to summon the courage to say what I must, for Ada and George's sake. He had just been out to the Hall, he told me, to see what might be done with it; the judgement in the case of his uncle Cornelius's decease was now imminent, though it would be many months before probate was settled. I remembered him saying that the Hall would be an ideal setting for his experiment into clairvoyance, which unnerved me further. Yet in spite of my unease, it struck me that here was an opportunity which might never come again. He had talked of the power of mesmerism in curing nervous illness; he had divined, I felt sure, that I had been speaking of myself; so why not ask him if he knew of some treatment which might prevent any further visitations? My replies became more and more distracted as the idea grew upon me, until it was only natural for him to ask whether something was troubling me.
Hesitantly and with many misgivings, I told him all about my visitations, from the sleepwalking and the fall to the moment of recognition in the drawing room a week ago. He listened intently—indeed, it seemed to me, with admiration—asking very few questions until I had finished.
"I hope you will understand, sir," I said in conclusion, "that this—this affliction—i's profoundly distressing to me. You mentioned, when you dined with us, the possibility of a lesion of the brain, which would heal itself in time, but if there is any immediate remedy for these visitations, I should be very grateful to hear of it. I have very little money, and most likely could not afford to be treated, but it would be a relief, at least, to know—"
"My dear Miss Unwin," he broke in, sounding almost offended, "let me assure you that my professional knowledge is entirely at your disposal. All other considerations aside, your case is unique in my experience, and it will be an honour and a privilege to assist you in any way I can.
"Let me confess at once that if you were not resolved to be rid of these visitations, as you call them, I should be fascinated to see what followed. I spoke, the other evening, of an injury to the brain, and later of clairvoyance: listening to your much fuller account today, I am more than ever convinced that the two are not necessarily incompatible. Of course we do not even know, for certain, that clairvoyance exists—these are uncharted waters—but do not fear, Miss Unwin, I shall do my best to ensure that your visitations do not recur. Mesmeric suggestion is, I think, the most promising avenue, though I shall have to give some thought as to exactly what to suggest ... I shall be staying with Mr. Montague for another few days; if it suited you, I could call at the rectory—and no, I insist, the only question is whether you will allow me to try the treatment, knowing that I cannot absolutely guarantee its success."
He waved away all of my objections to inconveniencing him or taking up his time, and assured me that everything would be in the strictest confidence between us; he suggested, indeed, that if I did not want George and Ada to be anxious on my behalf, I could tell them that the treatment was for my headaches, and it ended with my agreeing that he should call at the rectory at three o'clock on the day after tomorrow.
" There is one other kindness I would ask of you, sir," I said. "For—for various reasons, I feel it will be best if Mr. Ravenscroft and I do not formally announce our engagement until after my sister's marriage in November, and so I should be grateful if the news could be kept within our small circle here—"
"But of course," he replied, "and, if you like, I will mention it to Mr. Montague. And now that St. Mary's is in sight, I shall trespass no further upon your solitude. Until Friday, Miss Unwin—my compliments to Mr. and Mrs. Woodward." Waving away my thanks once more, he swung himself up into the saddle and spurred his horse in the direction of the Aldeburgh road. I had expected him to accompany me all the way to the rectory, and was relieved that I would not have to explain his presence immediately, and yet his sudden departure left me feeling there had been something clandestine about our meeting. It was not until he was almost out of sight that I realised he could not possibly have recognised me at that distance.
At three o'clock precisely on Friday afternoon, Dr. Wraxford appeared at the rectory, dressed this time in a dark suit, high collar, and tall hat. I had spent much of the interval regretting my impulse to confide in him; Ada had asked me several times if I was sure my trouble had not returned, and reproached me for recklessness in venturing so far alone into the marshlands. I did not like keeping secrets from her; still less the feeling that I had betrayed Edward by revealing more about myself to Dr. Wraxford than I was willing to reveal to him; and Dr. Wraxford's insistence on treating me as a friend rather than a patient had made me all the more uneasy. But it was done now, and all I could hope was that his treatment would prove effective.
Hetty showed him into the small sitting room where I had chosen to wait; Ada had tactfully remained upstairs, saying she would join me when the consultation was over. But as the door closed behind Hetty, I felt so uncomfortable that I was sorely tempted to run upstairs, confess everything, and ask Ada to sit with me during the treatment.
"Now, Miss Unwin," he said, as if in answer to the thought, "I assure you that you have nothing to fear. The very worst thing that can happen is that my suggestion will not help; in which case you are no worse off. All that is necessary is for you to allow me to mesmerise you. And then, in essence, I will instruct your mind to reject any extrasensuous data which may be presented to it—in the waking state, that is—no matter what the source. You will not be conscious of my instruction at the time, nor will you recall anything of it when you are woken from your trance. It may be necessary to repeat the treatment on several occasions before it becomes fully effective, but the principle is straightforward.
" There is one potential obstacle," he continued. "For the treatment to succeed, you must place your entire trust in me; otherwise your mind will not be receptive to mesmeric suggestion. Therefore, if you have any reservation about placing yourself in my hands, pray speak now."
"No, sir, I have every confidence in you," I said hesitantly, "only—I am a little apprehensive about the mesmerism. Might Ada sit with me whilst you—?"
" There, I fear, we reach an impasse. Your awareness of her presence, even in the trance, would prevent you from attending solely to my suggestions, and so render them ineffective. Stage mesmerists, of course, perform in front of an audience, but when it is done for a serious purpose..."
"I see," I said. "Then I shall try my hardest to compose myself."
"You must, rather, seek to relax your will, just as if you were tired and wished to go to sleep; all you need do is watch, and listen."
At his direction, I settled myself in an armchair, with my arms resting along the sides and my head supported by a cushion. He placed a small occasional table immediately before me, with a straight-backed chair on the other side of it, directly facing me. Then he took a single candle from the mantelpiece, lit it, and set it in the centre of the table between us before drawing the curtains and taking his own seat. Dazzled by the flame of the candle, I could see nothing beyond the circle of light in which we sat. Dr. Wraxford's face seem to hang unsupported in the darkness opposite me. The light accentuated the contours of his cheekbones and eye sockets; the pupils of his eyes were as black as polished jet, holding the twinned reflections of the candle flame.
Something flashed and glittered and began to revolve above the flame between us. It seemed to be a gold coin, about the size of a shilling, but embossed on both sides with a strange geometrical pattern I could not identify. Did he carry it with him wherever he went? I heard his voice instructing me to follow the movement of the coin. "Round and round, round and round ... you are becoming sleepy," chanted the voice. "Round and round ... your eyelids feel heavy ..." But a part of my mind remained alert, and would not surrender. I tried closing my eyes, but they opened again of thei
r own accord; the tension would not leave me; it was as if I could hear a warning bell sounding in time to the oscillations of the coin.
"I am sorry," I said eventually. "I cannot do it."
"So I perceive," said the disembodied face opposite. "Trust cannot be commanded, Miss Unwin, but without it, I cannot help you."
"I am sorry," I repeated helplessly, "I do not know what to do."
He rose, opened the curtains, and set the room to rights.
"We may have proceeded too hastily. If you are willing to try again, I shall return at the same time tomorrow—"
"I thank you, sir," I said, "but I must impose no further upon your generosity. No, sir, I beg you—I should be utterly mortified if you were to waste another journey on my behalf. And now, will you take tea with us? Ada especially invites you."
"Thank you in turn, Miss Unwin, but I must be off; it occurred to me on the way here that I might return by way of the Hall, and so I shall look forward to seeing you when next we meet, and Mr. Ravenscroft, of course, when he returns from Cumbria."
And with that he departed, leaving me devoutly wishing I had never said a word about my visitations.
Edward returned a week later, and my fear that the apparition would come between us was swept away in the joy of our first embrace, and the news that one of his pictures had sold for thirty guineas, the highest price he had yet commanded. One more success like this, he assured me, and we could be married as soon as Sophie was safely wed.
I had hoped Dr. Wraxford would have returned to London, but the very next day we received a note from John Montague, inviting us all to luncheon at his house in a week's time; Magnus Wraxford was eager to meet Edward and would come up from London especially. To make matters worse, George and Ada were already engaged for that day. Edward, of course, was eager to go, and so I was forced to tell him that Dr. Wraxford had tried to cure my headaches, and answer all his questions about mesmerism, and insist that it had not worked simply because I was such a bad subject. On the day of the luncheon I feigned illness at the last moment, and passed a long and miserable day at the rectory before Edward returned at dusk, in a state of high excitement.