The Seance

by John Harwood

  " The luncheon was a success, then?" I asked. We were sitting in the "yerd," beneath a beech tree which was just beginning to shed its leaves, on what ought to have been a perfect evening.

  "Not the luncheon, exactly; that was rather mixed. Wraxford and I are fast friends already—he's a remarkable man, as you said—but John Montague seems to have taken a dislike to me. I don't understand it—I was very complimentary about his picture of the Hall, but he simply wouldn't thaw. They were very sorry to miss you, Dr. Wraxford especially; you've made quite a conquest there, you know. He and I went for a long walk along the strand after luncheon, but Montague declined to join us, and I'm sure it was because of me.

  "No, the great thing is that in looking at Montague's picture, I had an idea for a series of studies of the Hall—it's a wonderfully sinister subject—moving from day to night. The set piece will be the Hall at the height of a storm, lit by a jagged bolt of lightning. He told me all about his uncle's disappearance, you see, and it made a great impression .... I gather the Hall is still in some sort of legal limbo, but it's bound to go to Wraxford in the end. Anyway, I talked it over with him, and he says he doesn't mind in the least, and that he'll square it with Montague; I asked him if he knew why Montague had taken against me, but he wouldn't say; just told me not to take it to heart ... You look worried, my darling, is something the matter?"

  "No, only that ... the Hall is an unlucky place, and such a long way to go."

  "Oh, I shan't go traipsing back and forth, I'll do all my studies at one stretch—doss down in the old stables or something of the sort. Wraxford's given me the lie of the land. I just hope we get at least one good storm before the nights get too cold. You musn't fret, dearest girl; I'm used to sleeping rough, and I know—I can feel it—this is going to make my name, and speed us to the altar into the bargain."

  Edward spent an entire week—the longest of my life, as I thought then—sketching at the Hall. Ada was troubled by my agitation, and suggested several times that we should walk down to Monks' Wood. But I knew that Edward hated being observed while he was working; it seemed like giving in to superstition; I worried that he might think me a silly hysterical girl; and—though I did not like to admit it, even to myself—I was afraid we might run into Magnus Wraxford. I hated his knowing more about me than Edward; it preyed upon me as if we had had a guilty liaison, and yet I could not make up my mind to tell Edward (or even Ada) about the apparition.

  Would it have made any difference if I had? He would have called me his darling girl, and told me it was all the fault of my over-vivid imagination, and distracted me with kisses, and gone cheerfully off to the Hall—from which he returned in the best of spirits, with a great roll of sketches under his arm, and set to work in his studio. The weather continued fine, growing, if anything, warmer as September advanced and the fallen leaves heaped up beneath the trees, and my foreboding slowly diminished, until Edward announced on a still, humid evening that he had finished the first of his canvases.

  I had heard enough about the Hall to anticipate bats circling a crooked tower at dusk, but the sky above the treetops was a pale, almost cloudless blue, permeated with fine streaks and swirls of creamy vapour. Everything about the sky suggested an idyllic afternoon scene, but that was not at all the impression left by the house itself. The sunlight seemed only to accentuate the darkness of the encroaching forest, and to deepen the shadows within the window frames. And somehow—even though I had not seen the original—the proportions of the building seemed to have gone subtly wrong, as if I were looking at it through water.

  "I'm very pleased with it myself," said Edward after we had all congratulated him, "and I rather hope Magnus Wraxford will be, too; he's back in Aldeburgh—did I not tell you? I had a note from him yesterday; he'll be here at least another week."

  "Excellent," said George, "we must ask him to dine again—and John Montague, of course."

  "Yes, indeed," said Edward, as Ada and I exchanged helpless glances. "I'm sure, my darling, you will be able to charm Montague into affability." He had told the others of John Montague's coldness toward him; George put it down to envy of Edward's talent and freedom to paint, but I feared that my strange resemblance to Mr. Montague's dead wife might also be to blame.

  "I should much rather he didn't come," I said. "Why should we invite him, when he has been so unpleasant to you?"

  "It wasn't as bad as all that," said Edward. "I'd rather mend fences than break them, and besides, I shouldn't want to miss seeing Magnus."

  An invitation to dine in five days' time was accordingly despatched to Aldeburgh, leaving me to repent all the more bitterly of ever having mentioned the visitations. But the very next afternoon, whilst I was seated in the shade of an elm, attempting to concentrate on my book, I heard the crunch of hooves on gravel, and saw Magnus Wraxford, dressed as if for the hunt, dismounting at the gate. Ada and George were out, and I knew I ought to rise and greet him, but I did not move, and a moment later he had passed out of sight on his way to the front door. As the minutes passed without Hetty coming to fetch me, I realised he must have asked for Edward, and so I waited uncomfortably, expecting to be summoned at any moment, until Magnus at last reappeared, strode across the drive without a glance in my direction, swung up onto his horse, and spurred it away up the hill.

  The sound of his hooves had scarcely faded before Edward emerged onto the lawn and came running toward me.

  "Our fortune is made!" he cried. "Did you not see him?"

  "See whom? I think I must have been asleep."

  "Magnus," he said, sweeping me into his arms. "He is going to buy the picture—for fifty guineas—and he wants the other three at fifty apiece, sight unseen! Is it not wonderful? I wanted to come and find you at once, but he said he couldn't stay. We can be married as soon as your sister is safely wed—and who knows?—your mother may even relent and welcome me into the family, now that I'm a man of means."

  I felt briefly ashamed of having hidden from Magnus, but the thought was swept aside in a rush of emotion. Until that moment, I realised, I had never quite believed the day would come; now I even allowed myself to hope that Edward might be right about my mother. The celebration that night extended to several bottles of champagne, over which we all sat talking until very late, and when I did go to bed, I lay awake for a long time, perfectly happy, but too excited to sleep until, as dawn was breaking, exhaustion finally overtook me.

  It might have been the fault of the champagne, or the oppressive and quite unseasonable heat; at any rate, I woke very late, with the beginnings of a headache which, for all my efforts to subdue it, grew steadily worse. The humidity was quite extraordinary. George returned from the village saying that no one could remember anything like it; Edward was sure we would be cooler inside a Turkish bath. There was not the faintest breath of wind outside; thick grey clouds hung low and motionless overhead, darkening slowly as the hours passed. By three o'clock, my head felt as if steel pincers were being driven through my temples, and I knew I must retire to my room.

  After an indefinite interval, the pain began to ease. I was in the midst of a dream that vanished beyond recall as I was jolted wide awake by a searing flash lighting up the room even through drawn curtains, followed a few seconds later by a deafening crack of thunder which rolled and rumbled and reverberated, shaking the house to its foundations. Within seconds I heard a great rush of wind, a spatter of raindrops against the windowpane, and then the roar of a deluge upon the gravel below.

  My headache was quite gone; I felt my way to the door, where I found the lamps in the passage lit and saw that it was almost half past eight. I ran downstairs to join the others, and found George and Ada standing by the drawing-room window. I knew from Ada's expression, even before she spoke, where Edward had gone.

  "He left soon after you went upstairs. I told him you would worry dreadfully, but he wouldn't listen; he said he hoped you'd sleep right through the night, so he'd be back before you woke."

  "At le
ast," said George, "he will have reached the Hall long before the storm broke; at his pace, he'd have got there by half past five. So he'll have taken shelter. You must try not to—"

  The rest of his reply was lost in a blinding flash and a clap of thunder right above the house, after which the lightning flashed continuously, bolt after jagged bolt accompanied by a tumult so deafening it seemed the roof must give way at any moment. Speech was impossible for many minutes, until gradually the lightning died away and the wind dropped until there was no sound but the rush of steady, drenching rain.

  The night passed unimaginably slowly. I came downstairs again at first light; the rain had ceased, the air was chill and damp and laden with the scents of bruised and broken foliage. Debris was strewn across the garden, from sodden twigs and leaves to great branches, and water lay in pools across the grass.

  George followed soon after, dressed in his waterproof and sou'wester.

  "I shall drive down to the Hall," he said, "to save him the walk back."

  "I shall come, too," I said.

  "No; you must stay—in case I miss him on the road."

  Fifteen minutes later, he was gone. Ada came down, trying her hardest to seem cheerful and unworried, but I could tell from her pallor that she had not slept either. Six o'clock struck; then seven; then eight; at nine I could bear it no longer, and said I would walk as far as the village. But I had not even reached the church before I heard a clatter of approaching hooves, and George's trap came over the rise and started down the hill toward me. He had no passenger with him, and I knew, the instant I caught sight of his face, that there was no hope at all.

  Three days later, Edward was laid to rest in St. Mary's churchyard. George had found him lying at the foot of the side wall, directly beneath the cable which connected the lightning rods to the ground. His satchel with his sketching things in it was around his neck; it seemed most likely that he had tried to climb the cable, presumably well before the storm broke, and fallen to his death. But why he had done this, no one could say. Edward had not made a will, and so his few belongings, including his pictures, were to go to his father, who was so crushed by the news that he could not even attend the funeral.

  I remember the weeks that followed as a dark, dry abyss; I could not weep, even at his grave, and wished only to die. Magnus Wraxford called several times, as did John Montague, but I refused to see them. Ada told me that George had written to my mother, but received no reply; the announcement of Sophie's wedding came as a printed card.

  The worst anguish of all was the knowledge that Edward had met his doom in meeting me. Ada insisted that anyone who lost a fiancé or a husband could say the same; of course, Edward would not have stayed in Chalford if he hadn't met me, but I was not to blame for that.

  "It is not the same," I said at last, one wintry afternoon. "I had a premonition—a vision of his death—before I even met him."

  I told her the story of the visitation, thinking she would understand at last how culpable I was, but she could not see it at all.

  "You didn't even notice this resemblance," she said, "until that dreadful scene with your mother; you were shocked and distraught; of course you would put the darkest interpretation upon what was—a mere waking dream, dearest, nothing to do with Edward at all. Edward died because he was fearless—fearless to the point of recklessness—he would have laughed at your vision; you know he would..."

  "Yes," I said bleakly, "but I saw the apparition; and he died; and nothing anyone can say can change that."

  I had begun by then to take some notice of the world around me, though it seemed, except for Ada and George, utterly void of light or hope, and when John Montague called again a few days later, I decided I might as well see him. When Ada brought him into the drawing room, I saw that he was dressed in mourning, and asked, without much interest, if he had lost someone close to him. His jaw seemed longer and narrower than I recalled, the lines around his mouth more deeply etched, his eyes more darkly shadowed.

  "No," he said uncomfortably. "I—I wore it as mark of respect."

  " That is kind of you, sir; especially as I know you disliked him," I said with some asperity.

  "Did he tell you that?" He did not seem able even to say Edward's name.

  "Yes, he did."

  "I am very sorry I gave him that impression .... Miss Unwin, I came to say that if there is anything, anything in this world that I can do, any way I may serve you, I pray you, never hesitate to ask." His voice was suddenly quivering with emotion.

  "I thank you, sir, but no, there is nothing."

  "And—will you remain in Chalford, Miss Unwin?"

  "I do not know." A heavy silence fell, and after a little he rose and took his leave; George told us a few weeks later that he had gone abroad.

  But the question lingered: what was I to do? My allowance had ceased with Sophie's marriage; I had no money of my own, and could not live on George's charity forever, no matter how warmly they insisted I must stay. I had more or less decided to seek a post as a governess in Aldeburgh, where at least I would not be utterly separated from them, when George secured, through a cousin in the north of England, appointment to a small parish in Yorkshire, to begin in a few months' time. It was not, Ada assured me, anything to do with my mother—though she admitted the stipend would be smaller—only that the incumbent of St. Mary's had recovered his health and would return late next spring. And of course I must come with them; anything else was not to be thought of, especially not so soon after Edward's death.

  I think I might have been persuaded, had it not been for a darker fear: I dreaded above all things being visited by an apparition with George's or Ada's face. It was all very well for George to say wisely that such fears were only to be expected after so great a loss; he had not seen the visitant upon the sofa. I knew, rationally, that my living with George and Ada could not endanger them, but there was nothing rational about the visitations. And if I did become a governess, and grew to love the children in my charge ... Did I not have a responsibility to warn my prospective employers?—and who would ever employ me if I did?

  On a damp January morning, I went alone to St. Mary's churchyard. The air was laden with the scent of decaying leaves; thin strands of mist drifted amongst the tombstones. Edward's grave had lost its raw, newly dug appearance, but the pain of loss was as keen as ever. I had been standing there for some time, lost in melancholy reflection, when I heard footsteps on the gravel path behind me, and turned to see Magnus Wraxford approaching.

  "Miss Unwin; forgive me for disturbing you."

  "No; I am glad to see you," I said. He was not in his riding clothes this time, but formally dressed in a dark suit and white stock. "I am sorry I was not well enough—when you kindly called before."

  "You must not apologise; I came only to offer my deepest sympathy. Mr. Ravenscroft's death has weighed very heavily upon my mind."

  "You were very kind to him, sir; it was your generosity that would have enabled us to marry, if only..."

  "Not generosity, Miss Unwin; recognition of a remarkable talent, which the world ... forgive me; the last thing I want is to distress you any further. I fear I was in part responsible; I have wished many times that I had not encouraged him to paint the Hall."

  "You must not blame yourself, sir," I said, thinking how brightly his spirit shone in comparison to Mr. Montague's. "Even if you had forbidden him, Edward would have found his way there somehow; it was none of your fault."

  "That is very kind of you, Miss Unwin."

  We stood for a little in silence, gazing at Edward's tombstone, upon which was inscribed "Gone into the world of light."

  " The worst thing," I said, not looking at him, "is knowing that he met his death in meeting me—the visitation, I mean; I never told him."

  "Do you think it would have made any difference if you had?" he asked, echoing Ada.

  "Perhaps not—but it might have. You said yourself, that if a young man of that exact description were to die, it w
ould prove that I was clairvoyant—"

  "Suggest rather than prove, Miss Unwin. But yes; I think you are brave enough to face the fact that you probably are."

  "No," I said passionately, "I am not—not brave enough, I mean. How can I live with anyone I care for—let alone love—after this? It is an evil thing, a vile, malignant affliction; I would cut off my hand to be rid of it—" And with that I burst out weeping.

  If he had tried to comfort me, I think I should have recoiled, but he did not; he stood quietly at my side, not moving or fidgeting, until I had recovered myself.

  "Miss Unwin," he said at last, "if you would allow me once more to try to mesmerise you, and thus, I hope, prevent any recurrence, I should be deeply honoured. I am staying, as it happens, at the Ship—this business of the estate, you know—and have no pressing commitments in London. I am entirely at your service."

  I thought again of his generosity to Edward, and of my own ingratitude in hiding from him that day and, after a brief hesitation, accepted. He said he would call tomorrow, bowed, and strode away, leaving me wondering whether he, too, had come to visit Edward's grave, and why he was staying in Chalford, when his solicitor—now, presumably, Mr. Montague's partner—was ten miles away in Aldeburgh.

  At two o'clock the following afternoon, Magnus Wraxford was again shown into the small sitting room at the front of the house. It was a raw, dismal day outside; I had slept badly, and spent the morning pacing about the house, trying to prepare myself for his arrival. Reassured by the knowledge that Ada—who now knew exactly why he was here—was reading in the dining room next door, I declared myself ready to begin at once. But my apprehension returned as he drew the curtains. I tried to concentrate upon the oscillating coin, to feel myself becoming sleepy, but fell prey to the illusion that Magnus Wraxford had transformed himself into a disembodied face with candle flames for eyes, and a severed hand floating above the table. I tried to imagine Ada's hand in mine, but knowing that she was on the other side of the wall somehow made this impossible. My eyes refused to close; I found myself attending to an odd, vibrating undertone in his voice, rather than to the words he was chanting. A chill draught touched my cheek. The candle flared and almost blew out, so that the bodiless features opposite seemed to writhe and convulse, the eyes blazing.