The Seance

  "These are, as I say, mere theories, but there will certainly never be a better opportunity to test them. Tomorrow night we will seek to summon a spirit; but if that should fail, I am willing to try a bolder experiment. I shall instruct Bolton to operate the influence machine at full power, and occupy the armour myself"

  "But my dear Magnus," said Mrs. Bryant, forgetting her discretion, "that is surely too great a risk."

  "I confess," said Magnus, "that it would take a good deal more courage to try it during a storm. But that is how science advances. And if we succeed—if there is genuinely something in this business of the portal—then your dream will become a reality .... You may not have heard, my dear"—turning to me with his most charming smile, whilst Mrs. Bryant looked on in triumph—"that Mrs. Bryant wishes to endow a retreat for spiritualists: a place where conditions are peculiarly favourable, sheltered from the hustle and bustle of daily life..."

  I looked from one to the other of them in disbelief.

  "It is a magnificent house, Mrs. Wraxford," said Godwin Rhys, "sadly in need of refurbishment, of course, but it could be the pride of the county. And such a picturesque history—the disappearance of two owners only adds to its cachet—"

  "Evidently, Dr. Rhys," I heard myself saying, "my husband has not told you that my late fiancé, Mr. Edward Ravenscroft, died here two years ago, or you would not speak so lightly of this accursed place. I will attend your séance, Magnus, because you command it, but I will not dine with you. And now you must excuse me."

  I had forgotten the threat of the asylum, forgotten, for a moment, even Clara. Dr. Rhys's mouth opened, but no sound came out; Mrs. Bryant regarded me with apprehension. I glanced toward Magnus as I turned away, but instead of fury I saw only triumph. The after-image of his smile accompanied me to the door.

  Ten o'clock has just struck; my hand still trembles as I write. Clara has not stirred; she scarcely breathes. It was wicked of me to give her laudanum, but what else could I have done?

  Once again I fear my temper has betrayed me into doing exactly as Magnus intended. I half-expected a summons to the dining room, but Carrie came up with a tray at about quarter to nine, which only confirmed my suspicion. He was goading me, and I did not see it—just as Mrs. Bryant and Dr. Rhys do not see that he plays upon them like puppets. But what does he intend? Why, after making so much of my "gift," did he not so much as mention it tonight? And if the séance is to be a fraud, why does he want me here? The others are entirely under his spell, and he must know that if his scheme miscarried, I would be the first to expose him. It makes no sense.

  But if Magnus truly believes in this monstrous business with the armour, then that must mean

  10.15 P.M.

  Someone has slipped a message under my door. Within the last few minutes; it was certainly not there when I went to look at Clara. A plain sheet of paper, folded once, no address or signature. The hand is feminine—it could almost be my own.

  Come to the gallery at midnight—I have found out the secret, and must speak with you privately. Destroy this, and tell no one.

  Who can it be? Surely not Mrs. Bryant. Even if she had made some appalling discovery about Magnus, I am the last person she would turn to. One of the servants? I cannot think so. None of them would dare—or want—to offend Magnus. It could be Dr. Rhys—but he would surely go to Mrs. Bryant, not to me.

  Could somebody be hiding in the house? The footsteps I thought I heard the other night ... but who, and why?

  Or else it is a trap.

  But if someone truly wishes to help me ... I could go early, and hide behind one of the hangings—but then I would have no way of escape. No; I shall go to the library, and open one of the connecting doors a fraction, and watch from there. The moon has risen; I shall not need a light. And if I am caught, I can say that I have come in search of something to read.

  I must take the chance.

  Part Five

  John Montague's Narrative

  If Magnus and I had not met George Woodward that morning in Aldeburgh, I might never have met Eleanor Unwin; nor, perhaps, would Magnus, and she might now be happily married to Edward Ravenscroft. I would certainly never have seen her as I did that first evening at the rectory: a girl in a plain white gown with a mass of dark brown hair pinned up, framed against the setting sun, transporting me back to Orchard House and my first glimpse of Phoebe standing beside her mother on a summer's evening.

  It is, of course, impossible, but I would swear I stood motionless for several minutes, caught in a kind of double vision in which I knew dimly where I was, and yet had only to cross the floor to begin my life with Phoebe over again. The vision faded as Magnus and I came forward, and I saw that Eleanor Unwin was markedly taller than Phoebe had been, and that her features were sparer, the bones more prominent, her hair a darker shade of brown. As her bare fingers touched mine, I felt a small, sharp shock, as when you cross a carpet in stockinged feet and recoil from the first thing you touch. She did not appear to notice; I realised that I was staring at her as if I had indeed seen a ghost; and then I heard her say that she was engaged.

  It is true that I envied Edward Ravenscroft; I told myself at the time that he was a coxcomb, that his work was flashy and superficial, that he could not possibly deserve her. I saw Nell—as I always thought of her, once I realised that everyone who loved her called her by that name—only one more time before she married Magnus; a brief, painful interview in which her dislike of me was abundantly clear.

  I decided to go abroad, and apply myself once more to painting. I sold Wraxford Hall by Moonlight to Magnus, as he had several times requested; had I known at the time that he intended to marry her, I should never have agreed to it. But the attempt at exorcism proved vain, for I soon discovered, as I passed from one magnificent spectacle to the next, that I had lost all interest in landscape, and could only say, with Coleridge,

  I see them all so excellently fair,

  I see, not feel, how beautiful they are!

  The only subject that called to me was Nell herself; instead of forgetting her, as I had hoped, I found myself recalling the smallest nuance of her expression, the subtle turn at the corners of her mouth, the slight asymmetry of her face, the movement of her hands, the faint strands of hair escaping from her chignon. I tried endlessly to sketch her face from memory, and though none of my efforts ever satisfied me, I could not bear to burn or discard her image, and kept every one until I had filled an entire case.

  I returned to Aldeburgh a year later, knowing of course that she was now married—I assumed happily—to Magnus. The business of Cornelius Wraxford's estate was still unresolved; I should have left the trust in my partner's hands, but could not bear to relinquish my last link to Nell—not that there was anything to link us. Magnus's letters were always cordial in tone, but said nothing of Nell beyond formal compliments, and guilt at my feeling forbade me to ask. In February of 1868 he mentioned that "Mrs. Wraxford had given birth to a daughter"; I was struck even then by the remoteness of the phrasing. I sent my warmest compliments and pressed him for details, but nothing further followed. The Wraxford estate passed into Magnus's hands in August; early in September, he called at the office to collect the keys, as genial as ever but in a great hurry to get on; I heard that he and his man were staying there. I expected a visit or an invitation, but none came, until I received a note:

  My dear Montague,

  I am very sorry to have neglected you. You may recall that evening in Chalford, when I outlined a psychical experiment; I am pleased to say that it will proceed next Saturday evening, and would be delighted if you could attend as an impartial witness. Mrs. Wraxford will be staying at the Hall this week; business keeps me in town until Friday.

  I remain, very sincerely yours,

  Magnus Wraxford

  I knew it would be most unwise, but the thought of seeing Nell again—even if she sent me away on the instant—overpowered me. Though I had lately acquired a pony and trap, I did not drive all t
he way to the Hall, but tethered my horse on the edge of Monks' Wood and continued on foot. It was a perfect autumn day, warm and cool by turns, but I scarcely noticed, moving through the forest at a jog until the perspiration was dripping off my forehead.

  I had expected, at the very least, to see the timbers repainted, but the only visible change was that the long grass and weeds around the house had been scythed, and only recently, for the remnant was raw and ragged, bristling with the dead stalks of thistles and nettles. Bathed in afternoon sunshine, the Hall appeared, for once, more picturesque than menacing.

  I saw at once that Nell had changed. Her face was thinner, the shadows beneath her eyes were darker; yet none of my thousand sketches had done her justice. I halted a few paces off.

  "Mrs. Wraxford," I said, "I—er—heard you were already in residence, and thought I should pay my respects."

  "That is very kind of you, sir. I take it my husband has asked you to call?"

  "Well, no," I replied uncomfortably. "He has invited me, as you know, to witness the—er—experiment on Saturday night—but—he mentioned you were here, and so..." I trailed off, regarding her with helpless appeal. She was wearing a plain gown of creamy-grey stuff, her dark hair plaited and wound about her head as I remembered. Though the day outside was mild, the air of the great hall was deathly cold as always, laden with musty smells of damp horsehair and decaying fabric. She glanced toward Bolton hovering in the gloom nearby, and suggested we take a turn about the grounds.

  "I am very sorry," I said as the front door closed behind us. "I called upon impulse, but if I am inconveniencing you..."

  "No," she said. "I was only a little surprised. My husband did not, in fact, mention that you would be joining us; I did not even know that his experiment was planned for Saturday."

  "I see ... I did not realise..."

  "There is a seat on the other side of the house, beneath my window. I shall be able to hear Clara—my daughter—if she cries."

  I realised as we set off along the weed-strewn path that we would pass the place where Edward Ravenscroft fell. My footsteps crunched loudly on the gravel.

  "Magnus told me—that you had had a child. I should have written to congratulate you, but I did not ... I was not..." Again I trailed off, glancing toward the encircling trees.

  "This is a desolate place .... You said you needed to be near your child—does she not have a nurse?"

  "No—my maid was obliged to leave me, just before we came here. I am caring for Clara myself—by my own choice, because I will not trust her to a stranger," she added, seeing my startled expression. "And yes, it is a desolate place—it took the life of the man I loved most in the world."

  We had turned the corner of the house as she was speaking. I saw the black cable, the rusty stain like blood running down the wall behind it.

  "I know," I said abruptly, "that you think I disliked Edward Ravenscroft. The truth is, to my shame, I envied him—his youth, his exuberance, his talent, and above all ... enough to say that if the loss of my own life would restore him to you, it is a sacrifice I should gladly make."

  My voice broke at the last phrase, and tears sprang to my eyes. She took my arm and led me across the ragged grass to the bench—a mere slab of moss-encrusted stone.

  " That is a very generous sentiment, Mr. Montague," she said when I had recovered my composure, "and I am glad to know that you did not—look down upon Edward, as I had assumed."

  "On the contrary; envy springs from looking up, not down .... Forgive me, but—you intimated that you are not here by choice."

  " This is the last place on earth I should ever want to visit, Mr. Montague. But Magnus wishes it, and I must obey him. May I ask, in turn, what he has told you about his experiment, as he calls it?"

  "Only a note saying he looks forward to renewing our acquaintance on Saturday, when he intends to try the experiment he outlined that night—the night I first saw you, at the rectory."

  "Did he say anything of my part in it?"

  "Nothing at all—only that Mrs. Wraxford sent her compliments. He did not even say whether you would be present."

  "And did he mention Mrs. Bryant?"

  "Again, no—only that there would be company. But—the maid told me that Magnus would not be arriving until tomorrow afternoon. May I ask why you are here alone with your child?"

  "Magnus wished me to come down earlier—to give me time to settle in, since I would not be parted from Clara."

  "I see. And—er—who is Mrs. Bryant?"

  "A wealthy widow—a spiritualist. Magnus calls her his patron."

  I glanced at her questioningly, then looked hastily away again.

  "I know nothing of their relations, Mr. Montague. Tell me—have you and Magnus remained close friends?"

  "Not as we were—as I thought we were. Since—since your marriage, I have seen him only twice—did he not mention it? I have always asked to be remembered to you—about the business of the estate. He is as cordial as ever, but there is a distance—a reluctance, in particular, to speak of you." I had been gazing toward the wreck of the old chapel, half-buried beneath a canopy of nettles, but now turned directly to face her.

  "May I ask," I said, "though I have no right to, why you decided to marry Magnus?"

  "Out of fear, Mr. Montague—or so it seems now. Will you give me your word of honour, never to speak of this?"

  "My life upon it."

  "The friend I spoke of—that night at the rectory—was myself. I had a vision—saw an apparition—which foretold Edward's death, though not where or when or how he would die; it was before I even met him. And after—Magnus said he could rid me of the visitations, as I called them—he tried to mesmerise me, but could not, at first. He warned me that if the visitations returned, I might be confined to an asylum, as my mother had already threatened to do, unless I married someone sympathetic, who could protect me—meaning himself. Our marriage was a mistake—for both of us, though Magnus has never admitted as much. He pretends that nothing is wrong, but I fear he hates me—and I must do what he wishes, for Clara's sake...."

  The words came tumbling out, and her tears with them. I became aware that I had taken her hand in both of mine; with a great effort, she regained control of herself, and gently disengaged my fingers.

  "Nell"—I said her name without meaning to—"if I had only known ... Does he mistreat you?"

  "No," she said, "he leaves me entirely to myself. This is the first thing he has asked of me since—the first thing he has asked. He believes, you see, that I have some power of clairvoyance—"

  "And do you believe it?"

  "I do not want to; I strive not to. The visitations are a curse, an affliction; it was my longing to be rid of them that betrayed me into marrying him, and that is why I am here. He says the séance—that is what he intends—requires only my presence; I do not know whether to believe him."

  "But to compel you, against your will—and to bring an infant child here, of all places—"

  "I cannot blame him for that; he wanted me to leave Clara in London, and I refused. You may think it selfish and wrong of me, but Magnus does not care for her—he wanted a son—and if I defy him, he will have me confined. Mrs. Bryant's physician is under his spell, and would sign the certificate, I am sure of it—"

  "But you do not behave like a madwoman. Do you still suffer from this—affliction?"

  She shook her head mutely.

  "Then he has no ground—and besides a physician ought not, and in law should not, seek to certify his own wife. Has he threatened to confine you?"

  "Not in as many words, no—only by insinuation."

  "Forgive me, but are you quite certain, in that case—?"

  "No, Mr. Montague, I am not. That is the curse of my situation. Magnus is utterly opaque to me; I do not know what he really thinks, or feels, or believes. But it makes no difference. I cannot risk defying him, for Clara's sake. And he has said—or at least implied—that if the séance is a success, he may agr
ee to a separation."

  "And if it is not a success?"

  "He has not said, and I have not dared ask."

  I remained silent for a little while, staring at the gravel around my feet.

  "If there is anything I can do—" I said.

  "There is one thing," she said. "I have a journal; an account of my life until my marriage. I brought it with me, not knowing what else to do, but I should rather it was in safe keeping. Would you take it for me, and promise to keep it, and never show it to anyone, unless you hear from me?"

  "Upon my life," I said.

  "Then I shall fetch it—no, stay here—I shall be only a few minutes."

  She walked swiftly away, glancing around the empty clearing as she went, whilst I sat wishing to God I had confessed my jealousy of Edward that wintry afternoon at the rectory. Was it possible, if she and Magnus were to separate ...? I found that I, too, was scanning the clearing, and especially the tumbledown row of outbuildings away to my right. Something had attracted my attention; something dark, moving in the shadow of the old stables. I felt suddenly conspicuous, an intruder upon Magnus's domain.

  A door creaked behind me, and Nell reappeared with a packet in her hand. As I took it from her, a sudden current of sympathy flowed between us; her face lifted toward mine, and our lips brushed before she whispered, "You must go." I looked back once, as I walked away across the ragged grass, in time to see the door close behind her.

  I returned to Aldeburgh consumed by the wildest imaginings, all my senses inflamed by that intoxicating moment. The next day dragged by in an agony of hope and fear; I thought of Magnus arriving, and tormented myself with wondering how far "he leaves me entirely to myself" might be construed. I had more or less forgotten that I was going to attend a séance, and thought only of seeing Nell again. At midday on Saturday, unable to bear the confines of my house, I walked down to the Cross Keys Inn and there heard the news which was already the talk of the district. Mrs. Bryant was dead, and Nell and her child had vanished during the night.