There was suppressed but general excitement throughout the hotel all the
next day.
Someone had caught sight of the Princess Zairoff, who had driven out
after luncheon in a low open carriage with three horses harnessed
abreast in Russian fashion, that went like the wind. Colonel Estcourt
was beside her, and curiosity was rife as to how he should have known
her, and whether accident only was responsible for the meeting of two
people, one of whom had come from Russia, and the other from India, to
this prosaic English nook, _for their health_.
Mrs Masterman sniffed ominously, as one who scents scandal and
impropriety in facts that do not adapt themselves to every-day rules of
life. A few other women, suffering from one or other of the fashionable
complaints in vogue at this season, agreed with her, that "it certainly
looked very odd." They did not specify the "it," but they were quite
convinced of the oddity. It did not occur to them to reflect that there
was not the slightest reason for any mystery on the part of the
Princess, she being perfectly free and untrammelled, or that Colonel
Estcourt had been singularly gloomy and depressed before Mrs
Jefferson's graphic description of the mysterious beauty attracted his
notice.
There is a certain class of people who always shake their heads, and
purse up their lips, at the mere suggestion of "chance," or "accident,"
having a fortunate or happy application. They do not apply the same
train of reasoning to the reverse side of the picture; the bias of their
nature is evidently suspicious. These are the minds that refuse to
credit those little misfortunes of picnic and pleasure parties, by which
young people lose themselves in mysterious ways, and get into wrong
boats and carriages, and generally contrive to upset the plans of their
elders, when these plans have been framed with a deeper regard for
rationality than for romance. Mrs Masterman belonged to this class,
which doubtless has its uses, though those uses are not plainly evident
on the surface of life; she spent the day in gloomy hints, and
mysterious shakes of the head, and insinuations that no good was ever
known to spring from a superabundance of feminine charms, which, in the
course of nature, must have an evil tendency, and be productive of
overweening vanity, extravagance, and even immorality.
Still, even evil prognostications cannot quell the fires of curiosity in
the female breast, and every woman in the hotel made her toilette with
special care on this eventful evening, as befitting one who owed it to
her sex to vindicate even the smallest personal attraction in the
presence of rivalry. Colonel Estcourt was not at dinner, so his
presence did not restrain comment and speculation, and the tongues did
quite as much work as the knives and forks.
"I do wonder what sort of gown she'll wear," sighed Mrs Ray Jefferson,
who was attired in a "creation" of the great French man-milliner,
accursed by husbands of fashionable wives, and whose power is only
another note in that ascending scale of absurdity struck by the hands of
fashion.
"Perhaps she won't come down in the drawing-room at all," said Mrs
Masterman spitefully, after listening for some time to the remarks
around her. "Colonel Estcourt did not specify any particular night."
"Oh, I'm sure she'll come," said Mrs Jefferson, whose nature was
specially happy in always assuring her of what she desired. "I've got
an impression that she will--they never fail me. You know I've a
singularly magnetic organisation. A great spiritualist in Boston once
told me I only needed developing to exhibit extraordinary powers. But I
hadn't the time or the patience to go in thoroughly for psychic
development. Besides it's really a very exacting pursuit."
"Exacting rubbish!" exclaimed Mrs Masterman impatiently; "I can't stand
all that bosh about higher powers, and developing magnetism. Of course
there are a set of people who'd believe anything that seemed to give
them a superior organisation; it's only another way of pandering to
human vanity. Spiritualism is perfect rubbish. I've seen and heard
enough of it to know. I once held a _seance_ at my house, just to
convince myself as to its being a trick or not, I was told that the
medium could materialise spirit forms. I, of course, asked some people
to meet him, and we selected a room and put him behind a screen as he
desired, and there we all sat in the dark, like so many fools, for about
half-an-hour.--"
"Well," interposed Mrs Jefferson eagerly, "and did you have any
manifestation?"
"Oh, yes," laughed the gouty sufferer grimly, "a very material one
indeed. By some accident the medium knocked down the screen just after
we'd seen a spirit face floating _above_ it. In the confusion some one
struck a light, and there was our medium--standing on the chair without
his coat, and wrapping some transparent India muslin about himself,
which had been dipped in phosphorus I believe, so that it gave out a
curious shimmering light in the dark. You may suppose I never went in
for materialistic _seances_ again."
"Still," said Mrs Jefferson, "although you may have been tricked, it
doesn't stand to reason that spiritualism _is_ trickery. I've come from
the very core and centre of it--so to speak. I've been at more
_seances_ than I could count, and I've seen tests applied that _prove_
the manifestations are genuine. Still there are heaps of professional
mediums who are not to be depended on, I grant. If you want to know the
truth of spiritualism, you can always work it out for yourself. That's
quite possible, only it's a deal of trouble."
"I don't believe in it," reiterated Mrs Masterman stubbornly. "All
mediums are cheats and humbugs."
"Oh!" said Mrs Jefferson. "If it comes to exceptions laying down the
rule, where are we? The other day a clergyman was taken before the
courts for drunkenness, but I suppose you're not going to say all
clergymen are drunkards. A doctor poisoned a patient by mistake, but
surely we're not to class our dear medical men as poisoners and
murderers on that account. It's just the same with any abnormal or
extraordinary facts that set up a new theory for investigation.
Impostors are sure to creep in, and the lazy and the indifferent and the
sceptical call their exposure `results.' Depend on it we don't half
investigate subjects now-a-days, and we suffer for it by giving place
and opportunity for the development of a certain class of beings who
prey on our credulity, and make profit out of our indolence and
superstition."
"There's something in spiritualism, you bet," drawled the nasal voice of
Mr Ray Jefferson. "I've had messages written to me, and things said
that no third person could possibly have known about."
"Ah, slate writing," sneered Mrs Masterman. "I've seen that too. Just
another trick."
"How do you explain that?" asked Mrs Jefferson quickly.
"Well, this way. I went to two or three different mediums so as to test
them all. I found they had no objections to bringing your own slates
and writing your own questions, but while they held the slate under the
table they kept you talking to distract your attention, and from time to
time they got convulsive jerks and movements by which it was quite
possible for them to see what was written. Then you heard a scratching
(the medium probably had a little bit of pencil in his finger-nail), and
your answer was given you. Well, let that pass for what it's worth, but
I always noticed the medium asked if I wouldn't like a message, and when
I said `yes,' he brought out _his own slate_."
"But," said Mrs Jefferson, "didn't he let you examine it first?"
"Oh yes, and wiped it over with a damp cloth. Then it was held under
the table, and in a few seconds covered with `spirit-writing.' But I
found out afterwards that you can buy slates with a _false cover_, this
cover fits within the frame and is exactly like the other side of the
slate, but, _your spirit-message is already written_, a touch makes the
cover drop off, the medium covers it with his foot in case you should
look under the table, out comes the slate, and there you are!"
"On," said Mrs Jefferson angrily, "it's plain you've only been to the
charlatans and impostors of spiritualism. Why, I've had a message
written in a _locked_ slate while I held the key and held the slate too.
What do you say to that?"
"I've only your word for it," said Mrs Masterman sarcastically. "My
slates were never locked."
"And I've only _your_ word for what you've told us," answered Mrs
Jefferson with rising wrath. "I suppose my evidence may be as
trustworthy."
"Well," interposed another voice, "my view of spiritualism is, that it's
an intensely humiliating idea after you've done with this world to be at
the beck and call of any other human being who can make you go through a
variety of tricks, as if you were a performing dog, in order to convince
people still in the body that there is another life. If that other life
permits us to come back here and play tambourines, and knock furniture
about, and write silly and ambiguous messages on slates, I don't--
myself--think it's a very desirable one."
This view of the question produced a blank silence. It proceeded from a
gentleman who was supposed to be a little "odd"--partly because he spoke
seldom, and then with a startling originality, on any subject of
discussion.
Mr and Mrs Ray Jefferson looked at one another, somewhat dismayed.
Mrs Masterman smiled triumphantly, the young poet murmured something
vague about the inestimable beauty of sublime "mysteries," but the
subject was temporarily extinguished. The only side hitherto considered
had been the `phenomenal,' and people--once the idea was originated--
felt really inclined to think that after all, when they quitted the
earth plane, it would not be a very elevating prospect to find
themselves dragged back to give _seances_ and perform tricks like a
French poodle in order to convince their friends and relatives that they
were _still in existence_!
The conversation only went on in subdued murmurs, and presently there
was a feminine move towards the drawing-room.
Once there the great subject as to whether Madame Zairoff would or would
not appear that evening, was again freely discussed. That it was an
equally interesting probability to the sterner sex was soon made evident
by the unusual alacrity with which they joined the circle. They broke
up into groups and knots, scattered through the length of the handsome,
brilliantly lighted room, but a curious restlessness was apparent; no
one settled down to cards or music. Even the "odd" individual moved
about and dropped cynical remarks along the route of his progress,
instead of sitting down to backgammon as was his wont. A few other
misguided individuals, of the male sex, offered and accepted bets _sotto
voce_ on the chances of the Unknown appearing.
At last, when expectation had been strained almost to breaking point, it
was set at rest. The doors were thrown open, and, lightly leaning on
Colonel Estcourt's arm, appeared Mrs Jefferson's much talked of, and
beautiful "Mystery."