Weave a circle round him thrice....
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.--_Kubla Khan_.
Bradley’s first impulse, on quitting Boulogne, was to hasten at once
on to Italy, seek out Alma, and tell her all that had occurred; but
that impulse was no sooner felt than it was conquered. The man had a
quickening conscience left, and he could not have stood just then before
the woman he loved without the bitterest pain and humiliation. No, he
would write to her, he would break the news gently by letter, not by
word of mouth; and afterwards, perhaps, when his sense of spiritual
agony had somewhat worn away, he would go to her and throw himself upon
her tender mercy. So instead of flying on to Italy he returned by the
mail to London, and thence wrote at length to Alma, giving her full
details of his wife’s death.
By this time the man was so broken in spirit and so changed in body,
that even his worst enemies might have pitied him. The trouble of the
last few months had stript him of all his intellectual pride, and left
him supremely sad.
But now, as ever, the mind of the man, though its light was clouded,
turned in the direction of celestial or supermundane things. Readers who
are differently constituted, and who regard such speculations as trivial
or irrelevant, will doubtless have some difficulty in comprehending an
individual who, through all vicissitudes of moral experience, invariably
returned to the one set purpose of spiritual inquiry. To him one thing
was paramount, even over all his own sorrows--the solution of the great
problem of human life and immortality. This was his haunting idea, his
monomania, so to speak. Just as a physiologist would examine his
own blood under the microscope, just as a scientific inquirer would
sacrifice his own life and happiness for the verification of a theory,
so would Bradley ask himself, even when on the rack of moral torment,
How far does this suffering help me to a solution of the mystery of
life?
True, for a time he had been indifferent, even callous, drifting, on the
vague current of agnosticism, he knew not whither; but that did not
last for long: the very constitution of Bradley saved him from that
indifferentness which is the chronic disease of so many modern men.
Infinitely tender of heart, he had been moved to the depths by his
recent experience; he had felt, as all of us at some time feel, the
sanctifying and purifying power of Death. A mean man would have exulted
in the new freedom Death had brought; Bradley, on the other hand, stood
stupefied and aghast at his own liberation. On a point of conscience
he could have fought with, and perhaps conquered, all the prejudices
of society; but when his very conscience turned against him he was
paralysed with doubt, wonder, and despair.
He returned to London, and there awaited Alma’s answer. One day, urged
by a sudden impulse, he bent his steps towards the mysterious house in
Bayswater, and found Eustasia Mapleleafe sitting alone. Never had the
little lady looked so strange and _spirituelle._ Her elfin-like face
looked pale and worn, and her great wistful eyes were surrounded with
dark melancholy rings. But she looked up as he entered, with her old
smile.
‘I knew you would come,’ she cried. ‘I was thinking of you, and I felt
the celestial agencies were going to bring us together. And I’m real
glad to see you before we go away.’
‘You are leaving London?’ asked Bradley, as he seated himself close to
her.
‘Yes. Salem talks of going back home before winter sets in and the fogs
begin. I don’t seem able to breathe right in this air. If I stopped here
long, I think I should die.’
As she spoke, she passed her thin transparent hand across her forehead,
with a curious gesture of pain. As Bradley looked at her steadfastly she
averted his gaze, and a faint hectic flush came into her cheeks.
‘Guess you think it don’t matter much,’ she continued with the sharp
nervous laugh peculiar to her, ‘whether I live or die. Well, Mr.
Bradley, I suppose you’re right, and I’m sure I don’t care much how soon
I go.’
‘You are very young to talk like that,’ said Bradley gently; ‘but
perhaps I misunderstand you, and you mean that you would gladly exchange
this life for freer activity and larger happiness in another?’
Eustasia laughed again, but this time she looked full into her
questioner’s eyes.
‘I don’t know about that,’ she replied. ‘What I mean is that I am
downright tired, and should just like a good long spell of sleep.’ ‘But
surely, if your belief is true, you look for something more than that?’
‘I don’t think I do. You mean I want to join the spirits, and go
wandering about from one planet to another, or coming down to earth and
making people uncomfortable? That seems a _stupid_ sort of life, doesn’t
it?--about as stupid as this one? I’d rather tuck my head under my wing,
like a little bird, and go to sleep for ever!’
Bradley opened his eyes, amazed and a little disconcerted by the lady’s
candour. Before he could make any reply she continued, in a low voice:
‘You see, I’ve got no one in the world to care for me, except Salem,
my brother. He’s good to me, he is, but that doesn’t make up for
everything. I don’t feel like a girl, but like an old woman. I’d rather
be one of those foolish creatures you meet everywhere, who think of
nothing but millinery and flirtation, than what I am. That’s all the
good the spirits have done me, to spoil my good looks and make me old
before my time. I hate them sometimes; I hate myself for listening to
them, and I say what I said before--that if I’m to live on as _they_ do,
and go on in the same curious way, I’d sooner die!’
‘I wish you would be quite honest with me,’ said Bradley, after a brief
pause. ‘I see you are ill, and I am sure you are unhappy. Suppose much
of your illness, and all your unhappiness, came from your acquiescence
in a scheme of folly and self-deception? You already know my opinion on
these matters to which you allude. If I may speak quite frankly, I
have always suspected you and your brother--but your brother more than
you--of a conspiracy to deceive the public; and if I were not otherwise
interested in you, if I did not feel for you the utmost sympathy and
compassion, I should pass the matter by without a word. As it is, I
would give a great deal if I could penetrate into the true motives of
your conduct, and ascertain how far you are self-deluded.’
‘It’s no use,’ answered Eustasia, shaking her head sadly. ‘I can’t
explain it all even to myself; impossible to explain to you.’
‘But do you seriously and verily believe in the truth of these so-called
spiritual manifestations?’
‘Guess I do,’ returned the lady, with a decided nod.
‘You believe in them, even while you admit their stupidity, their
absurdity?’
‘If you ask me, I think life is a foolish business altogether. That’s
why I’d like to be done with it!’
‘But surely if spiritualism were an accepted fact, it would offer a
solution of all the mysterious phenomena of human existence? It would
demonstrate, at all events, that our experience does not cease with the
body, which limits its area so much.’
Eustasia sighed wearily, and folding her thin hands on her knee, looked
wearily at the fire, which flickered faintly in the grate. With all her
candour of speech, she still presented to her interlocutor an expression
of mysterious evasiveness. Nor was there any depth in her complaining
sorrow. It seemed rather petulant and shallow than really solemn and
profound.
‘I wish you wouldn’t talk about it,’ she said. ‘Talk to me about
yourself, Mr. Bradley. You’ve been in trouble, I know; _they_ told me.
I’ve liked you ever since I first saw you, and I wish I could give you
some help.’
Had Bradley been a different kind of man, he would scarcely have
misunderstood the look she gave him then, full as it was of passionate
admiration which she took no care to veil. Bending towards him, and
looking into his eyes, she placed her hand on his; and the warm touch
of the tremulous fingers went through him with a curious thrill. Nor did
she withdraw the hand as she continued:
‘I’ve only seen one man in the world like _you_. He’s dead, he is. But
you’re his image. I told Salem so the day I first saw you. Some folks
say that souls pass from one body into another, and I almost believe it
when I think of him and look at _you_.’
As she spoke, with tears in her eyes and a higher flush on her cheek,
there was a footstep in the room, and looking up she saw her brother,
who had entered unperceived. His appearance was fortunate, as it perhaps
saved her from some further indiscretions. Bradley, who had been too
absorbed in the thoughts awakened by her first question to notice the
peculiarity of her manner, held out his hand to the new-comer.
‘Glad to see you again,’ said the Professor. ‘I suppose Eustasia has
told you that we’re going back to the States? I calculate we haven’t
done much good by sailing over. The people of England are a whole age
behind the Americans, and won’t be ripe for our teaching till many a
year has passed.’
‘When do you leave London?’
‘In eight days. We’re going to take passage in the “Maria,” which sails
to-morrow week.’
‘Then you will give no more _séances?_ I am sorry, for I should have
liked to come again.’
Eustasia started, and looked eagerly at her brother.
‘Will you come _to-night?_’ she asked suddenly.
‘To-night!’ echoed Bradley. ‘Is a _séance_ to be held?’
‘No, no,’ interrupted Mapleleafe. ‘But yes,’ added Eustasia. ‘We shall
be alone, but that will be all the better. I should not like to leave
England without convincing Mr. Bradley that there is something in your
solar biology after all.’
‘You’ll waste your time, Eustasia,’ remarked the Professor drily. ‘You
know what the poet says?
A man convinced against his will
Is of the same opinion still.
And I guess you’ll never convert Mr. Bradley.’
‘I’ll try, at any rate,’ returned Eustasia, smiling; then turning to
the clergyman with an eager wistful look, she added, ‘You’ll come, won’t
you? To-night at seven.’
Bradley promised, and immediately afterwards took his leave. He had not
exaggerated in expressing his regret at the departure of the curious
pair; for since his strange experience at Boulogne he was intellectually
unstrung, and eager to receive spiritual impressions, even from
a quarter which he distrusted. He unconsciously felt, too, the
indescribable fascination which Eustasia, more than most women, knew how
to exert on highly organised persons of the opposite sex.
Left alone, the brother and sister looked at each other for some moments
in silence; then the Professor exclaimed half angrily:
‘You’ll kill yourself, Eustasia, that’s what _you’ll_ do! I’ve foreseen
it all along, just as I foresaw it when you first met Ulysses S.
Stedman. You’re clean gone on this man, and if I wasn’t ready to protect
you, Lord knows you’d make a fool of yourself again.’
Eustasia looked up in his face and laughed. It was curious to note her
change of look and manner; her face was still pale and elfin-like, but
her eyes were full of malicious light.
‘Never mind, Salem,’ she replied. ‘You just leave Mr. Bradley to me.’
‘He’s not worth spooning over, said Mapleleafe indignantly; ‘and let me
tell you, Eustasia, you’re not strong enough to go on like this. Think
of your state of health! Doctor Quin says you’ll break up if you don’t
take care!’
He paused, and looked at her in consternation. She was lying back in
the sofa with her thin arms joined behind her head, and ‘crooning’ to
herself, as was her frequent habit.
This time the words and tune were from a familiar play, which she had
seen represented at San Francisco.
Black spirits and white,
Blue spirits and grey,
Mingle, mingle, mingle,
You that mingle may!
‘I do believe you’re downright _mad!_’ exclaimed the little Professor.
‘Tell me the truth, Eustasia--do you love this man Bradley?’
Eustasia ceased singing, but remained in the same attitude.
‘I loved him who is dead,’ she replied, ‘and I love Mr. Bradley because
he is so like the other. If you give me time I will win him over; I will
make him love me.’
‘What nonsense you’re talking!’
‘Nonsense? It’s the truth!’ cried Eustasia, springing up and facing her
brother. ‘Why should I not love him? Why should he not love me? Am I to
spend all my life like a slave, with no one to care for me, no one to
give me a kind word? I won’t do it. I want to be free. I’m tired of
sitting at home all day alone, and playing the sibyl to the fools you
bring here at night. Lord knows I haven’t long to live; before I die I
want to draw in one good long breath of love and joy! Perhaps it will
kill me as you say--so much the better--I should like to die like that!’
‘Eustasia, will you listen to reason?’ exclaimed the distracted
Professor. ‘You’re following a will-o’-the-wisp, that’s what you are!
This man don’t care about any woman in the world but one, and you’re
wasting your precious time.’
‘I know my power, and you know it too, Salem. I’m going to bring him to
my feet.’
‘How, Eustasia?’
‘Wait, and you will see!’ answered the girl, with her low, nervous
laugh.
‘Think better of it!’ persisted her brother.
‘You promised me, after Ulysses S. Stedman died, to devote all your
life, strength, and thought to the beautiful cause of scientific
spiritualism. Nature has made you a living miracle, Eustasia! I
do admire to see one so gifted throwing herself away, just like a
schoolgirl, on the first good-looking man she meets!’
‘I hate spiritualism,’ was the reply. ‘What has it done for me? Broken
my heart, Salem, and wasted my life. I’ve dwelt too long with ghosts; I
want to feel my life as other women do. And I tell you I _will!_’
‘The poor Professor shook his head dubiously, but saw that there was no
more to be said--at any rate just then.
*****
At seven o’clock that evening Bradley returned to the house in
Bayswater, and found the brother and sister waiting for him.
Eustasia wore a loose-fitting robe of black velvet, cut low round the
bust, and without sleeves. Her neck and arms were beautifully though
delicately moulded, white and glistening as satin, and the small
serpent-like head, with its wonderfully brilliant eyes, was surmounted
by a circlet of pearls.
Bradley looked at her in surprise. Never before had she seemed so
weirdly pretty.
The Professor, on the other hand, despite his gnome-like brow, appeared
unusually ignoble and commonplace. He was ill at ease, too, and cast
distrustful glances from time to time at his sister, whose manner was
as brilliant as her appearance, and who seemed to have cast aside the
depression which she had shown during the early part of the day.
After some little desultory conversation, Bradley expressed his
impatience for the _séance_ to begin. The landlady of the house, herself
(as the reader is aware) an adept, was therefore summoned to give
the party, and due preparations made by drawing the window-blinds and
extinguishing the gas. Before the lights were quite put out, however,
the Professor addressed his sister.
‘Eustasia, you’re not well! Say the word, and I’m sure Mr. Bradley will
excuse you for to-night.’
The appeal was in vain, Eustasia persisting. The _séance_ began. The
Professor and Mrs. Piozzi Smith were _vis-à-vis_, while Eustasia, her
back towards the folding-doors communicating to the inner chamber, sat
opposite to Bradley.
The clergyman was far less master of himself than on the former
occasions. No sooner did he find himself in total darkness than his
heart began to beat with great muffled throbs, and nervous thrills ran
through his frame. Before there was the slightest intimation of any
supernatural presence, he seemed to see before him the dead face of his
wife, white and awful as he had beheld it in that darkened chamber at
Boulogne. Then the usual manifestations began; bells were rung, faint
lights flashed hither and thither, the table round which they were
seated rose in the air, mysterious hands were passed over Bradley’s
face. He tried to retain his self-possession, but found it impossible; a
sickening sense of horror and fearful anticipation overmastered him, so
that the clammy sweat stood upon his brow, and his body trembled like a
reed.
Presently the voice of the little Professor was heard saying:
‘Who is present? Will any of our dear friends make themselves known?’
There was a momentary pause. Then an answer came in the voice of
Eustasia, but deeper and less clear.
‘I am here.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Laura, a spirit of the winged planet Jupiter. I speak through the
bodily mouth of our dear sister, who is far away, walking with my
brethren by the lake of golden fire.’
‘Are you alone?’
‘N! others are present--I see them passing to and fro. One is bright and
beautiful. Her face is glorious, but she wears a raiment like a shroud.’
‘What does that betoken?’
‘It betokens that she has only just died.’
A shiver ran through Bradley’s frame. Could the dead indeed be present?
and if so, what dead? His thoughts flew back once more to that miserable
death-chamber by the sea. The next moment something like a cold hand
touched him, and alow voice murmured in his ear:
‘Ambrose! are you listening? It is I!’
‘Who speaks?’ he murmured under breath. ‘Alma! Do you know me?’
Was it possible? Doubtless lbs phantasy deceived him, but he seemed once
more to hear the very tones of her he loved.
‘Do not move!’ continued the voice. ‘Perhaps this is a last meeting for
a long time, for I am called away. It is your Alma’s spirit that speaks
to you; her body lies dead at Rome.’
A wild cry burst from Bradley’s lips, and he sank back in his chair,
paralysed and overpowered.
‘It is a cheat!’ he gasped. ‘It is no spirit that is speaking to me, but
a living woman.’
And he clutched in the direction of the voice, but touched only the
empty air.
‘If you break the conditions, I must depart!’ cried the voice faintly,
as if from a distant part of the room.
‘Shall I break up the _séance?_’ asked the Professor.
‘No!’ cried Bradley, again joining his hands with those of his
neighbours to complete the circle. ‘Go on! go on!’
‘Are our dear friends still present?’ demanded the Professor.
‘I am here,’ returned the voice of Eustasia. ‘I see the spirit of a
woman, weeping and wringing her hands; it is she that wears the shroud.
She speaks to me. She tells us that her earthly name was a word which
signifies holy.’
‘In God’s name,’ cried Bradley, ‘what does it mean? She of whom you
speak is not dead?--no, no!’
Again he felt the touch of a clammy hand, and again he heard the
mysterious voice.
‘Death is nothing; it is only a mystery--a change. The body is nothing;
the spirit is all-present and all-powerful. Keep quiet; and I will try
to materialise myself even more.’
He sat still in shivering expectation; then he felt a touch like breath
upon his forehead, and two lips, warm with life, were pressed close to
his, while at the same moment he felt what seemed a human bosom heaving
against his own. If this phenomenon was supernatural, it was certainly
very real; for the effect was of warm and living flesh. Certain now that
he was being imposed upon, Bradley determined to make certain by seizing
the substance of the apparition. He had scarcely, however, withdrawn his
arms from the circle, when the phenomenon ceased; there was a loud cry
from the others present; and on the gas being lit, Eustasia and the rest
were seen sitting quietly in their chairs, the former just recovering
from a state of trance.
‘I warned you, Eustasia,’ cried the Professor indignantly. ‘I knew
Mr. Bradley was not a fair inquirer, and would be certain to break the
conditions.’
‘It is an outrage,’ echoed the lady of the house. ‘The heavenly
intelligences will never forgive us.’
Without heeding these remonstrances, Bradley, deathly pale, was
gazing intently at Eustasia. She met his gaze quietly enough, but her
heightened colour and sparkling eyes betokened that she was labouring
under great excitement.
‘It is infamous!’ he cried. ‘I am certain _now_ that this is a vile
conspiracy.’
‘Take care, sir, take care!’ exclaimed the
Professor. ‘There’s law in the land, and----’
‘Hush, Salem!’ said Eustasia gently. ‘Mr. Bradley does not mean what he
says. He is too honourable to make charges which he cannot substantiate,
even against a helpless girl. He is agitated by what he has seen
tonight, but he will do us justice when he has thought it over.’
Without replying, Bradley took up his hat and moved to the door; but,
turning suddenly, he again addressed the medium:
‘I cannot guess by what means you have obtained your knowledge of my
private life, but you are trading upon it to destroy the happiness of
a fellow-creature. God forgive you! Your own self-reproach and
self-contempt will avenge me; I cannot wish you any sorer punishment
than the infamy and degradation of the life you lead.’
With these words he would have departed, but, swift as lightning,
Eustasia flitted across the room and blocked his way.
‘Don’t go yet!’ she cried. ‘Of what do you accuse me? Why do you blame
me for what the spirits have done?’
‘The spirits!’ he repeated bitterly. ‘I’m not a child, to be so easily
befooled. In one sense, indeed, you have conjured up devils, who some
day or another will compass your own destruction.’
‘That’s true enough--they _may_ be devils,’ said Eustasia. ‘Salem
knows--we all know--that we can’t prevent the powers of evil from
controlling the powers of good, and coming in their places. Guess some
of them have been at work to-night. Mr. Bradley, perhaps it’s our last
meeting on earth. Won’t you shake hands?’ As she spoke her wild eyes
were full of tears, which streamed down her face. Acting under a sudden
impulse, Bradley took her outstretched hand, held it firmly, and looked
her in the face.
‘Confess the cheat, and I will freely forgive you. It was _you_
personated one who is dear to me, and whom you pretended to be a spirit
risen from the grave.’
‘Don’t answer him, Eustasia!’ exclaimed the Professor. ‘He ought to know
that’s impossible, for you never left your seat.’
‘Certainly not,’ said Mrs. Piozzi Smith.
But Bradley, not heeding the interruption, still watched the girl and
grasped her passive hand.
‘Answer me! Tell me the truth!’
‘How can I tell you?’ answered Eustasia. ‘I was tranced, and my spirit
was far away. I don’t even know what happened.’
With a contemptuous gesture, Bradley released her, and walked from the
room. All his soul revolted at the recent experience; yet mingled with
his angry scepticism was a certain vague sense of dread. If, after all,
he had not been deceived, and something had happened to Alma; if, as the
_séance_ seemed to suggest, she was no longer living! The very thought
almost turned his brain. Dazed and terrified, he made his way down the
dark passage and left the house.
No sooner had he gone than Eustasia uttered a low cry, threw her arms
into the air, and sank swooning upon the floor.
Her brother raised her in a moment, and placed her upon the sofa. It
was some minutes before she recovered. When she did so, and gazed wildly
around, there was a tiny fleck of red upon her lips, like blood.
She looked up in her brother’s face, and began laughing hysterically.
‘Eustasia! For God’s sake, control yourself! You’ll make yourself
downright ill!’
Presently the hysterical fit passed away.
‘Leave us together, please!’ she said to the grim woman of the house.
‘I--I wish to speak to my brother.’
Directly the woman had retired, she took her brother by the hand.
‘Don’t be angry with me, Salem!’ she said softly. ‘I’m not long for this
world now, and I want you to grant me one request.’
‘What is it, Eustasia?’ asked the Professor, touched by her strangely
tender manner.
‘Don’t take me away from England just yet. Wait a little while longer.’
‘Eustasia, let me repeat, you’re following a will-o’-the-wisp, you are
indeed! Take my advice, and never see that man again!’
‘I must--I will!’ she cried. ‘O Salem, I’ve used him cruelly, but I love
him! I shall die now if you take me away!’