As regarded Lionel Varick, the second day of his house-party at Wyndfell
Hall opened most inauspiciously, for, when approaching the dining-room,
he became aware that the door was not really closed, and that Mr.
Burnaby and his niece were having what seemed to be an animated and even
angry discussion.
"I don't like this place, and I don't care for your fine friend, Mr.
Varick--" Such was the very unpleasant observation which the speaker's
unlucky host overheard.
There came instant silence when he pushed open the door, and Helen with
heightened colour looked up, and exclaimed: "My uncle has to go back to
London this morning. Isn't it unfortunate? He's had a letter from an old
friend who hasn't been in England for some years, and he feels he must
go up and spend Christmas with _him_, instead of staying with us here."
Varick was much taken aback. He didn't believe in the old friend. His
mind at once reverted to what had happened the night before. It was the
séance which had upset Mr. Burnaby--not a doubt of it! Without being
exactly unpleasant, the guest's manner this morning was cold, very
cold--and Varick himself was hard put to it to hide his annoyance.
He had taken a great deal of trouble in the last few months to
conciliate this queer, disagreeable, rather suspicious old gentleman,
and he had thought he had succeeded. The words he had overheard when
approaching the dining-room showed how completely he had failed. And now
Bubbles Dunster, with her stupid tomfoolery, was actually driving Mr.
Burnaby away!
But Mr. Burnaby's host was far too well used to conceal his thoughts,
and to command his emotions, to do more than gravely assent, with an
expression of regret. Nay more, as some of the others gradually lounged
in, and as the meal became a trifle more animated, he told himself that
after all Mr. Burnaby might have turned out a spoil-sport, especially
with regard to a secret, all-important matter which he, the convener of
this curiously assorted Christmas party, had very much at heart.
Even so, for the first time in their long friendship, he felt at odds
with Blanche Farrow. She ought to have stopped the séance the moment she
saw whither it was tending! His own experience of Bubbles' peculiar gift
had been very far from agreeable, and had given him a thoroughly bad
night. That strange, sinister evocation of his long-dead mother had
stirred embers Varick had believed to be long dead--embers he had done
his best, as it were, to stamp out from his memory.
Another thing which added to his ill-humour was the fact that Bubbles,
alone of the party, had not come down to breakfast. In such matters she
was an absolute law unto herself; but whereas during the first two days
of the girl's stay at Wyndfell Hall her host had been rather glad to
miss her at breakfast--it had been a cosy little meal shared by him and
Blanche--he now resented her absence. He told himself angrily that she
ought to have been there to help to entertain everybody, and to cheer up
sulky James Tapster. The latter had asked: "Where's Miss Bubbles?" with
an injured air--as if he thought she ought to be forming part of the
excellent breakfast.
Mr. Burnaby was determined to get away from Wyndfell Hall as soon as
possible, and by eleven o'clock the whole party, excepting Bubbles, was
in the hall, bidding him good-bye. And then it was that Varick suddenly
realized with satisfaction that both Miss Burnaby and Helen regarded the
departure of their kinsman with perfect equanimity. Was it possible that
Helen was _glad_ her uncle and guardian was leaving her alone--for once?
The thought was a very pleasant one to her present entertainer and host.
Even so, after he and Blanche Farrow turned away from the porch where
they had been speeding the parting guest, she noticed that Varick looked
more annoyed, more thoroughly put out, than she had ever seen him--and
she had seen him through some rather bad moments in the long course of
their friendship!
"I hope Bubbles won't try on any more of her thought-reading
tomfoolery," he said disagreeably. "What happened last night has driven
Mr. Burnaby away."
"I think you're wrong," said Blanche quickly. "I'm certain he received
the letter of which he spoke."
"I don't agree with you"; and it was with difficulty that Varick
restrained himself from telling her what he had overheard the unpleasant
old man say to his niece.
"I think we shall get on all the better without him," said Blanche
decidedly.
She vaguely resented the way in which Varick spoke of Bubbles. After
all, the girl had come to Wyndfell Hall out of the purest good
nature--in order to help them through with their party.
"Oh, well, I daresay you're right." (He couldn't afford to quarrel with
Blanche.) "And I forgot one thing. I've heard from Panton--"
"You mean your doctor friend?" she said coldly.
"Yes, and he hopes to be here sooner than he thought he could be. He's a
good chap, Blanche"--there came a note of real feeling into Varick's
voice--"awfully hard-worked! I hope we'll be able to give him a good
time."
"He'll have to sleep in the haunted room."
"That won't matter. He wouldn't believe in a ghost, even if he saw one!
Be nice to him, for my sake; he was awfully good to me, Blanche."
And Blanche Farrow softened. There was a very good side to her friend
Lionel. He was one of those rare human beings who are, in a moral sense,
greatly benefited by prosperity. In old days, though his attractive,
dominant personality had brought him much kindness, and even friendship,
of a useful kind, his hand had always been, as Blanche Farrow knew well,
more or less against every man. But now?--now he seemed to look at the
world through rose-coloured glasses.
He glanced at the still very attractive woman standing by his side, his
good-humour quite restored. "A penny for your thoughts!" he said
jokingly.
Blanche shook her head, smiling. Not for very much more than a penny
would she have told him the thought that had suddenly come, as such
thoughts will do, into her mind. That thought was, how extraordinary had
been Varick's transformation from what a censorious world might have
called an unscrupulous adventurer into a generous man of position and
substance--all owing to the fact that some two years ago he had drifted
across an unknown woman in a foreign hotel!
Even to Blanche there was something pathetic in the thought of "poor
Milly," whose birthplace and home this beautiful and strangely perfect
old house had been. It was Milly--not that sinister figure that Pegler
thought she had seen--whose form ought to haunt Wyndfell Hall. But there
survived no trace, no trifling memento even, of the dead woman's
evidently colourless personality.
And as if Varick had guessed part of what was passing through her mind,
"Any news of the ghost, Blanche?" he asked jokingly. "How's my friend
Pegler this morning?"
"Pegler's quite all right! I'm the person who ought to have seen the
ghost--but of course I neither saw nor heard anything."
As they came through into the hall where the rest of the party were
gathered together, Blanche heard Helen Brabazon exclaim: "This is a most
wonderful old book, Mr. Varick! It gives such a curious account of a
ghost who is supposed to haunt this house--the ghost of a most awfully
wicked woman who killed her stepson by throwing him into the moat, and
then drowned herself--"
Mr. Tapster, who seldom contributed anything worth hearing to the
conversation, suddenly remarked: "The ghost has been seen within the
last two days by one of the servants here."
"Who told you that?" asked Varick sharply.
"My valet; I always hear all the news from him."
Helen clapped her hands. "How splendid!" she cried. "That makes
everything simply perfect!" She turned her eager, smiling face on
Lionel Varick, "I've always longed to stay in a haunted house. I wish
the ghost would appear to me!"
"Don't wish that, Miss Brabazon."
It was Sir Lyon's quiet voice which uttered those five words very
gravely.
Sir Lyon liked Helen Brabazon. She was the only one of the party, with
the exception of Bill Donnington, whom he did like. He was puzzled,
however, by her apparent intimacy with their attractive host. How and
where could Varick have come across the Burnabys and their niece? They
had nothing in common with his usual associates and surroundings. In
their several ways they were like beings from different planets.
Sir Lyon knew a great deal about Lionel Varick, though he had seen
nothing of him during the few months Varick's married life had lasted.
Like Miss Farrow, Sir Lyon was honestly glad that his present host,
after turning some dangerous corners, had drifted, by an amazing series
of lucky bumps, into so safe and pleasant a haven. There are certain
people, who, when unsatisfied, and baulked of whatever may be their
hidden desires, are dangerous to their fellows. Such a man, Sir Lyon was
secretly convinced, had been Lionel Varick. Such, evidently, was he no
longer.
"Would you like to see the haunted room?" He heard Varick ask the
question in that deep, musical voice which many people found so
attractive. Helen eagerly assented, and they disappeared together.
Sir Lyon and Bill Donnington went off to the library, and for a few
moments Blanche Farrow and Miss Burnaby were alone together in the hall.
"Your niece seems to have very remarkable psychic gifts," said the old
lady hesitatingly.
And Blanche suddenly remembered--Why, of course! Miss Burnaby had been
one of the people most strongly affected by what had happened the night
before; she must choose her words carefully. So, "Bubbles has a
remarkable gift of thought-reading," she answered quietly. "Personally I
am quite convinced that it's not anything more."
"Are you?" There was a curious, questioning look on Miss Burnaby's
usually placid face. "D'you think then, that what happened last night
was _all_ thought-reading?"
"Certainly I think so! But I admit that perhaps I am not a fair judge,
for I haven't the slightest belief in what Bubbles would call
occultism."
"I know a lady who goes in for all that sort of thing," said Miss
Burnaby slowly. "My brother disapproves of my acquaintance with her. She
once took me to what is called a Circle, and, of course, I could not
help feeling interested. But the medium who was there was not nearly as
remarkable as Miss Dunster seems to be; I mean she did not get the same
results--at any rate, not in my case."
"I'm afraid what happened last night rather upset you," said Blanche
uncomfortably. "I know it would have annoyed me very much if the same
thing had happened to me."
"It is true that I was, as a girl, engaged to an Austrian officer. We
were very devoted to one another, but my dear father refused his
consent. So what occurred last night brought back many painful
memories."
Miss Burnaby spoke very simply, but there was a note of deep sadness in
her voice, and Blanche told herself that she had been wrong in regarding
her as simply a dull, conventional, greedy old woman.
"I'm very sorry now that I allowed Bubbles to do it," she exclaimed.
"I'm afraid it upset your brother, too, very much?"
Again there came a curious change over Miss Burnaby's face. She
hesitated perceptibly--and then answered: "I would not say so to any of
the younger people here, of course. But, as a matter of fact, my brother
had a very unpleasant experience as a young man. He fell in love, or
thought he fell in love, with a young woman. It was a very unfortunate
and tragic affair--for, Miss Farrow, the unhappy young person killed
herself! I was very young at the time, and I was not supposed to know
anything about it. But of course I did know. Poor Ted had to give
evidence at the inquest. It was dreadful, _dreadful_! We have never
spoken of it all these many years we have lived together. You realize,
Miss Farrow, that the young person was not in our class of life?"--the
old lady drew herself up stiffly.
Blanche felt much relieved when, at that moment Bubbles appeared. She
made a delightful, brilliant, Goya-like picture, in her yellow jumper
and long chain of coral beads. But she looked very tired.
"Have all the others gone out?" she asked languidly. And before Blanche
could answer, Miss Burnaby, murmuring something about having letters to
write, quickly left the room. The sight of the girl affected her
painfully; but it also intensified her longing for what she had heard
called "a private sitting."
"Lionel is showing Miss Brabazon over the house. She's very much
thrilled over Pegler's experience. I can't make that girl out--can you,
Bubbles?"
Miss Farrow drew nearer to the fire. "She's such a queer mixture of
shrewdness and simplicity," she went on. "She doesn't seem ever to have
gone anywhere, or seen anyone, and yet she's so--so mature! I believe
she's exactly your age."
"I feel about a hundred to-day," said Bubbles wearily.
Blanche was wondering how she could open on the subject about which
she'd promised to speak to the girl. Somehow she always very much
disliked speaking to Bubbles of what she called, in her own mind, "all
that unhealthy rot and nonsense!" And yet she must say something--she
had promised Lionel Varick to do so.
Bubbles' next words gave her no opening.
"I have no use for Helen Brabazon," she said pettishly. "A very little
of her would bore me to death. But still, I amused myself at dinner last
night thinking what I should do if I had all her money."
"All her money?" repeated Blanche, puzzled.
"Don't you know that she's one of the richest girls in England?"
"Is that really true?"--Blanche felt surprised, and more than surprised,
keenly interested. "How d'you know, Bubbles? Lionel never told me--."
Bubbles gave a quick, queer look at her aunt. "Mr. Tapster told me all
about her last night," she answered. "I suppose because he's so rich
himself he takes a kind of morbid interest in other rich people. He said
that she's the owner of one of the biggest metal-broking
businesses--whatever that may mean--in the world. But her uncle and
aunt have never allowed her to know anyone or to see anyone outside
their own tiresome, fuggy old lot. They've a perfect terror of
fortune-hunters, it seems. The poor girl's hardly ever spoken to a
man--not to what _I_ should call a man! I'm surprised they allowed her
to come here. I heard her tell Sir Lyon last night at dinner that this
was the first time she'd ever paid what she called a country visit.
Apparently Harrogate or Brighton is those awful old people's idea of a
pleasant change. Up to now Miss Helen's own idea of heaven seems to have
been Strathpeffer."
"How very strange!" But Blanche Farrow was not thinking of Helen
Brabazon's possible idea of heaven as she uttered the three words.
Bubbles chuckled. "I touched the old gentleman up a bit yesterday,
didn't I, Blanche?"
This gave her aunt the opportunity for which she was seeking. "You did!
And as a result he made up some cock-and-bull excuse and went back to
London this morning. Lionel is very much put out about it."
"I should have thought Lionel would have been glad," said Bubbles, and
there came into her voice the touch of slight, almost insolent, contempt
with which she generally spoke of Lionel Varick.
"He was very far from glad; he was furious," said Blanche gravely.
"I only did it because he said he wanted his guests entertained," said
Bubbles sulkily.
And then, after there had been a rather long silence between them, she
asked: "What did _you_ think of it, Blanche? You'd never been at a
séance before, had you?"
Miss Farrow hesitated. "Of course I was impressed," she acknowledged.
"I kept wondering how you did it. I mean that I kept wondering how those
people's thoughts were conveyed to your brain."
"Then you didn't believe that I saw anything of the things I said I
saw?" said Bubbles slowly. "You thought it was all fudge on my part?"
Her aunt reddened. "I don't quite know what you mean by saying that. Of
course I don't believe you saw the--the figures you described so
clearly. But I realized that in some queer way you must have got hold of
_the memory_ of your victims. Lionel admits that you did so in his
case."
"Does he indeed?" Bubbles spoke with sharp sarcasm.
There rose before her a vision of her host's pale, startled face. In
some ways he had been the most inwardly perturbed of her last night's
sitters, and she, the medium, had been well aware of it.
"I wonder," she said suddenly and inconsequently, "if Lionel has some
enemy--I mean a woman--in his life, of whom his friends know nothing?"
Blanche looked dubiously at the girl. "That's the sort of thing one can
never know about a man," she said slowly.
"The woman I mean"--Bubbles was going on rather quickly and breathlessly
now--"is not a young woman. She's about sixty, I should think. She has a
plain, powerful face, with a lot of grey hair turned off her forehead."
"Have you ever seen such a person with Lionel?" asked Miss Farrow.
"No, not exactly."
"What _do_ you mean, Bubbles?"
"I can't quite explain what I mean. Even before the séance I seemed to
_feel_ her last night. I suppose _you_ would say I saw her in his
mind--in what some people would call his inner consciousness."
Blanche stared at the girl uncomfortably. "D'you mean you can always see
what people are thinking of?" she exclaimed.
Bubbles burst out laughing. "Of course I can't! You needn't feel
nervous." She went up to her aunt, and thrust her hand through the
other's arm. "Don't be worried, old thing"--she spoke very
affectionately. "I've promised Bill that I'll put everything of the kind
he and father disapprove of away--just while I'm here! But still,
Blanche--"
Miss Farrow had never seen the girl in this serious, thoughtful mood
before. "Yes," she said. "Yes, Bubbles?"
"Oh, well, I only just wanted to quote something to you that's rather
hackneyed."
"Hackneyed?" repeated Miss Farrow.
"There are more things in heaven and earth, my dear, than are dreamt of
in _your_ philosophy."
Blanche Farrow felt a little piqued. "I've never doubted that," she said
curtly.