“Burckhardt never remarried. You should hear the airs he puts on about it —” Hyacinth’s voice underwent a startling change, turning to a meaty tenor. Her mimicry was so remarkable that Maud jumped. “‘When a Burckhardt loves, ma’am, he is true unto death!’ That’s what he says. Imagine being proud of being a Burckhardt.”
“How do you do that?” gasped Maud. “You sound like a man!”
Hyacinth looked pleased. “I’ve always been clever with voices. I’ll teach you, if I can — though not everyone has the knack of it. At any rate, Burckhardt gets lonely, the absurd thing, and he likes to remember being young and handsome — he was handsome once, I’ll give him that; I saw his wedding photograph. So he comes to speak to Agnes.” Hyacinth’s voice became faint and girlish. “‘Horace! My husband! I shall love you eternally!’” Then her voice deepened. “‘Agnes! My angel! I am always true!’ . . . He often cries; he’s quite maudlin. People shouldn’t carry on like that unless they’re good-looking.”
Maud agreed with Hyacinth. Men who looked like walruses should not weep.
“But now the plot thickens.” Hyacinth leaned back luxuriously, violating the rule that no lady’s shoulders should ever touch the back of a chair. “At the age of nearly sixty, Burckhardt has found himself a pretty little Englishwoman, a mere baby of forty-nine. After all that talk about being ‘true,’ he wants to get married again. Not that he’s told us, mind you. I read of his engagement in the newspaper. If you mean to be a spiritualist, Maudy, you must always read the society pages. And the obituaries, of course.”
Maud nodded.
“Now, here’s a question that will show me how clever you are — and how well you’ve been listening. Imagine one Horace Burckhardt. He plans to marry, the wedding date is set, he’s booked a steamer to carry him off to his new bride . . . but before he leaves the country, he wants one last séance. He wants to talk to Agnes. What does he want her to say?”
Maud pondered. She was beginning to be bored by Horace Burckhardt, even though she’d never met him. On the other hand, if this was a question to test her cleverness, she had better put her mind to it.
“Does he want to say good-bye?”
“Not quite. You’re close, but not quite. He wants —” Hyacinth’s voice bubbled with laughter. “He wants her permission to marry again. He wants to marry a new wife without feeling guilty about the old one. In other words, he wants to have his cake and eat it too.”
“If I was Agnes, I’d be jealous,” said Maud.
“No doubt. But Agnes will know her place. In short, Agnes will behave beautifully. As for Burckhardt, he’s the easiest man in the world to fool, and very generous, which is good, as my summer dresses are getting a little shabby.”
Maud said slowly, “What if he doesn’t give you any money?”
Hyacinth shook her head. “Oh! Maud!” she gurgled. She rose from the chair and swept out of the room without looking back, leaving Maud with the feeling that she had just asked the stupidest question in the world.
At ten after six on the night of the séance, Maud stole downstairs.
Never had it taken so long to go downstairs. She was in the habit of moving stealthily, but never before had she tried to walk in utter silence, without a single board creaking. Her very bones seemed to snap and bark. Her heart beat so fast that she was reminded of one of Miss Kitteridge’s pet complaints: “palpitations.” Maud had always thought the Superintendent’s “palpitations” a myth, but the tympany below her breastbone hinted that there might be something to it after all.
From the dining room came the sounds of voices: one of them a man’s. Maud paused, listening. It had been nearly two months since she heard the voice of an adult male, and the depth and strength of Mr. Burckhardt’s voice surprised her. She heard the clink of plates and cutlery, and her stomach growled. She froze, wondering if it could be heard through the door, and then tiptoed away, secure in the knowledge that Muffet would feed her later.
The back parlor was dim but not frightening. The lamp, with its red globe, cast a cozy light. Maud’s little white feet crossed the carpet rapidly. She crouched down, lifted the two tablecloths, and crawled under the table. The ear trumpet was in readiness: she made sure of the placement of the open seam in the cloth and the threads that would control the movement of the chandelier. Then she waited.
It was very hot. Maud had chosen to wear her underclothing under her nightgown, and already she regretted it. There seemed to be no air under the table, and in five minutes she was damp with sweat, though her hands were cold and clammy. As the time passed, her heartbeat slowed. Maud had begun to feel almost drowsy when she heard the door of the dining room open.
“Come into the back parlor — there’s a table there,” Victoria was saying.
The unfamiliar voice of Mr. Burckhardt answered her: “I cannot tell you ladies how grateful I am — how much I appreciate the attempt —”
Judith spoke next. She sounded disapproving, as she so often did with Maud — for a brief moment, Maud experienced a wave of sympathy for the Weeping Walrus. “I hope the attempt will be a brief one, Mr. Burckhardt. You must remember that these attempts take a good deal out of my sister. Hyacinth is not strong. After the last séance, she was seriously unwell. We were forced to have the doctor three times that week.”
Mr. Burckhardt spoke again: “I cannot tell you how sorry I am to hear it. Believe me, I wish I need not put you to such trouble. . . . If there is anything I can do —” He seemed flustered. “At least let me be responsible for the expense of the doctor —”
“Always so generous!” It was Hyacinth’s voice, but she sounded fluttery and unsure of herself. “Please, Judith, don’t scold him! He must try — I feel it. You know I have an instinct for such things. I almost feel as if . . .” She paused. “You will think me silly, I’m sure, but I feel as if someone from the other side wants me to try.”
There was a brief silence. Then Victoria said reluctantly, “It’s true that you are sensitive to such things.”
“Miss Hawthorne is a true medium,” Mr. Burckhardt said reverently.
Maud heard the sound of chairs scraping against carpet. The participants of the séance were seating themselves around the table. Hyacinth said, “Oh no! My gift is a very small one! And it’s so hard for me — you cannot guess how difficult it is!” Maud put her fingers over her lips, cautioning herself not to giggle. “If you only knew, dear Horace, how I long to be able to help you — and yet I may fail!”
“Stop fussing,” Judith commanded. “Mr. Burckhardt, you must take my sister’s hand.”
Maud listened intently. She wished she could lift the tablecloth and take a peek.
“Shall we begin with a hymn?” asked Victoria.
They had come to the part of the program that had been rehearsed. Victoria began “In the Sweet Bye and Bye,” and the others joined in. Maud was surprised by how good they sounded. She knew that Victoria had a fine contralto voice, but the beauty of Burckhardt’s tenor surprised her. He sang harmony — Maud would have liked to listen, to understand the notes he chose, but she had work to do. After the second verse, Maud began to sing along: But no words, just “ah” — and softly, as Hyacinth had cautioned her. It will suggest the idea of a heavenly choir. If you hear Burckhardt stop singing, you stop, too — you don’t want him to ask himself where the voices are coming from.
Burckhardt did not stop to listen. The tune went to the end, and then Victoria began “Blest Be the Tie That Binds.” As they began the final verse, Maud’s fingers unwound the two threads. She then began to pull gently, still singing her angelic “ah.”