"I have promised my good friends, Carlton and Gruffstone, that I will tell you nothing until they are present. Do you feel strong enough now to receive them?"
Marianne, completely awed at receiving such deference, indicated that she did.
The two gentlemen were admitted, and at the Duchess's suggestion they removed to an alcove at the far end of the room, which had been fitted up as a sitting room. The Duchess insisted that Marianne recline on a rose velvet chaise longue, and she tucked a fleecy shawl around the girl with her own aristocratic hands.
Though appreciating the kindness, Marianne was beginning to feel stifled by the unceasing attentions from a lady older than she and greatly her superior in rank. Having no longer any fears for her safety, she would have remonstrated, or at least demanded answers to the many questions that vexed her, but for one thing; her fear of distressing the Duchess. Her active imagination had by now filled in the details of the story she had invented to explain the peculiar circumstances in which she found herself. The dear old lady had lost a child, and her brain had been turned by the tragedy. Perhaps, Marianne thought pitifully, she believes I am her daughter returned from the grave! The doctor's concern confirmed this idea.
Convinced by the explanation she had woven from these hints – and ignoring the many holes in the fabric – Marianne allowed herself to be coddled. She was moved by genuine pity and gratitude, and was prepared to disillusion the unfortunate lady as gently as possible.
The doctor squeezed his large frame into a dainty little armchair It groaned as he shifted his weight. "Well?" he said belligerently.
"It is difficult to know how to begin," the Duchess murmured. "It will come as a shocking surprise to her."
"Allow me," Carlton said. Leaning in a negligent attitude against the window ledge, his arms folded, he viewed all of them with detached amusement. "How old are you, Miss Ransom?"
"Eighteen," Marianne replied, without thinking; and then, in surprise, demanded, "How do you know my name? And how did you find -"
"Never mind," was the reply. "The means by which I found you will be explained in due course; they are not important. You claim to be the daughter of a Squire Ransom of Yorkshire?"
"I am his daughter." Marianne sat upright. "What are you implying, sir?"
"Nothing to your disadvantage, I assure you." The young lawyer's eyes narrowed. Behind his constant, disconcerting amusement Marianne caught sight of another emotion, harder and more threatening. "The Duchess does not deny that you believe yourself to be the person you claim to be. What she denies -"
"Roger, you are doing this very badly," the Duchess exclaimed. "Naturally she would not remember any other life, having been adopted at such an early -"
"Adopted!" Marianne fell back against the cushioning pillows. "But… ma'am – Your Grace -"
"There can be no doubt about it." The Duchess patted the girl's limp hand. "You are the very image of my lost darling, my David."
Marianne felt as if her face had frozen into an expression of imbecilic surprise – mouth ajar, eyes wide.
"Your husband?" she asked.
A sharp intake of breath and a furious glare from the doctor warned her that she had made a faux pas. The Duchess merely smiled sadly. "No, my dear. David was my friend, my son in affection if not in name. I have mourned him for eighteen long years."
"It is impossible," Marianne stuttered. "I assure you -"
"David was in Yorkshire nineteen years ago; the Keighley circle was particularly prominent, and he -"
"He was all over England that year," the doctor interrupted rudely.
The Duchess waved a languid hand, dismissing this criticism. "I knew he had left a child. It Came To Me." Her impressive tone invested the statement with such significance that it might have been written in capitals. She turned to Marianne. "He would have married your mother had it not been for his tragic death. I am so happy that she found a good man to give her child a name; but now it is time for pretense to end. David's genius must not be lost."
Eyes alight, cheeks pink, she stared into space as if she saw a vision invisible to the others.
"Genius?" Marianne repeated.
"Have you never heard," the Duchess asked, "of David Holmes?"
She might have been asking, "Have you never heard of Ludwig van Beethoven?" Or "Mr. Charles Dickens?"
A vague memory stirred in Marianne's mind, but she could not pin it down. Gaping like a fish, she shook her head.
"Are you familiar," the lawyer inquired coolly, "with table turning? Spiritualism? The occult?"
"Charlatanism," the doctor added in a growl. "Hocus-pokery, paganism… Oh, very well, my dear Honoria, I will say no more."
"You have already said quite enough," the Duchess reproved him. She looked at Marianne. "Your father, my dear, was a man gifted with unique spiritual powers, a prophet equal to the great men of the Bible. The world's finest medium."
Marianne was familiar with the words the lawyer had mentioned. The spiritualist phenomenon had spread like wildfire from its humble beginnings in 1851, in a small town in Massachusetts. Five years later no fashionable London gathering was complete without an attempt at table turning. Ghostly hands and luminous trumpets pervaded the parlors of the wealthy, raps and thumps echoed through the darkened drawing rooms. Yorkshire had its own circle, and although the initial enthusiasm of devotees had been dimmed by exposures of flagrantly fraudulent mediums, giggling girls still played with planchettes and summoned the spirits of Julius Caesar and Pocahontas. As a clergyman's widow, Mrs. Jay disapproved of what she considered a frivolous, heathen practice. Whenever she ran across a newspaper story about haunted houses or spiritualism she gave Marianne stern lectures about the evils of dabbling in such matters.
Had she but known, her attitude was bound to inflame Marianne's curiosity as a healthy hoot of laughter would not have done; for, the girl reasoned, if spiritualism were merely an idle fad, the vicar's lady would not have been so angry about it.
Thanks to this clue she was able to remember that she had read about David Holmes in a magazine article devoted to spiritualism, but she was unable to recall the details of his career. She said as much.
The lawyer replied. "Mr. David Holmes was barely nineteen when he came to this country, after considerable success as a medium in his native land. He was the son of a coal miner and his wife, from the state of Pennsylvania -"
"His mother," the Duchess said, "was descended from the Dukes of Argyll."
"So she claimed," Carlton said dryly.
"The second sight," the Duchess murmured. "Her Celtic heritage…"
The lawyer waited politely for her to finish, but she did not go on. After a moment he continued, "David Holmes was a delicate boy, subject to fits of- er – fits. His person was handsome, his personality engaging. He took no money for his performances, but he never lacked wealthy patrons who gave him every luxury.
"When he came to England he immediately became the rage. Moving ever upward in society, he was the darling of the royal courts of England, and the imperial court of Russia. At one time he was actually engaged to marry a young relative of the Czar's. For reasons which were never made public, that affair fell through."
"He loved another," the Duchess murmured.
"Whatever the reason, Mr. Holmes left St. Petersburg," the lawyer went on. "He proceeded to Rome, where he was accused of heresy and expelled from the city. He had always been a devout Roman Catholic, and he was palpably distressed at learning that his religious superiors frowned on his activities. He lost his powers altogether. He announced to the world that his spiritual guides had departed for a period of one year. He was received sympathetically by his friends in England…"