The Duchess started to speak; her old admirer cut her off with a forceful gesture. "Be still, Honoria. Miss Ransom. You were in obvious distress from the first, writhing and moaning. Suddenly you began to shout, No, no, and went on until Roger here caught hold of you. Did something occur to upset you?"
"It is wrong," Marianne said confusedly. "He told me… The Devil…"
"Who told you?" the doctor demanded sharply.
"Some other entity, obviously," the Duchess said. "There are elemental spirits, soulless creatures of chaos… Pudenzia is inexperienced, no doubt she has not yet learned to keep such intrusive spirits away."
The calm description was so like an appraisal of a new housemaid that Marianne felt a hysterical desire to laugh. The sound came out as a moan, however, and the doctor said firmly, "Bed for you, young woman.
I will come in to see you later. We will tell your maid you were taken ill, a fit of giddiness -"
"Always thinking of appearances, Gruffstone," Carlton said with a sneer. "You fool, every servant in the house knows quite well what is going on. It's a wonder they haven't fled screaming into the night."
The attitude of Marianne's maid, when she finally answered her bell, substantiated the lawyer's suggestion. Annie rolled her eyes till the whites showed every time Marianne moved, and once Marianne was in bed she literally ran from the room. The doctor had been waiting in the hall. Marianne heard him speak and Annie answer. She could not make out the words, but after an exchange or two, the maid's voice lost its nervous stammer. She even giggled.
The doctor went through the usual routine, checking Marianne's pulse and inspecting her tongue. He then made her take a dose of a mild sleeping medicine.
"You do believe me, don't you, sir?" Marianne asked pathetically. "I wasn't pretending; really I wasn't."
Gruffstone's grim expression softened.
"In all honesty, child, I don't know what to make of it. I assure you I am not leaping to conclusions. There is such a thing as…
But I do not want to frighten you."
It was the second time that day someone had expressed that sentiment; on the first occasion Carlton had frightened her, rather badly. Marianne looked apprehensively at the doctor.
"Have you ever heard of a condition called hysteria?" Gruffstone asked.
"Yes, of course. I was hysterical, for a few minutes, but I never -"
"You don't understand what I mean. I use the term in its medical sense. It is a pathological nervous condition which may occur when there is a conflict between the natural impulses and the demands of duty, loyalty, or moral standards. Is that clear?"
It is doubtful whether Marianne would have fully comprehended this description even if she had been fully alert. Now, with the effects of the sleeping draft creeping over her, she replied drowsily, "No, sir."
"Well, well, never mind; perhaps," the doctor said, half to himself, "perhaps it is just as well you don't. Sleep, child; rest. You are at peace and need fear no harm. Do you believe in your heavenly Father and His abiding love? Do you say your prayers?"
"Yes, sir. Always…" Marianne felt herself drifting off.
"Then you know he will watch over you.
Say with me: 'Our Father which art in Heaven…"'
The doctor sat with her for some time after her voice had died away. When he left she was sleeping peacefully, with a contented smile on her face.
Next morning she felt perfectly wretched. Squire Ransom could have told her what ailed her: the aftereffects of a combination of wine, brandy, and laudanum, which would have affected even a practiced toper. Marianne did not know why she felt so terrible, but she forced herself to dress and go down to breakfast. After a few cups of strong tea and a piece of dry toast she began to feel that she might live through the day. But she was still tired and queasy when she crept out to the garden and took her seat under the rose arbor. She had slept late, the morning mist had been burned away by the sun and it was a fine, brisk day.
Marianne had brought her needlework with her, in the pretty embroidered bag she had made under Mrs. Jay's supervision. But the bag concealed a less innocent object than her Berlin work. She had brought it to this distant spot, braving the chilly air, so that she could read without fear of discovery. There was no way of approaching her without crossing a stretch of gravel, and she hoped the sound would alert her in time for her to hide the volume.
Her sense of guilt and shame about participating in the seances had not been entirely dispelled, but she appreciated the doctor's attempt to restore not only her body but her distracted mind. Most reassuring of all was her memory of praying with him. Surely no one possessed by a devil could repeat the Lord's Prayer. Once she had had a nursery maid who had told her horrible stories about ghosts and witches. The girl had been dismissed when her exercise in sadism had been discovered, but Marianne had never forgotten the gruesome tales. One of the worst had concerned a demon who had taken possession of a poor farmer's body and had occupied it without suspicion until a clergyman had spotted the intruder and forced him to betray himself by repeating the Lord's Prayer. The demon had said it backwards.
Folktales, repeated by an ignorant, superstitious woman? Oh, certainly; but in the past weeks Marianne had seen things she would once have dismissed as fiction. Perhaps the vicar's books would help to explain them. She opened the one she had brought with her and began to read.
"Can it be, that this is the beginning of Satan's last struggle, that on the imposition of hands the table is endued with power from the Devil? I merely ask, can it be?"
But the author obviously thought he knew the answer. Marianne read on, puckering her forehead over some of the more ponderously illogical sentences. So absorbed was she that, after all, she failed to hear the crunch of gravel. A shadow fell across the page; she looked up, with a startled scream, to see Carlton looming over her.
She made a belated attempt to hide the book. Carlton's eyebrows lifted and he twitched the volume neatly out of her hands.
"Good heavens," he said disgustedly, after a glance at the title, "where did you get this rubbish? No, let me guess. Who else but St. John?"
"How can you call it rubbish? You said yourself you do not believe that the spirits of the blessed dead return -"
"I don't believe anything returns," Carlton replied irritably. "But this is even worse than the Duchess's theories."
He turned over a few pages, scanned the print, and burst into a shout of laughter.
"Here we have the interrogator asking the spirit where Satan's headquarters are. 'Are they in England?' A slight movement of the table. 'Are they in France?' A violent movement. 'Are they at Rome?' The table seemed literally frantic… Really, Miss Ransom, how can you read such bigoted trash with a straight face?"
Marianne ought to have been offended. Instead his laughter made her feel better.
"Do you really think it is trash?"
"Of course. This is the worst possible thing for you, huddling here in the cold straining your eyes and your poor little conscience. Come for a ride. The exercise will do you good. At least it does me good, after a night of overindulgence."
"How can you say such a thing?" Marianne protested. But she took the hand he extended and allowed him to raise her to her feet.
"You had too much brandy for someone who is not accustomed to spirits," was the reply. "I suppose Gruffstone concluded that it was better for you to be tipsy than hysterical. However, the morning after is not pleasant. Hurry now; I will meet you downstairs in ten minutes."