It would not do to think of the vicar now.
Carlton turned to the doctor, who had been watching morosely. "Would you like to test the fastenings, Gruffstone?"
"My dear boy, don't be ridiculous. You are sure the chair itself is firmly anchored?"
"I did not have the heart to ask that bolts be driven into this beautiful old flooring," Carlton replied. "But the chair is extremely heavy; I doubt that a slight woman like Miss Ransom could budge it. However, I intend to remove any doubts on that score by sitting here beside her." And he drew up a low stool with a petit-point floral scene and sat down at Marianne's feet.
"Quite satisfactory," the doctor replied. "Er – Honoria?"
The Duchess was flushed with excitement. "Quite, quite," she said impatiently. "Get on with it, Horace. The lights, if you please – and draw that screen closer to the fire."
She took her place at the table, turning her chair slightly so as to face Marianne. Lady Annabelle took another chair; her hands moved restlessly, as if stroking an imaginary cat. The doctor dealt with the lights.
"Curse it," came his plaintive voice, from the darkness that followed the extinction of the last candle. "I can't see a thing, Honoria.
Can't we have just one light so I don't fall and break a limb?"
"Sit down there, where you are, and stop fussing," the Duchess said sharply.
Marianne was nervous, but it was no more than the nervousness of a performer before she goes on stage – a sensation with which she was tolerably familiar. She feared only one thing, a repetition of the horrid trance state, if that was what it was. To lose control of one's body is frightening in itself, but the experience of the previous evening, the bodiless struggle in darkness with some unseen force, was an experiment she did not care to repeat.
The silence continued for a long time, so long that it was at last broken by the unmistakable sound of a soft snore. Carlton emitted a snicker of amusement, but he did not speak, and Lady Annabelle continued to snore until the well-known rap was heard. Annabelle snorted. "What?" she began sleepily.
"Quiet," the Duchess ordered.
A perfect fusillade of cracks replied. A creak from somewhere in the darkness was followed by Annabelle's exclamation. "The table is moving. It is lifting, tilting… Ow!"
"Really, Annabelle, if you cannot refrain from crying out you will have to leave the room," the Duchess said.
"It came down on my foot," Annabelle replied angrily.
"Then tuck your feet under your chair. I warn you, one more word…"
But the apparitions did not seem to be inhibited by conversation. The cracks reverberated from all corners of the room, and others pieces of furniture began to creak and sway. At least Marianne assumed that was the cause of the sounds she heard. Her eyes had become more accustomed to the darkness, but since her back was to the scanty illumination of the well-screened fire, she could not even make out dim shapes.
A faint glow heralded the appearance of a mandolin, outlined in fire, hanging unsupported in midair. A strain of soft music sounded.
"David," the Duchess whispered. "David, is it you?"
The mandolin swooped up and down, still playing.
Hands fumbled at Marianne's feet, touched the bonds on her ankles, and moved up to her wrists.
"I beg your pardon," Carlton whispered. "I only wanted to make certain -"
"Your head is in my way," Marianne answered, straining her neck to watch the gyrations of the flying mandolin.
"Stop squirming! How can I be sure -"
"Move your head! Oh – oh, it is gone."
The luminous mandolin had indeed disappeared.
A medley of music followed – bells rang, chords sounded on the piano, a tambourine jingled. They were pleasant-enough sounds, though they formed no pattern and no recognizable tune.
Then there was a brief pause, as if the spirit needed rest after its strenuous efforts. In the silence Marianne heard the Duchess's breath coming in quick, sobbing pants, and her initial fascinated interest faded. She felt sad and a little giddy, and wished she had not taken quite so much wine at dinner.
The next demonstration was of a luminous hand that appeared suddenly in midair. Marianne could see it was not the same shape as the one that had materialized on the previous evening, being long and slim with delicate fingers.
This time the Duchess's cry was one of recognition.
"David – it is you!" A scrape of wood and a rustle of skirts told Marianne that the distraught woman had left her chair to pursue the phantom hand. As if to tease her, it darted back and forth. Panting and gasping, the Duchess stumbled after it.
"Stop her," Marianne exclaimed. "Oh, stop her; this is dreadful! She will fall and hurt herself -"
She pulled against the bonds that confined her hands., but Carlton had tied the knots too well. The struggle made her dizzier than before; she felt herself on the verge of swooning.
The grotesque, pitiful chase had only lasted for a few seconds, in fact, and Carlton was rising to his feet when the voice came.
"Silence. Be still. Silence."
It was hardly more than a whisper, but it had a hollow, penetrating quality that echoed as if the words had been pronounced in some other place, much larger than the parlor.
"Honor," the whisper came again. "Honor, listen and do not speak. I have little strength. I may not stay. The day approaches, be ready for me then. Now let me rest. I must have rest…"
The final sibilant turned into an insect buzzing that went on and on. Marianne felt as if it sounded inside her head. She shook that member and at once regretted the movement, for the darkness blazed with colored cartwheels and rings of fire. An icy wind touched the back of her neck.
With an effort she kept her senses. The eerie effects seemed to be over. The cold wind ceased to blow, the whispering voice was no longer heard, and she was beginning to relax when a new outburst brought her upright and shaking. This was the worst yet: a cry of wordless, almost animal, rage, a crash, a thud as of a heavy body falling – and then a horrible choking rattle and drumming.
Brightness flared, and she realized that Carlton had had the foresight to provide himself with a lamp and the means of lighting it. He held it high.
Writhing on the floor, his heels pounding in jerky spasms, foam issuing from his mouth, was a form Marianne scarcely recognized as that of the Duke. The tutor stood over the boy, wringing his hands and looking half-witted. Marianne could only think of the vicar's warnings and the old horror tales of men possessed by demons.
Then Carlton said sharply, "Don't stand there gaping, man; you know what to do"; and Victor, after a startled glance, dropped to his knees beside the boy.
" 'Twas dark; I could not see," he stammered, forgetting his French accent in his agitation.
Scarcely had this crisis been dealt with -
Marianne realized that it had, though she still did not understand its precise nature – than a stifled cry from the Duchess drew her attention in that direction just in time to see the lady's slender form crumple to the floor, one hand pressed against her heart.
The doctor, who had started toward the fallen boy, wheeled around and hurried toward her. Marianne tugged against her bonds.
"For pity's sake," she exclaimed. "Mr. Carlton, please -"
Carlton did not move. He stood staring at the Duchess's still form.
"What is it?" he mumbled. "What?"