they would only take pains and patience to develop it. Everybody had his own particular guide, and it was the very next day that Piggy obtained a script clearly signed Annabel Nicostratus and Jamifleg followed very soon after for her mother and sister, and so there was no jealousy.
But the crown and apex of these manifestations was undoubtedly the three regular seances which took place to the three select circles after dinner. Musical boxes resounded, violins gave forth ravishing airs, the sitters were touched by unseen fingers when everybody’s hands were touching all around the table, and from the middle of it materialisations swathed in muslin were built up. Pocky came, visible to the eye, and played spirit music. Amadeo, melancholy and impressive, recited Dante, and Cardinal Newman, not visible to the eye but audible to the ear, joined in the singing “Lead, Kindly Light,” which the secretary requested them to encourage him with, and blessed them profusely at the conclusion. Lady Ambermere was so much impressed, and so nervous of driving home alone, that she insisted on Georgie’s going back to the Hall with her, and consigning her person to Pug and Miss Lyall, and for the three days of the Princess’s visit, there was practically no subject discussed at the parliaments on the Green, except the latest manifestations. Olga went to town for a crystal, and Georgie for a planchette, and Riseholme temporarily became a spiritualistic republic, with the Princess as priestess and Mrs Quantock as President.
Lucia, all this time, was almost insane with pique and jealousy, for she sat in vain waiting for an invitation to come to a seance, and would, long before the three days were over, have welcomed with enthusiasm a place at one of the inferior and informal exhibitions. Since she could not procure the Princess for dinner, she asked Daisy to bring her to lunch or tea or at any hour day or night which was convenient. She made Peppino hang about opposite Daisy’s house, with orders to drop his stick, or let his hat blow off, if he saw even the secretary coming out of the gate, so as possibly to enter into conversation with him, while she positively forced herself one morning into Daisy’s hall, and cried “Margarita” in silvery tones. On this occasion Margarita came out of the drawing-room with a most determined expression on her face, and shut the door carefully behind her.
“Dearest Lucia,” she said, “how nice to see you! What is it?”
“I just popped in for a chat,” said she. “I haven’t set eyes on you since the evening of the Spanish quartette.”
“No! So long ago as that is it? Well, you must come in again sometime very soon, won’t you? The day after tomorrow I shall be much less busy. Promise to look in then.”
“You have a visitor with you, have you not?” asked Lucia desperately.
“Yes! Two, indeed, dear friends of mine. But I am afraid you would not like them. I know your opinion about anything connected with spiritualism, and—isn’t it silly of us?—we’ve been dabbling in that.”
“Oh, but how interesting,” said Lucia. “I—I am always ready to learn, and alter my opinions if I am wrong.”
Mrs Quantock did not move from in front of the drawing-room door.
“Yes?” she said. “Then we will have a great talk about it, when you come to see me the day after tomorrow. But I know I shall find you hard to convince.”
She kissed the tips of her fingers in a manner so hopelessly final that there was nothing to do but go away.
Then with poor generalship, Lucia altered her tactics, and went up to the Village Green where Piggy was telling Georgie about the script signed Annabel. This was repeated again for Lucia’s benefit.
“Wasn’t it too lovely?” said Piggy. “So Annabel’s my guide, and she writes a hand quite unlike mine.”
Lucia gave a little scream, and put her fingers to her ears.
“Gracious me!” she said. “What has come over Riseholme? Wherever I go I hear nothing but talk of seances, and spirits, and automatic writing. Such a pack of nonsense, my dear Piggy. I wonder at a sensible girl like you.”
Mrs Weston, propelled by the Colonel, whirled up in her bath-chair.
“‘The Palmist’s Manual’ is too wonderful,” she said, “and Jacob and I sat up over it till I don’t know what hour. There’s a break in his line of life, just at the right place, when he was so ill in Egypt, which is most remarkable, and when Tommy Luton brought round my bath-chair this morning—I had it at the garden-door, because the gravel’s just laid at my front-door, and the wheels sink so far into it—‘Tommy,’ I said, ‘let me look at your hand a moment,’ and there on his line of fate, was the little cross that means bereavement. It came just right didn’t it, Jacob? when he was thirteen, for he’s fourteen this year, and Mrs Luton died just a year ago. Of course I didn’t tell Tommy that, for I only told him to wash his hands, but it was most curious. And has your planchette come yet, Mr Georgie? I shall be most anxious to know what it writes, so if you’ve got an evening free any night soon just come round for a bit of dinner, and we’ll make an evening of it, with table turning and planchette and palmistry. Now tell me all about the seance the first night. I wish I could have been present at a real seance, but of course Mrs Quantock can’t find room for everybody, and I’m sure it was most kind of her to let the Colonel and me come in yesterday afternoon. We were thrilled with it, and who knows but that the Princess didn’t write the Palmist’s Manual for on the title page it says it’s by P. and that might be Popoffski as easily as not, or perhaps Princess.”
This allusion to there not being room for everybody was agony to Lucia. She laughed in her most silvery manner.
“Or, perhaps Peppino,” she said. “I must ask mio caro if he wrote it. Or does it stand for Pillson? Georgino, are you the author of the Palmist’s Manual? Ecco! I believe it was you.”
This was not quite wise, for no one detested irony more than Mrs Weston, or was sharper to detect it. Lucia should never have been ironical just then, nor indeed have dropped into Italian.
“No” she said. “I’m sure it was neither Il Signer Peppino nor Il Signer Pillson who wrote it. I believe it was the Principessa. So, ecco! And did we not have a delicious evening at Miss Bracely’s the other night? Such lovely singing, and so interesting to learn that Signor Cortese made it all up. And those lovely words, for though I didn’t understand much of them, they sounded so exquisite. And fancy Miss Bracely talking Italian so beautifully when we none of us knew she talked it at all.”
Mrs Weston’s amiable face was crimson with suppressed emotion, of which these few words were only the most insignificant leakage, and a very awkward pause succeeded which was luckily broken by everybody beginning to talk again very fast and brightly. Then Mrs Weston’s chair scudded away; Piggy skipped away to the stocks where Goosie was sitting with a large sheet of foolscap, in case her hand twitched for automatic script, and Lucia turned to Georgie, who alone was left.
“Poor Daisy!” she said. “I dropped in just now, and really I found her very odd and strange. What with her crazes for Christian Science, and Uric Acid and Gurus and Mediums, one wonders if she is quite sane. So sad! I should be dreadfully sorry if she had some mental collapse; that sort of thing is always so painful. But I know of a first-rate place for rest-cures; I think it would be wise if I just casually dropped the name of it to Mr Robert, in case. And this last craze seems so terribly infectious. Fancy Mrs Weston dabbling in palmistry! It is too comical, but I hope I did not hurt her feelings by suggesting that Peppino or you wrote the Manual. It is dangerous to make little jokes to poor Mrs Weston.”
Georgie quite agreed with that, but did not think it necessary to say in what sense he agreed with it. Every day now Lucia was pouring floods of light on a quite new side
