Weave a circle round him thrice....

For he on honey-dew hath fed,

And drunk the milk of Paradise.—Kubla Khan.

Bradley’s first impulse, on quitting Boulogne, was to hasten at once on to Italy, seek out Alma, and tell her all that had occurred; but that impulse was no sooner felt than it was conquered. The man had a quickening conscience left, and he could not have stood just then before the woman he loved without the bitterest pain and humiliation. No, he would write to her, he would break the news gently by letter, not by word of mouth; and afterwards, perhaps, when his sense of spiritual agony had somewhat worn away, he would go to her and throw himself upon her tender mercy. So instead of flying on to Italy he returned by the mail to London, and thence wrote at length to Alma, giving her full details of his wife’s death.

By this time the man was so broken in spirit and so changed in body, that even his worst enemies might have pitied him. The trouble of the last few months had stript him of all his intellectual pride, and left him supremely sad.

But now, as ever, the mind of the man, though its light was clouded, turned in the direction of celestial or supermundane things. Readers who are differently constituted, and who regard such speculations as trivial or irrelevant, will doubtless have some difficulty in comprehending an individual who, through all vicissitudes of moral experience, invariably returned to the one set purpose of spiritual inquiry. To him one thing was paramount, even over all his own sorrows—the solution of the great problem of human life and immortality. This was his haunting idea, his monomania, so to speak. Just as a physiologist would examine his own blood under the microscope, just as a scientific inquirer would sacrifice his own life and happiness for the verification of a theory, so would Bradley ask himself, even when on the rack of moral torment, How far does this suffering help me to a solution of the mystery of life?

True, for a time he had been indifferent, even callous, drifting, on the vague current of agnosticism, he knew not whither; but that did not last for long: the very constitution of Bradley saved him from that indifferentness which is the chronic disease of so many modern men.

Infinitely tender of heart, he had been moved to the depths by his recent experience; he had felt, as all of us at some time feel, the sanctifying and purifying power of Death. A mean man would have exulted in the new freedom Death had brought; Bradley, on the other hand, stood stupefied and aghast at his own liberation. On a point of conscience he could have fought with, and perhaps conquered, all the prejudices of society; but when his very conscience turned against him he was paralysed with doubt, wonder, and despair.

He returned to London, and there awaited Alma’s answer. One day, urged by a sudden impulse, he bent his steps towards the mysterious house in Bayswater, and found Eustasia Mapleleafe sitting alone. Never had the little lady looked so strange and spirituelle. Her elfin-like face looked pale and worn, and her great wistful eyes were surrounded with dark melancholy rings. But she looked up as he entered, with her old smile.

‘I knew you would come,’ she cried. ‘I was thinking of you, and I felt the celestial agencies were going to bring us together. And I’m real glad to see you before we go away.’

‘You are leaving London?’ asked Bradley, as he seated himself close to her.

‘Yes. Salem talks of going back home before winter sets in and the fogs begin. I don’t seem able to breathe right in this air. If I stopped here long, I think I should die.’

As she spoke, she passed her thin transparent hand across her forehead, with a curious gesture of pain. As Bradley looked at her steadfastly she averted his gaze, and a faint hectic flush came into her cheeks.

‘Guess you think it don’t matter much,’ she continued with the sharp nervous laugh peculiar to her, ‘whether I live or die. Well, Mr. Bradley, I suppose you’re right, and I’m sure I don’t care much how soon I go.’

‘You are very young to talk like that,’ said Bradley gently; ‘but perhaps I misunderstand you, and you mean that you would gladly exchange this life for freer activity and larger happiness in another?’

Eustasia laughed again, but this time she looked full into her questioner’s eyes.

‘I don’t know about that,’ she replied. ‘What I mean is that I am downright tired, and should just like a good long spell of sleep.’ ‘But surely, if your belief is true, you look for something more than that?’

‘I don’t think I do. You mean I want to join the spirits, and go wandering about from one planet to another, or coming down to earth and making people uncomfortable? That seems a stupid sort of life, doesn’t it?—about as stupid as this one? I’d rather tuck my head under my wing, like a little bird, and go to sleep for ever!’

Bradley opened his eyes, amazed and a little disconcerted by the lady’s candour. Before he could make any reply she continued, in a low voice:

‘You see, I’ve got no one in the world to care for me, except Salem, my brother. He’s good to me, he is, but that doesn’t make up for everything. I don’t feel like a girl, but like an old woman. I’d rather be one of those foolish creatures you meet everywhere, who think of nothing but millinery and flirtation, than what I am. That’s all the good the spirits have done me, to spoil my good looks and make me old before my time. I hate them sometimes; I hate myself for listening to them, and I say what I said before—that if I’m to live on as they do, and go on in the same curious way, I’d sooner die!’

‘I wish you would be quite honest with me,’ said Bradley, after a brief pause. ‘I see you are ill, and I am sure you are unhappy. Suppose much of your illness, and all your unhappiness, came from your acquiescence in a scheme of folly and self-deception? You already know my opinion on these matters to which you allude. If I may speak quite frankly, I have always suspected you and your brother—but your brother more than you—of a conspiracy to deceive the public; and if I were not otherwise interested in you, if I did not feel for you the utmost sympathy and compassion, I should pass the matter by without a word. As it is, I would give a great deal if I could penetrate into the true motives of your conduct, and ascertain how far you are self-deluded.’

‘It’s no use,’ answered Eustasia, shaking her head sadly. ‘I can’t explain it all even to myself; impossible to explain to you.’

‘But do you seriously and verily believe in the truth of these so-called spiritual manifestations?’

‘Guess I do,’ returned the lady, with a decided nod.

‘You believe in them, even while you admit their stupidity, their absurdity?’

‘If you ask me, I think life is a foolish business altogether. That’s why I’d like to be done with it!’

‘But surely if spiritualism were an accepted fact, it would offer a solution of all the mysterious phenomena of human existence? It would demonstrate, at all events, that our experience does not cease with the body, which limits its area so much.’

Eustasia sighed wearily, and folding her thin hands on her knee, looked wearily at the fire, which flickered faintly in the grate. With all her candour of speech, she still presented to her interlocutor an expression of mysterious evasiveness. Nor was there any depth in her complaining sorrow. It seemed rather petulant and shallow than really solemn and profound.

‘I wish you wouldn’t talk about it,’ she said. ‘Talk to me about yourself, Mr. Bradley. You’ve been in trouble, I know; they told me. I’ve liked you ever since I first saw you, and I wish I could give you some help.’

Had Bradley been a different kind of man, he would scarcely have misunderstood the look she gave him then, full as it was of passionate admiration which she took no care to veil. Bending towards him, and looking into his eyes, she placed her hand on his; and the warm touch of the tremulous fingers went through him with a curious thrill. Nor did she withdraw the hand as she continued:

‘I’ve only seen one man in the world like you. He’s dead, he is. But you’re his image. I told Salem so the day I first saw you. Some folks say that souls pass from one body into another, and I almost believe it when I think of him and look at you.’

As she spoke, with tears in her eyes and a higher flush on her cheek, there was a footstep in the room, and looking up she saw her brother, who had entered unperceived. His appearance was fortunate, as it perhaps saved her from some further indiscretions. Bradley, who had been too absorbed in the thoughts awakened by her first question to notice the peculiarity of her manner, held out his hand to the new-comer.

‘Glad to see you again,’ said the Professor. ‘I suppose Eustasia has told you that we’re going back to the States? I calculate we haven’t done much good by sailing over. The people of England are a whole age behind the Americans, and won’t be ripe for our teaching till many a year has passed.’

‘When do you leave London?’

‘In eight days. We’re going to take passage in the “Maria,” which sails to-morrow week.’

‘Then you will give no more sÉances? I am sorry, for I should have liked to come again.’

Eustasia started, and looked eagerly at her brother.

‘Will you come to-night?’ she asked suddenly.

‘To-night!’ echoed Bradley. ‘Is a sÉance to be held?’

‘No, no,’ interrupted Mapleleafe. ‘But yes,’ added Eustasia. ‘We shall be alone, but that will be all the better. I should not like to leave England without convincing Mr. Bradley that there is something in your solar biology after all.’

‘You’ll waste your time, Eustasia,’ remarked the Professor drily. ‘You know what the poet says?

A man convinced against his will

Is of the same opinion still.

And I guess you’ll never convert Mr. Bradley.’

‘I’ll try, at any rate,’ returned Eustasia, smiling; then turning to the clergyman with an eager wistful look, she added, ‘You’ll come, won’t you? To-night at seven.’

Bradley promised, and immediately afterwards took his leave. He had not exaggerated in expressing his regret at the departure of the curious pair; for since his strange experience at Boulogne he was intellectually unstrung, and eager to receive spiritual impressions, even from a quarter which he distrusted. He unconsciously felt, too, the indescribable fascination which Eustasia, more than most women, knew how to exert on highly organised persons of the opposite sex.

Left alone, the brother and sister looked at each other for some moments in silence; then the Professor exclaimed half angrily:

‘You’ll kill yourself, Eustasia, that’s what you’ll do! I’ve foreseen it all along, just as I foresaw it when you first met Ulysses S. Stedman. You’re clean gone on this man, and if I wasn’t ready to protect you, Lord knows you’d make a fool of yourself again.’

Eustasia looked up in his face and laughed. It was curious to note her change of look and manner; her face was still pale and elfin-like, but her eyes were full of malicious light.

‘Never mind, Salem,’ she replied. ‘You just leave Mr. Bradley to me.’

‘He’s not worth spooning over, said Mapleleafe indignantly; ‘and let me tell you, Eustasia, you’re not strong enough to go on like this. Think of your state of health! Doctor Quin says you’ll break up if you don’t take care!’

He paused, and looked at her in consternation. She was lying back in the sofa with her thin arms joined behind her head, and ‘crooning’ to herself, as was her frequent habit.

This time the words and tune were from a familiar play, which she had seen represented at San Francisco.

Black spirits and white,

Blue spirits and grey,

Mingle, mingle, mingle,

You that mingle may!

‘I do believe you’re downright mad!’ exclaimed the little Professor. ‘Tell me the truth, Eustasia—do you love this man Bradley?’

Eustasia ceased singing, but remained in the same attitude.

‘I loved him who is dead,’ she replied, ‘and I love Mr. Bradley because he is so like the other. If you give me time I will win him over; I will make him love me.’

‘What nonsense you’re talking!’

‘Nonsense? It’s the truth!’ cried Eustasia, springing up and facing her brother. ‘Why should I not love him? Why should he not love me? Am I to spend all my life like a slave, with no one to care for me, no one to give me a kind word? I won’t do it. I want to be free. I’m tired of sitting at home all day alone, and playing the sibyl to the fools you bring here at night. Lord knows I haven’t long to live; before I die I want to draw in one good long breath of love and joy! Perhaps it will kill me as you say—so much the better—I should like to die like that!’

‘Eustasia, will you listen to reason?’ exclaimed the distracted Professor. ‘You’re following a will-o’-the-wisp, that’s what you are! This man don’t care about any woman in the world but one, and you’re wasting your precious time.’

‘I know my power, and you know it too, Salem. I’m going to bring him to my feet.’

‘How, Eustasia?’

‘Wait, and you will see!’ answered the girl, with her low, nervous laugh.

‘Think better of it!’ persisted her brother.

‘You promised me, after Ulysses S. Stedman died, to devote all your life, strength, and thought to the beautiful cause of scientific spiritualism. Nature has made you a living miracle, Eustasia! I do admire to see one so gifted throwing herself away, just like a schoolgirl, on the first good-looking man she meets!’

‘I hate spiritualism,’ was the reply. ‘What has it done for me? Broken my heart, Salem, and wasted my life. I’ve dwelt too long with ghosts; I want to feel my life as other women do. And I tell you I will!’

‘The poor Professor shook his head dubiously, but saw that there was no more to be said—at any rate just then.

At seven o’clock that evening Bradley returned to the house in Bayswater, and found the brother and sister waiting for him.

Eustasia wore a loose-fitting robe of black velvet, cut low round the bust, and without sleeves. Her neck and arms were beautifully though delicately moulded, white and glistening as satin, and the small serpent-like head, with its wonderfully brilliant eyes, was surmounted by a circlet of pearls.

Bradley looked at her in surprise. Never before had she seemed so weirdly pretty.

The Professor, on the other hand, despite his gnome-like brow, appeared unusually ignoble and commonplace. He was ill at ease, too, and cast distrustful glances from time to time at his sister, whose manner was as brilliant as her appearance, and who seemed to have cast aside the depression which she had shown during the early part of the day.

After some little desultory conversation, Bradley expressed his impatience for the sÉance to begin. The landlady of the house, herself (as the reader is aware) an adept, was therefore summoned to give the party, and due preparations made by drawing the window-blinds and extinguishing the gas. Before the lights were quite put out, however, the Professor addressed his sister.

‘Eustasia, you’re not well! Say the word, and I’m sure Mr. Bradley will excuse you for to-night.’

The appeal was in vain, Eustasia persisting. The sÉance began. The Professor and Mrs. Piozzi Smith were vis-À-vis, while Eustasia, her back towards the folding-doors communicating to the inner chamber, sat opposite to Bradley.

The clergyman was far less master of himself than on the former occasions. No sooner did he find himself in total darkness than his heart began to beat with great muffled throbs, and nervous thrills ran through his frame. Before there was the slightest intimation of any supernatural presence, he seemed to see before him the dead face of his wife, white and awful as he had beheld it in that darkened chamber at Boulogne. Then the usual manifestations began; bells were rung, faint lights flashed hither and thither, the table round which they were seated rose in the air, mysterious hands were passed over Bradley’s face. He tried to retain his self-possession, but found it impossible; a sickening sense of horror and fearful anticipation overmastered him, so that the clammy sweat stood upon his brow, and his body trembled like a reed.

Presently the voice of the little Professor was heard saying:

‘Who is present? Will any of our dear friends make themselves known?’

There was a momentary pause. Then an answer came in the voice of Eustasia, but deeper and less clear.

‘I am here.’

‘Who are you?’

‘Laura, a spirit of the winged planet Jupiter. I speak through the bodily mouth of our dear sister, who is far away, walking with my brethren by the lake of golden fire.’

‘Are you alone?’

‘N! others are present—I see them passing to and fro. One is bright and beautiful. Her face is glorious, but she wears a raiment like a shroud.’

‘What does that betoken?’

‘It betokens that she has only just died.’

A shiver ran through Bradley’s frame. Could the dead indeed be present? and if so, what dead? His thoughts flew back once more to that miserable death-chamber by the sea. The next moment something like a cold hand touched him, and alow voice murmured in his ear:

‘Ambrose! are you listening? It is I!’

‘Who speaks?’ he murmured under breath. ‘Alma! Do you know me?’

Was it possible? Doubtless lbs phantasy deceived him, but he seemed once more to hear the very tones of her he loved.

‘Do not move!’ continued the voice. ‘Perhaps this is a last meeting for a long time, for I am called away. It is your Alma’s spirit that speaks to you; her body lies dead at Rome.’

A wild cry burst from Bradley’s lips, and he sank back in his chair, paralysed and overpowered.

‘It is a cheat!’ he gasped. ‘It is no spirit that is speaking to me, but a living woman.’

And he clutched in the direction of the voice, but touched only the empty air.

‘If you break the conditions, I must depart!’ cried the voice faintly, as if from a distant part of the room.

‘Shall I break up the sÉance?’ asked the Professor.

‘No!’ cried Bradley, again joining his hands with those of his neighbours to complete the circle. ‘Go on! go on!’

‘Are our dear friends still present?’ demanded the Professor.

‘I am here,’ returned the voice of Eustasia. ‘I see the spirit of a woman, weeping and wringing her hands; it is she that wears the shroud. She speaks to me. She tells us that her earthly name was a word which signifies holy.’

‘In God’s name,’ cried Bradley, ‘what does it mean? She of whom you speak is not dead?—no, no!’

Again he felt the touch of a clammy hand, and again he heard the mysterious voice.

‘Death is nothing; it is only a mystery—a change. The body is nothing; the spirit is all-present and all-powerful. Keep quiet; and I will try to materialise myself even more.’

He sat still in shivering expectation; then he felt a touch like breath upon his forehead, and two lips, warm with life, were pressed close to his, while at the same moment he felt what seemed a human bosom heaving against his own. If this phenomenon was supernatural, it was certainly very real; for the effect was of warm and living flesh. Certain now that he was being imposed upon, Bradley determined to make certain by seizing the substance of the apparition. He had scarcely, however, withdrawn his arms from the circle, when the phenomenon ceased; there was a loud cry from the others present; and on the gas being lit, Eustasia and the rest were seen sitting quietly in their chairs, the former just recovering from a state of trance.

‘I warned you, Eustasia,’ cried the Professor indignantly. ‘I knew Mr. Bradley was not a fair inquirer, and would be certain to break the conditions.’

‘It is an outrage,’ echoed the lady of the house. ‘The heavenly intelligences will never forgive us.’

Without heeding these remonstrances, Bradley, deathly pale, was gazing intently at Eustasia. She met his gaze quietly enough, but her heightened colour and sparkling eyes betokened that she was labouring under great excitement.

‘It is infamous!’ he cried. ‘I am certain now that this is a vile conspiracy.’

‘Take care, sir, take care!’ exclaimed the

Professor. ‘There’s law in the land, and——’

‘Hush, Salem!’ said Eustasia gently. ‘Mr. Bradley does not mean what he says. He is too honourable to make charges which he cannot substantiate, even against a helpless girl. He is agitated by what he has seen tonight, but he will do us justice when he has thought it over.’

Without replying, Bradley took up his hat and moved to the door; but, turning suddenly, he again addressed the medium:

‘I cannot guess by what means you have obtained your knowledge of my private life, but you are trading upon it to destroy the happiness of a fellow-creature. God forgive you! Your own self-reproach and self-contempt will avenge me; I cannot wish you any sorer punishment than the infamy and degradation of the life you lead.’

With these words he would have departed, but, swift as lightning, Eustasia flitted across the room and blocked his way.

‘Don’t go yet!’ she cried. ‘Of what do you accuse me? Why do you blame me for what the spirits have done?’

‘The spirits!’ he repeated bitterly. ‘I’m not a child, to be so easily befooled. In one sense, indeed, you have conjured up devils, who some day or another will compass your own destruction.’

‘That’s true enough—they may be devils,’ said Eustasia. ‘Salem knows—we all know—that we can’t prevent the powers of evil from controlling the powers of good, and coming in their places. Guess some of them have been at work to-night. Mr. Bradley, perhaps it’s our last meeting on earth. Won’t you shake hands?’ As she spoke her wild eyes were full of tears, which streamed down her face. Acting under a sudden impulse, Bradley took her outstretched hand, held it firmly, and looked her in the face.

‘Confess the cheat, and I will freely forgive you. It was you personated one who is dear to me, and whom you pretended to be a spirit risen from the grave.’

‘Don’t answer him, Eustasia!’ exclaimed the Professor. ‘He ought to know that’s impossible, for you never left your seat.’

‘Certainly not,’ said Mrs. Piozzi Smith.

But Bradley, not heeding the interruption, still watched the girl and grasped her passive hand.

‘Answer me! Tell me the truth!’

‘How can I tell you?’ answered Eustasia. ‘I was tranced, and my spirit was far away. I don’t even know what happened.’

With a contemptuous gesture, Bradley released her, and walked from the room. All his soul revolted at the recent experience; yet mingled with his angry scepticism was a certain vague sense of dread. If, after all, he had not been deceived, and something had happened to Alma; if, as the sÉance seemed to suggest, she was no longer living! The very thought almost turned his brain. Dazed and terrified, he made his way down the dark passage and left the house.

No sooner had he gone than Eustasia uttered a low cry, threw her arms into the air, and sank swooning upon the floor.

Her brother raised her in a moment, and placed her upon the sofa. It was some minutes before she recovered. When she did so, and gazed wildly around, there was a tiny fleck of red upon her lips, like blood.

She looked up in her brother’s face, and began laughing hysterically.

‘Eustasia! For God’s sake, control yourself! You’ll make yourself downright ill!’

Presently the hysterical fit passed away.

‘Leave us together, please!’ she said to the grim woman of the house. ‘I—I wish to speak to my brother.’

Directly the woman had retired, she took her brother by the hand.

‘Don’t be angry with me, Salem!’ she said softly. ‘I’m not long for this world now, and I want you to grant me one request.’

‘What is it, Eustasia?’ asked the Professor, touched by her strangely tender manner.

‘Don’t take me away from England just yet. Wait a little while longer.’

‘Eustasia, let me repeat, you’re following a will-o’-the-wisp, you are indeed! Take my advice, and never see that man again!’

‘I must—I will!’ she cried. ‘O Salem, I’ve used him cruelly, but I love him! I shall die now if you take me away!’