She was so excited all that day that she could hardly wait for the night. After tea she said mysteriously to Felicity, “You remember what we were talking of yesterday afternoon?”
Felicity seemed to ponder deeply for some time, then, as if suddenly remembering, said, “Oh, yes, I remember.”
“Well,” confided Mrs. Fanning yet more mysteriously, “I’m having most wonderful, wonderful experiences, dear child. Psychic experiences. Wonderful. I can’t tell you what they are, of course, and you mustn’t even mention to anyone else that I’m having them. You’ll promise me not to, won’t you.”
Felicity promised not to.
The next night Mrs. Fanning intended to slip out and continue her digging, but despite her determination to stay awake she fell asleep almost at once. As a matter of fact, she’d been feeling unusually sleepy all day. She had gone to lie down after lunch and had slept from two to four. It had been, too, with a certain wistfulness in voice and eyes that at tea-time she said, “No, thank you, dear,” to Lady Montague’s “Nothing to eat, I suppose, dear?”
She woke up with a start. Once more the ghostly visitor—elaborately-dressed brown hair, pale face, silk draperies, and all—stood in the shaft of moonlight, beckoning. Once more Mrs. Fanning rose, slipped on coat, stockings and shoes, and followed her down the stairs to the garden. And, this time, the ghostly visitant led her to a different part of the garden, pointed to quite a different bed, wrung her hands again, and again disappeared. There were several yew hedges about the garden—thick and tall—that were very convenient for disappearing. Mrs. Fanning seized the spade that lay near, and dug away in a sort of fine frenzy of inspiration. She was so stimulated and thrilled by the psychic experiences she was passing through that she felt no weariness at all. She could have dug for ever. She didn’t find the buried treasure, but she still felt so excited by the memory of her ghostly visitant that she really didn’t mind. She dug till the first streaks of dawn appeared, then retired to bed and fell into a heavy sleep—so heavy that she didn’t feel at all ready to awaken when the maid appeared in the morning.
“Er—would you be wanting an egg and bacon this morning, mum?” said the maid rather nervously, “or just the dry toast.”
“Two eggs and bacon, please,” said Mrs. Fanning, very firmly. She wrote letters all morning, and she made quite a good lunch. She lay down all afternoon and she came down very promptly for tea.
“Nothing to eat for you, dear, I suppose, as usual?” said Lady Montague, in the voice of hushed reverence in which she always said it.
And, to her great surprise, Mrs. Fanning said, rather snappily, “Yes, please, dear. The buttered toast. Thank you.”
Sadly Lady Montague watched Mrs. Fanning eat two slices of buttered toast and half-a-dozen sandwiches. It was as if she had discovered her idol to have feet of clay. She had looked upon Mrs. Fanning as the one perfect lady of her acquaintance, and it was sad to see her fall thus from her high estate. Of course, it might be a symptom of some virulent disease. Lady Montague was, in fact, inclined to think that it must be that. Tentatively she said:
“Do you feel—ill at all, my dear?”
And instead of answering faintly, weakly, reproachfully, as she’d have answered a few days ago, “My dear, I always feel ill,” she said, almost snappily, “Of course not. I feel perfectly well.”
They all dispersed after tea, except Felicity. So, as Mrs. Fanning simply had to confide in someone, she confided in Felicity.
“Do you remember our little conversation the other day, dear?” she said, in a confidential whisper.
Felicity said that she did.
“Well—I can’t tell you much, of course, but my psychic experiences are continuing, growing more and more wonderful. Deeper and more intimate. To describe them would be, of course, to betray the trust placed in me by the—er—psychic powers. But the most wonderful part of it all is, my child, the healing power it brings. Wonderful. Amazing. A curious sense of physical fitness to which I have always till now been a stranger.”
Felicity, her thick lashes lowered over dancing eyes, forebore to remark that always till now Mrs. Fanning had been a stranger to good bouts of hard digging, lasting for several hours.
“Contact with the psychic world,” went on Mrs. Fanning, “seems to bring with it the most amazing flow of—er—health and energy.”
Felicity raised her eyes.
Mrs. Fanning’s were fixed upon her intently. Felicity’s met them with perlucid innocence.
“You’re—not unlike the—er—Lady Georgia Harborough whose portrait is in the hall, are you, dear?” said Mrs. Fanning.
“No,” said Felicity, still with perlucid innocence. “She was my ancestress, you know.”
“Of course”—Mrs. Fanning was still studying her intently—“her hair is—I mean—was darker and she’s—I mean—was much paler than you. Otherwise—in the features—there’s a distinct resemblance.”
“Do you think so?” said Felicity. “Do you think I’m very like her portrait?”
“Ah, no,” said Mrs. Fanning mysteriously, “I wasn’t thinking of the portrait. Not of the portrait. No, not the portrait. Ah!” she shook her forefinger playfully at Felicity, “you mustn’t try to make me tell you things that I mustn’t tell to anyone. Those who live in contact with the psychic world, dear, have great responsibilities, and one of them is silence in the presence of the uninitiated, dear, if you know what I mean, and I’m afraid that, psychically speaking, most people are uninitiated. Only to a very few of us is it given to pierce the veil. All I will say to you, dear, is that I’m going through experiences that I am sure you would love to share with me” (Felicity’s mouth twitched for a second, then regained its wistful solemnity).
But, earnestly, “to change the subject, dear—where exactly is this treasure supposed to be?”
“No one knows,” said Felicity, “she’s supposed to come back to tell someone—you remember, I told you the other evening? . . . and that the others hate it being mentioned.” Felicity spoke almost anxiously. She wanted to make that point quite clear, “and that if the one she appears to tells anyone some evil comes to her—or him.”
Mrs Fanning gave a little amused laugh.
“Oh, my dear, you may trust me to keep my own counsel. You know, dear, I feel this night I am to enter upon a deeper stage of psychic revelation. . . . What a long time they are coming for the tea-things. Yes, dear, if you’ll pass it, I’ll have that last sandwich. I do so hate to see anything wasted.”
*
Mrs. Fanning was right. That night she entered on a second, deeper stage of psychic revelation. The figure appeared as usual on the shaft of moonlight, stood silent and motionless for a few seconds as usual, then slowly beckoned. Mrs. Fanning had her coat and shoes ready by her bed, but this time the figure did not lead her down to the garden. It led her, instead, down the stairs to the hall. On the wall in the hall hung a large map of the surrounding district. The figure approached this, put out a white finger, touched a certain spot, and while Mrs. Fanning was eagerly bending her short sight upon the spot, disappeared. There was a leather screen just near the map that was very convenient for disappearing. Mrs. Fanning stood staring at the map. The figure had touched Frene Hill—a hill about four miles from the Hall. No one, thought Mrs. Fanning, not even a ghost, could expect her to trapse out there in the middle of the night with just a coat over her nightdress. She went slowly back to bed and fell asleep again. She woke up a little less hungry than on the preceding two mornings, and only had one egg with her bacon.
Someone enquired for her during the morning.
“I expect she’s writing letters in the drawing-room,” said Lady Montague.
But the drawing-room was empty except for Felicity, who was yawning over a book. Felicity felt rather sleepy these mornings.
“Then she’s resting in her bedroom,” said Lady Montague in tones of deep satisfaction, “she’s a perfect invalid, you know,” she added with pride. “Ea
ts nothing. Never sleeps a wink at night, and has to rest all day. A perfect martyr.”
But Mrs. Fanning wasn’t resting in her bedroom. Mrs. Fanning, breathless and flushed with exercise, had just finished the four-mile walk to Frene Hill, and was borrowing a spade from a cottager. She then began to dig up the earth on the top of the hill. She worked vigorously. A small crowd of children gathered round to watch, but very little local interest was aroused. It was known that there was a house-party at the Hall and members of house-parties are notoriously mad.
She returned to the Hall in time for lunch.
She hadn’t found the treasure, but in spite of that she felt much invigorated. She ate an enormous lunch. Lady Montague tried not to watch her eating an enormous lunch, but her eyes kept wandering to her in fascinated horror.
After lunch, she drew Rosemary on one side.
“That poor Mrs. Fanning!” she said, “I’m afraid it’s the beginning of the end.”
“What end?” said Rosemary, without much interest.
“Didn’t you notice at lunch? Her hectic flush and feverish eyes.”
“I noticed that she ate more than anyone,” said Rosemary, indifferently.
“My dear, that’s what I mean. It’s the beginning of the end. She’s been wasting for years. Wasting. Literally wasting. And then comes this sudden—er—abnormal appetite, this hectic flush, this feverish sparkle in the eyes. I only hope the end won’t come when she’s here. It would be so very awkward for us—with the house full of visitors. . . .”
But Rosemary wasn’t interested, so she went off to try and find a more sympathetic audience. She found Felicity curled up on the window-seat of the morning-room, half asleep. Lady Montague did not often confide in Felicity, but to-day she had to confide in someone and there was no one else. Felicity gave her all the sympathy she could desire. Felicity, with demure blue eyes and fugitive dimples, agreed with all she said.
“I expect that at this very moment,” ended Lady Montague, “the poor woman is lying on her bed trying to fight this last attack of the enemy. I will beg her to-night to call in a doctor.”
But the poor woman wasn’t lying on her bed trying to fight this last attack of the enemy. The poor woman was on Frene Hill again digging for all she was worth. She’d started off directly after lunch, found the walk a mere nothing, and set to work with vigour. She didn’t find the treasure, but she didn’t feel tired. In fact, she felt that she could have gone on digging during the whole evening if she hadn’t been so frightfully hungry. She got back a little late for tea. Extraordinary, she thought, irritably, what wholly inadequate provision people made for tea nowadays. When all was said and done, it was a meal like any other meal, and at a meal one surely had a right to expect enough to eat. When Moult had been summoned three times to replenish the dish of buttered toast for her she began to notice that the other guests were looking at her rather pointedly, but the knowledge didn’t trouble her at all. She was bathed in that delicious sense of weariness that only a day’s hard exercise can bring. She wanted a good tea and she was going to have it, and then she was going to have a hot bath and a rest.
Lady Montague watched her in horror. She was realising that this was not the beginning of the end after all. The flush was the flush of rude health. The clear eyes were the clear eyes of rude health. The appetite was the appetite of rude health. Mrs. Fanning wasn’t an invalid at all. She’d fallen with a crash from the pedestal upon which Lady Montague had set her, and never again did she ascend it. Ever after this day Lady Montague was cold and reserved in her manner to her. Ever after this day Lady Montague, when discussing her with other people, said, “Yes, she’s very nice indeed, but—–’’ This, of course, is by the way, because it never troubled Mrs. Fanning or anyone else.
Mrs. Fanning was very sleepy that evening and went to bed very early, but before she went she had another little conversation with Felicity. She called her on one side and said, in a confidential whisper, “I was right, dear. My—my psychic revelation did enter on a second and deeper stage last night. It’s not as clear as it seemed to be at first. It’s—it’s not just a case of—the buried treasure, I think. I think there’s some deeper meaning, after all. I can only follow and obey and the meaning will come to me sooner or later. But, my dear, I can’t describe the feeling—the feeling of health and well-being that contact with the psychic world brings one. I can’t tell you any—er—more detail, you know, dear, because as you told me yourself, one shouldn’t. I’m very sleepy and I’m going to bed now, dear child, so I’ll say good-night. I only hope that yet another psychic vision may be granted me.”
Her wish was granted. Yet another psychic vision was granted her that night, and the night after, and the night after that. And, indeed, every night the psychic vision took her down to the hall and pointed out a spot on the local map several miles from the Hall, and disappeared while she was studying. And every morning Mrs. Fanning set off to this spot on the local map and dug there, and came home to lunch, and then went off there again, and dug there in the afternoon. She went in all weathers. Her face grew weather-beaten. Her eyes grew yet brighter. She ate enormous meals. Lady Montague could not look at her without wincing. In the end the psychic vision tired of it before Mrs. Fanning did. The dress and wig took a lot of arranging, and it was growing harder and harder every night to keep awake till the midnight hour beloved of ghosts. Moreover, the moon was waning and the whole thing was becoming less impressive without moonlight. So, at the end of the week, Felicity, finding Mrs. Fanning alone in the drawing-room, had another little conversation with her. She began brightly and naively.
“Do you remember my telling you about a fortnight ago about our ghost that no one’s ever seen.”
Mrs. Fanning smiled and looked very wise and mysterious, and said, “Yes, dear, but don’t say that no one’s ever seen.”
“Well, there was one part of it I quite forgot to tell you,” went on Felicity, with her engaging air of childlike innocence.
“What was that, dear?” said Mrs. Fanning.
“It’s only supposed to appear one fortnight every fifty years. And—–” Felicity looked surprised, as if she’d made a sudden discovery, “why—it’s this fortnight, this last fortnight it’s supposed to have come. What nonsense it all is! No one’s even seen it!”
Mrs. Fanning looked yet more wise and mysterious.
“Don’t say that, my dear child. Perhaps the most psychic member of this party has seen it. Perhaps it has brought some message to the most psychic member of the party that—er—that the most psychic member of the party perhaps can’t quite understand, but is grateful for the experience. Of course, no one really psychic talks about these experiences.” She looked thoughtful for a minute, then said, “Then it won’t appear again for fifty years, then?”
“No,” said Felicity, “not according to the legend.”
Mrs. Fanning did a hasty mental sum in arithmetic.
“I may be rather old by then,” she admitted, “but if I can I’ll try to come back to Bridgeways Hall for the second part of the message. I am sure that I have so far had only the first. The second will make it intelligible. In any case I feel that I have been greatly privileged, and it is an experience I shall never forget.”
Felicity went to bed and had the best night she’d had for two weeks. In the morning she watched Mrs. Fanning anxiously. Mrs. Fanning was restless. She didn’t seem quite to know what to do and where to go. She’d had no psychic vision in the night to tell her what to do or where to go. It was raining. She wandered about aimlessly for some time. Then she seemed to come to a sudden decision. She put on her mackintosh and went for a long walk. In the afternoon she did the same. A great relief came over Felicity. She had not sacrificed her nights’ rest for a fortnight in vain.
The next day after breakfast the party split up as usual.
Mr. Partridge was just setting off for his lonely walk when his sister came up to him.
“Are you going for a walk,
James?” she said.
“Yes,” said James.
“I will accompany you, if I may,” said his sister firmly. “I have lately formed the habit of a daily walk and think that I should find it most deleterious to my health to forgo it. In fact, I should much dislike to forgo it. If you will allow me, I will accompany you regularly on your walks.”
Mr. Partridge’s face lit up.
“I shall be delighted,” he said.
Sheila and Felicity watched them set off in silence.
“My dear!” gasped Sheila in amazement, “it’s an absolute miracle. Who and what’s wrought it?”
Felicity slowly closed one speedwell-blue eye.
Chapter Eleven
Mrs. Franklin’s Maid
“How’s your mother, Frankie?” said Felicity from her usual perch on Franklin’s desk.
Franklin smiled, and there was something of gratitude in his smile. Felicity was rather nice about remembering to ask after his mother. And it wasn’t just empty politeness. She did really care. Felicity had a heart large enough to include all her friends’ friends and relations.
“She’s splendid,” he said, “as fit as fit. I’ve just been getting a skivvy for her.”
“Was that what you went away for yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“Did you get one?”
“Yes.”
“A nice one?”
‘‘I think so. She hasn’t any experience, but my mother’s going to train her. She’s going to her to-morrow.”
“Where does she live?”
“The skiv? She lives at Larcombe.”
“That’s where Rosemary’s going to-morrow. She’s going to stay at Larcombe Towers.”
“Is she? It’s a god-forsaken place as far as trains are concerned. I’ve been trying to fix up this skiv’s journey to my mother, but it seems to mean changing trains about six times, although it’s only ten miles from Larcombe as the crow flies.”
Felicity considered, then her face suddenly shone.
Felicity - Stands By Page 18
