She covered her face with her hands.
"Oh, blessed assurance," Lord Ronald murmured.
"Let us pray," said Miss Ditherson. She bowed her head.
"Damn," said Roger Carlton.
None of those who might have objected seemed to hear this vulgarity, except Marianne. She glanced at Carlton. He looked back at her, not as if she were someone he had never met, but as if she were the sort of person he would never have any occasion to meet. "Do something, Gruffstone, will you?" he demanded. "If you don't, I will."
"Um," said the doctor. "Quite. Yes. Um… ladies and gentlemen – that is, Lord Ronald – why don't you all go away? Yes. Please do go away immediately."
Even Lady Morton left without comment or complaint. For the first time since Marianne had met her she seemed completely cowed.
When the guests had taken their departure the Duchess finally stirred. She removed the veiling hands from her face, showing a countenance once more under control.
"I do beg your pardon," she said in her familiar gentle voice. "And I thank you, Horace, for taking charge so nicely. You need not worry about me, I have never felt better. Will you and Roger please excuse us now?"
The doctor started to expostulate. The Duchess cut him short. "You may call tomorrow if you like, though there is no need. But please come early. We will be leaving shortly after noon for Scotland."
CHAPTER EIGHT
The trip north was as far from Marianne's first experience of train travel as night is from day. The Duchess's private carriage had been attached to the engine of the Edinburgh express. It was furnished like an elegant drawing room, with soft sofas on which to sleep, and its own small kitchen. If Marianne had not felt the vibrations she would have found it hard to believe she was in a moving vehicle.
She had been in a daze all day. The Duchess had been too busy to answer questions; organizing a sizable household for a long journey on short notice had required considerable effort, and not until they actually boarded the train had the Duchess relaxed. At luncheon, served on board, they had been attended by two footmen, so there was no opportunity for private conversations. As soon as luncheon was over the Duchess announced that she intended to rest, and suggested that Marianne do the same.
Marianne was unable to follow this advice. Reclining on the couch she stared out the window, watching the landscape rush past, half obscured in a gray mist of rain. The grimy suburbs of London were replaced by green countryside, and then by the dark satanic mills of the industrial Midlands before the Duchess's regular breathing changed to a yawn and then to other sounds of waking.
Marianne turned. The car was quite dark. "Shall I call your maid, ma'am?"
"No, my child. Let us sit here in the shadows a while longer. Unless it troubles you?"
"Not at all," Marianne said. Indeed, she welcomed the darkness. It gave her courage for what must be done.
The Duchess anticipated her. "I know you must be full of questions. Believe me, the only reason why I have delayed this conversation was on your account. I want so much to have you understand and accept. It is necessary for us to speak at leisure, calmly; and until now there has been no proper time. Last night I was – oh, yes, I confess it! – I was overcome. This morning there was much to be done. But now the time has come. Ask, and I will answer."
It must be understood that although Marianne's father – or rather, let us say Squire Ransom, for the situation at present is far from clear – Squire Ransom tried to guard his speech in the presence of his daughter, Marianne was by no means ignorant of the more emphatic expletives of the English tongue. She had overheard a great deal. The Squire, in one of his rages, was audible at a considerable distance, and her playmates, Billy and Jack, had not always remembered to whom they spoke. Her self-control on this occasion can only be attributed to the respect she felt for the Duchess. What she really wanted to do was pound on the window with both fists and shout, "What the b- h- happened last night?"
Instead she said meekly, "Would you mind telling me, ma'am, what I said last night? You said then that I said something, but I don't remember what I said."
"What is the last thing you remember?" "The table began to rock. And Dr. Gruffstone remarked…no. First you told him to be still. Then he said something about arrant nonsense. Then he said my pulse was normal… and all the lights were turned on."
"You went into a trance state," the Duchess said. "Do you know what that is?" "I… Yes, ma'am. I think so." "In that condition another entity – a spirit – takes possession of the mind of the medium – you. Many mediums have spirit controls. These controls are intermediaries between the blessed ones who have passed on and those of us who wait on this side of the veil."
"I have read of such things," Marianne said. "A control is like a master of ceremonies. He introduces the ones who want to speak to us."
"Very good, my dear. A spirit control is very much like a master of ceremonies. He performs the introductions, refuses admittance to disruptive, malevolent spirits, and warns us when the performance must come to an end. Last night your spirit control came to us. Her name is Pudenzia."
"Oh, dear," Marianne gasped. "You mean, ma'am, that I said -"
"Not you. It was Pudenzia who spoke to us with your organs of speech. You were not there. That is why you cannot remember what happened. It is common in the trance state."
"Oh, dear," Marianne said again. "But – but, ma'am – how do you know I wasn't making it all up?"
This ingenuous query made the Duchess laugh. "My dearest child, the fact that you could ask such a question proves you are above such wickedness. Not that I ever thought you capable of it! However, if it will relieve your innocent mind, I will tell you that Pudenzia gave me certain information that you could not possibly have known."
"What information? Oh, do forgive me; I didn't mean to pry -"
"There can be no secrets between us now. Would you like to know exactly what you said?"
"Oh, yes! If you can remember."
"Every word is imprinted on my heart." There was a brief pause, fraught with emotion. Then the Duchess resumed. "It took us some time to realize that you were in a trance. Mr. Carlton was the first to note that your hand had become limp; then I observed the change in your breathing. I asked if you could hear me; you did not reply. I then asked if someone else was present. Your voice said: 'I am Pudenzia.' "
Marianne was thrilled. She felt no alarm because she could not really imagine that this had happened to her. It was like hearing a story about someone else.
"Was my voice different?" she asked eagerly.
"Oh, yes. It was slower; you spoke with difficulty, as if in a foreign tongue, and at first your words were halting, your sentences incomplete. I asked who Pudenzia was, and received no reply. Then I asked if someone wanted to speak to me. And Pudenzia said…"
"Yes, ma'am?"
"Forgive me my emotion. You have such a sympathetic nature you must have suspected that I have long been awaiting a message from… from David. For years I have tried to reach him, and have met with one heartbreaking disappointment after another. You see, Marianne, I am not so gullible as some people believe. I know there are many fraudulent mediums. A number of times I had received what purported to be David's words, but they never rang true; they never passed the tests I applied to them."
"Did you apply such tests last night?" Marianne asked.
"There was no need. The proof was given me. Your control, Pudenzia, told me there was a spirit who desired desperately to reach me. Never before had he found a vessel pure enough. That is most significant, don't you think? Then she said – and this, my dear, is the proof I speak of- she said, 'He carries the golden heart.' My dear, I gave David a locket of that very shape! He was wearing it when he disappeared. Now, Miss Marianne Ransom of Yorkshire could not possibly have known that."
"I certainly did not," Marianne replied, awed.
"So you see, I am convinced. These things take time and experience; you are still unskil
led, and it would never do to force you beyond your strength. But when you have become accustomed to the trance state, then I may hope to hear David himself speak to me through your lips."
"Oh, ma'am," Marianne began, not at all sure she liked this idea.
"You cannot imagine how great a gift you have given me. I was in despair. Heaven forgive me, I was beginning to doubt. I have you to thank for the greatest happiness I have known since my darling passed on."
"Oh," Marianne said.
She was unable to say more. Thrilling and mysterious as her new situation was, it carried such an awesome weight of responsibility that she felt unable to sustain it. The fact that she had no conscious control over her gift made the burden even more frightening. Torn between a pleasurable sensation of importance and the fear of failure, she was more inclined to fear than to enjoy. But there was no way for her to abdicate the responsibility. The Duchess's dependence made that fact impossible.
Now cheerful and refreshed, the Duchess ordered tea and caused the lights to be lighted. As they sipped the fragrant beverage and nibbled on sandwiches, the older woman said thoughtfully, "I have been wondering who Pudenzia was, in this life. The name is Latin, of course."
"More tea, miss?" said Wilton, the parlormaid. Marianne glanced curiously at the woman's well-schooled, impassive face, wondering what the servants thought of their mistress's obsessive hobby. She did not doubt that the servants' hall knew every detail of what had transpired on the previous evening.
"We will serve ourselves, Wilton," said the Duchess.
The maid withdrew, her eyes respectfully lowered, and the Duchess resumed as if there had been no interruption.
"I think I remember hearing, when I was in Rome some years ago, of a Saint Pudenzia."
"A saint!" Marianne exclaimed. "I don't understand. I thought Pudenzia was a spirit."
"The spirit of someone who once lived. All those who have passed beyond were once on this plane. Perhaps next time she communicates she will tell us something of her history. The saint I am thinking of was a gently born Roman maiden who was martyred by Nero – or was it Diocletian? – because she refused to give up her – er – her maidenhood and her faith to marry a pagan."
"But," said Marianne doubtfully, "Mrs. Jay told me that the saints of the Roman church were pagan idols… or something of that sort."
"Mrs. Jay? Ah, yes, the vicar's wife. Well, my dear, I am sorry to say that many of our religious leaders are extremely narrow people. If they were not, they would not oppose spiritualism. Not that I believe in the Roman system of sainthood. That is a misunderstanding. Pudenzia was probably a sweet, innocent girl who is devoting her time in the next world to helping those less fortunate."
In such pleasant speculations they passed the time until dinner. Marianne knew very little of the complex hagiology of early Christianity; she found the legends enthralling. The number of beautiful maidens who had embraced martyrdom rather than submit to the embraces of pagan lovers was, if not legion, at least very extensive. After the Duchess had taken a glass or two of wine she even mentioned the word "virgin" in connection with the lovely young martyrs.
After dinner they played a few games of cards, but Marianne admitted that she found the motion of the train made her drowsy, so they retired early.
Marianne dropped off to sleep at once; but sometime later she found herself suddenly and unaccountably wide awake. She felt quite cozy in the cunning little bed and could not imagine what had awakened her. Across the way she heard the Duchess's regular breathing. She did not wish to strike a light, for fear of disturbing her companion, but ventured to sit up in bed and draw the curtain from the window.
They were in open countryside. The night was moonless and extremely dark. Yet Marianne sensed a haunting familiarity about the dim landscape, and she realized that their journey north must lead through Yorkshire. Was she now looking upon the land hallowed by memories of childhood?
She was never to know the answer. Strain her eyes as she might, she saw nothing except an occasional village or town, distinguished only by a few lights. Surely, she thought, the main line to Scotland must pass through York. But although she sat by the window for quite a long time, she saw nothing recognizable.
Finally she drew the curtain and lay down, composing herself to sleep – and wondering why it had not occurred to her, till now, that she would be so near her childhood home. So quickly had old memories been replaced by new impressions.
This time, when she fell asleep, she dreamed – dreamed that she was standing pilloried against the door of the quaint old village church while her former friends and neighbors gathered stones to throw at her. Leading the mob, her kindly face distorted, her voice shrieking curses, was Mrs. Jay. "Virgin!" she shouted, and threw a stone that hit Marianne full on the temple.
The express was due to arrive in Edinburgh before daylight, but naturally no one expected Her Grace the Dowager Duchess of Devenbrook to tumble out into the cold gray dawn. Her railway car was respectfully shunted onto a siding, and when the two women emerged, after a leisurely toilette and a hearty breakfast, they found the Duchess's carriage waiting. This was a much more splendid equipage than the carriage the Duchess was accustomed to use in London. Indeed, the arms on the door were so large and so brightly blazoned with crimson and gold that the noble lady seemed slightly embarrassed.
"Oh, dear, Henry has had the arms repainted again," she said with a sigh. "It is harmless enough, I suppose, but I really do not enjoy having my presence proclaimed so – so emphatically."
"Henry?"
"The thirteenth Duke of Devenbrook." The Duchess settled herself comfortably against crimson velvet cushions and motioned Marianne to join her. "We have a long drive ahead of us; make yourself comfortable and I will tell you about the family."
But before this promise could be carried out Marianne was distracted by the sights of the city, which she had not seen before; and seeing her interest the Duchess goodnaturedly pointed out various landmarks. Most impressive was the view of the Castle, its time-darkened stones brooding over the lower city like a great dragon.
Clouds gathered as they left the city behind them. A gentle drizzle began to fall. The Duchess then began the explanation she had promised.
"You must know that my husband was considerably older than I. He had been married twice before and had had several children. Only two of these survived, however.
The elder, Annabelle, is the child of Lady Helen Nicholson. This unfortunate lady produced only female offspring. All died in infancy except for Annabelle, and Lady Helen perished in childbirth. The Duke then wed the Honorable Miss Pilgrim, who finally presented him with a male heir. She passed on shortly afterwards. I often thought that if his mother had lived, Willy would have turned out differently…"
Marianne listened in morbid fascination to this mournful history.
"What happened to him?" she asked.
"Well… One must not speak ill of the dead; and no doubt Willy has learned the error of his earthly life of dissipation now that he has passed on. A mother's kindly guidance might have wooed him from his wild companions. I, alas, was too young to assume this role; Willy was only a few years younger than I, and he resented me. Drink, drugs, Sunday driving and – er – other evils were responsible for his premature death. Fortunately, at his father's insistence, he had married, though I fear he led the poor girl a sad life. At any rate he lived long enough to produce a son of his own. This lad, Henry, is the present holder of the title. He is only ten years old."
"He doesn't live with you, then?"
"No, his mother is of Scottish birth and she prefers to reside at Devenbrook Castle."
"His mother is still living?"
"Oh, yes. She is a very retiring person. Her unfortunate deformity… I suppose I had better warn you about that."
"I wish you would."
"It is not much, really; one soon becomes accustomed to it. She has a harelip, poor creature, and is morbidly self-conscious about it.
"
"I will be very careful not to take the slightest notice of it."
"I felt sure you would. You probably won't see a great deal of her; she spends most of her time in her own rooms. The castle is quite large, so Violet and Annabelle do not have to meet."
"Annabelle? Ah, yes, your stepdaughter. She does not care for her… her…" Marianne gave up trying to decipher this relationship. "… for the Duke's mother?"
"Oh, they seem to get along amicably enough," the Duchess replied. "But Annabelle is also, in her way, something of a recluse. She… Yes, I had better tell you about Annabelle's peculiarity."
"Please do," said Marianne.
"Annabelle keeps quantities of cats."
"But there is nothing peculiar about that,"
Marianne said, relieved. "I am very fond of pussycats."
"I myself have no objection to them, in moderation. But Annabelle's collection cannot by even the most generous interpretation of the word be considered moderate. I am forced to leave my poor little Pierre in London when I come north; Annabelle's fierce felines quite overwhelm him."
"So then the household consists of Lady Annabelle, Lady Violet, and her son the Duke," said Marianne, trying to get the proper titles as well as the names straightened out. She assumed, from what the Duchess had said, that the ill-fated "Willy" had predeceased his father, and that therefore his widow did not hold the titles of a Duke's wife. In this she was apparently correct, for the Duchess nodded.
"Quite right. Then there are the servants, of course. Henry's dear old Nanny is something of a tart. She was also Willy's nurse, and I assure you, when I was a timid young bride she quite terrified me. Oh, and M. Victor, Henry's tutor. A pleasant-enough young man, except for his insistence on being French."
"Oh." Marianne was not quite sure what this meant. If M. Victor was French, as his name and title implied, there did not seem to be any harm in his insisting that he was.
"Oh, and I must warn you about MacDonald," the Duchess went on.
"Who is he?"
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