From Out the Vast Deep: Occult & Supernatural Thriller. Marie Belloc Lowndes
regarded it—gives to the charlatan. He had always felt an attraction to that extraordinary eighteenth century adventurer, Cagliostro, and to-night he suddenly remembered a certain passage in Casanova’s memoirs. . . . He felt rather sorry that they hadn’t planned out this—this séance, before the rest of the party had arrived. He could have given Bubbles a few “tips” which would have made her task easy, and the coming séance much more thrilling.
The company ranged themselves four on each side.
Miss Burnaby sat on one side of the fireplace, her brother on the other. Next to the old lady was Sir Lyon; then Helen Brabazon; last their host.
On the opposite side, next to Mr. Burnaby, sat the fat-visaged James Tapster; by him was Blanche Farrow, looking on the proceedings with a certain cynical amusement and interest, and next to Blanche, and nearest to where Bubbles had now established herself on one of those low chairs which in England is called a nursery chair, and in France a prie-dieu, was young Donnington. He, alone of the people there, looked uncomfortable and disapproving.
After they had all been seated, waiting they hardly knew for what, for a few moments, Bubbles leapt from her low chair and blew out all the candles, a somewhat lengthy task, and one which plunged the room into almost darkness. But she threw a big log of wood on the fire, and the flames shot up, filling the room with shafts of rosy, fitful light.
There was a pause. Varick said something in a rather cheerful, matter-of-fact voice to Miss Brabazon, and Bubbles turned round sharply: “I’m afraid we ought to have complete silence—even silence of thought,” she said solemnly.
Blanche Farrow looked at the girl. What queer jargon was this? In the wavering light thrown by the fire Bubbles’ face looked tense and rather strained.
Was it possible, Blanche asked herself with a touch of uneasiness, that the child was taking this seriously—that she believed in it at all? Her father thought so, but then Hugh Dunster was such an old fool!
The moments ran by. One or two of the chairs creaked. James Tapster yawned, and he put up his hand rather unwillingly to hide his yawn. He thought all this sort of thing very stupid, and so absolutely unnecessary. He had enjoyed listening to Miss Bubbles’ cheerful, inconsequent chatter. It irritated him that she should have been dragged away from him—for so he put it to himself—by that unpleasant, supercilious woman, Blanche Farrow. It was a pity that a nice girl like Miss Bubbles had such an aunt. Only the other day he had heard a queer story about Miss Farrow. The story ran that she had once been caught in a gambling raid, and her name kept out of the papers by the influence of a man in the Home Office who had been in love with her at the time.
And then he looked up, startled for once—for strange, untoward sounds were issuing from the lips of Bubbles Dunster. The girl was leaning forward, her elbows on her knees, crouched upon the low chair, her slight, sinuous little figure bathed in red light. She was groaning, rocking herself backwards and forwards convulsively. To most of those present it was a strange, painful exhibition—painful, yet certainly thrilling!
Suddenly she began to speak, and the words poured from her lips with a kind of breathless quickness. But the strange, uncanny, startling thing about it was that the voice which uttered these staccato sentences was not Bubbles’ well modulated, drawling voice. It was the high, peevish voice of a child—a child speaking queer, broken English. Everyone present, even including Varick and Blanche Farrow, who both believed it to be a clever and impudent piece of impersonation, was startled and taken aback by the extraordinary phenomena the girl now presented. Her eyes were closed, and yet her head was thrust forward as if she was staring at the big, now roaring, wood fire before her.
Rushing out through her scarcely open lips, came the sing-song words: “Why bring Laughing Water here? Laughing Water frightened. Laughing Water want to go away. Laughing Water hates this house. Please, Miss Bubbles, let Laughing Water go away!” And Bubbles—if it was Bubbles—twisted and turned and groaned, as if in agony.
And then, to the amazement of all those who were there, young Donnington, his face set in grim lines, suddenly addressed Bubbles, or the little pleading creature that appeared to possess the girl: “Don’t be frightened,” he said soothingly. “No one’s going to hurt Laughing Water. Everyone in this room is good and kind.”
In answer, there broke from Bubbles’ lips a loud cry: “No, no, no! Bad people—cruel people—here! Bad spirits, too. Bad chair. Laughing Water sitting on torture chair! Miss Bubbles change chair. Then Laughing Water feel better.”
Bubbles got up as an automaton might have got up, and Donnington, pushing forward one of the painted chairs, drew the low, tapestry covered prie-dieu from under her.
She gave a deep, deep sigh as she sat down again. Then she turned herself and the chair round till she was exactly facing Varick. In a voice which had suddenly become much more her own voice she addressed him, speaking slowly, earnestly: “I see a lady standing behind you. She is very stern-looking. She has a pale, worn face, and dark blue eyes. They are very like your eyes. Her hair is parted in the middle; it is slightly grey. She must have passed over about fifteen to twenty years ago. I think it is your mother. She wants to, she wants to—” Bubbles hesitated, and then, speaking now entirely in her own voice, she exclaimed with a kind of gasp—“to warn you of danger.”
Varick opened his lips, and then he closed them. He felt shaken with an over-mastering emotion, as well as intense surprise, and, yes, of fierce anger with the girl for daring to do this—to him.
But Bubbles began again, staring as if at something beyond and behind him. “Now there’s another figure, standing to your left. She is still near the earth plane. I cannot place her at all. She is short and stout; her grey hair is brushed back from her forehead. I do not feel as if you had known her very long.”
Her voice died away, then suddenly became stronger, more confident: “Your mother—if it is your mother—is trying to shield you from her.”
She remained silent for a while. She seemed to be listening. Then she spoke again: “I get a word—what is it?—not Ardour? Aboard? No, I think it’s Arbour!”
She gazed anxiously into Varick’s pale, set face. “She says, ‘Remember the Arbour.’ D’you follow me?”
She asked the question with a certain urgency, and Bubbles’ host nodded, imperceptibly.
Then she left him, dragging her chair along till she was just opposite Helen Brabazon.
“I see a man standing behind you,” she began; “he is dressed in rather curious, old-fashioned cricketing clothes.”
A look of amazement and understanding passed over Helen’s face.
Bubbles went on, confidently: “He is a tall, well-set-up man. He has light brown hair and grey eyes. He is smiling. I think it is your father. Now he looks grave. He is uneasy about you. He is sorry you came here, to Wyndfell Hall. Do you follow me?”
But Helen shook her head. She felt bewildered and oppressed. “I wonder,” she said falteringly, “if he could give me a sign? I do so long to know if it is really my dear, dear father.”
Blanche Farrow turned a little hot. It was too bad of Bubbles to do the thing in this way!
“He says—he says—I hear him say a word—” Bubbles stopped and knit her brows. “‘Girl, girl’—no, it isn’t ‘girl’—”
“Girlie?” murmured Helen under her breath.
“Yes, that’s it! ‘Girlie’—he says ’girlie.’”
Helen Brabazon covered her face with her hands. She was deeply moved. What wonderful thing was this? She told herself that never, never would she allow herself to speak lightly or slightingly of spiritualism again! As far as she knew, no one in that room, not even her uncle or aunt, was aware that “girlie” had been her long dead father’s pet name for his only child.
And then, quite suddenly, Bubbles’ voice broke into a kind of cry. “Take