“I will sit out here” observed Father Rooney. “Here I can watch the stars.”
Mrs. Campbell came up the bricked path at this juncture, and the whole party, with the exception of the good priest, went indoors.
Margaret was sitting on the divan in the front room. As Ned entered, she rose to her feet and put out both hands, while tears sprang to her eyes and rolled piteously down her cheeks.
“My poor Ned, can you ever forgive me?” she murmured brokenly.
“There is nothing to forgive,” he whispered. “Oh, Margie, let us hope that tonight may open a way for us out of the tangle that seems to have been made of our happiness.”
Mrs. Campbell interposed, with her usual bruskness.
“Better for you to keep your exchanges of affection for a later moment,” she said decidedly. “I sympathize with you, but every moment you are enraging yet more the entity who has proved powerful enough to have made a fine tangle of your affairs. Dr. Sloane, will you and Mr. Wentworth arrange the chairs so that we can sit in a circle?”
She busied herself with the preliminary arrangements for the seance, her every movement followed closely by the lame girl.
Clare sat apart from the rest, hands folded tightly in her lap, eyes dark with melancholy. When everything had been arranged to her satisfaction, the Scotchwoman indicated to each their places in the circle. She seated Ned at her left, Clare at her right; Dr. Sloane sat on the other side of the lame girl, and Margaret—half glad, half afraid — between lover and father.
The lights were turned out. Only a small night lamp, its tiny wick floating on the oil, stood upon the table at the other end of the room. In that flickering and barely discernible light, the faces of the sitters flashed into and out of sight at every draft of air that floated in at the garden window.
The seeress, tense and watchful, maintained her hold on Clare’s hand with gentle force. She felt the lame girl sink back in her chair limply, with a kind of half-sob, half-sigh. The doctor spoke in hushed tones.
“I’m afraid Clare is fainting,” he worried.
“I guarantee that she is all right for the time being,” replied the psychic quickly. “She has slipped off into a trance. Do not try to waken her. It is better so. I shall direct, instead of becoming the medium myself, for Clare is to be our medium tonight. Now we shall be able to see and talk with Mr. Clifford Bentley.”
Hardly had the words left her lips before Margaret, holding tightly to the hands of father and lover, gave a sharp exclamation.
Standing directly behind Clare’s chair was the figure of Clifford Bentley, his white face and burning eyes fixed upon the unhappy bride with passionate intensity.
10
Ned spoke impulsively, half rising as he cried out, “You miserable scoundrel!” His eyes flashed angrily.
Mrs. Campbell maintained her grip on his hand and drew him down firmly. “Sit down, Mr. Wentworth. This is no time to call names.” She addressed the newcomer with cold courtesy. “I see that you have anticipated our wishes. We are here tonight especially to talk with you.”
“I know — I know,” muttered the newcomer fiercely. “I understood that you intended to meddle, and I came before I was called, of my own accord. Otherwise you would have had the mortification of not seeing
(Continued on page 861)
