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Authors: Norman Russell
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been present at the little girl’s funeral, and had tried to comfort them both, but to no avail.
‘And now, Lewis, I must tell you that Catherine Mary is wantedin the Garden of Innocence, where she will be taught to grow and advance. It is a wonderful place, and you must steel yourself to let her go there. I think you will see her today, and then on one more occasion, when she will be able to speak more fully to you. They are teaching her already, you see. Goodbye, Lewis. Trust! All these things that I have told you are true.’
The spirit of Roger Wilcox turned, and walked slowly back into the cabinet, where it was absorbed in the swirling luminous mist. Madam Sylvestris, still entranced, sat upright in her chair. The stream of ectoplasm trailed from her mouth, and PC Lane saw how it disappeared into a denser cloud of mist behind the medium’s chair. Madam Sylvestris began the stertorous breathing that Lane had heard at the Spitalfields seance, and presently the mist parted, to reveal a little girl standing uncertainly in the centre of the cabinet. Lane half rose, but Portman pushed him back almost roughly into his chair.
Lane could not see very clearly, but the little girl was the image of his dead child, and she was wearing her favourite pink flounced dress — the dress in which she had been laid to rest in Putney Vale Cemetery.
‘Dada!’ The lisping voice came not from the child, but from the medium. ‘Dada! Nora Maitland is here. She’s been playing with me. She only came yesterday. Tell Mammy not to cry. Next time you come, I’ll not need to speak through the lady.’
‘Catherine Mary! You’re to be a good girl, and do what they tell you up there. Dada will come to see you again—’
Suddenly, the spirit disappeared, and the medium uttered a long, heavy sigh, and opened her eyes. Mr Portman quickly rose, unfastened the shutters, and rang a bell at the side of the fireplace. The bright morning sunlight flooded into the room. There was nothing to be seen but the empty corner with Madam Sylvestris sitting in her chair. The seance was over.
The door opened, and the foreign maid came into the room, carrying a tray on which stood three glasses of sherry. She placedthem on a table, curtsied to her mistress, and went out, closing the door behind her.
‘How did it go?’ asked Madam Sylvestris. She looked drawn and tired, and to Lane’s amazement seemed to know nothing of the events of the last hour. ‘I do hope the dear child came through. I saw her in the spirit yesterday, but only as a thought-form.’
‘It was a triumphant success, madam,’ said Alfred Portman. He handed her a glass of sherry, and motioned to PC Lane to take a glass himself.
‘It was wonderful, ma’am,’ said Lewis Lane. ‘It was my baby, right enough. She mentioned poor little Nora Maitland, a neighbour’s child who was run over and killed by a runaway horse and cart only yesterday. I don’t know how you do it, ma’am, but it’s a miracle!’
The handsome woman smiled, and sipped her sherry.
‘I don’t “do” anything, Mr Lane, I’m simply a medium, a channel, if you like, through which the so-called dead can communicate . Did you see a man called Roger Wilcox?’
‘I did, ma’am, and he told me that I’d see Catherine Mary only once more, before she went off to the – what was the place called?’
‘The Garden of Innocence,’ said Portman gravely, though Lane thought he saw a spasm of amusement cross the man’s face.
‘That’s quite true, Mr Lane,’ said Madam Sylvestris. ‘And on that last occasion Catherine Mary will appear as a detached entity, who will be able to speak independent of my voice-box, and come close to you, with all the semblance of a child still living in the flesh. By then, too, she will have mastered the art of speech quite dramatically, and she will be able to take a loving farewell of you in more understandable language. Please come here, to my house, at eight o’clock on the
‘And now, Lewis, I must tell you that Catherine Mary is wantedin the Garden of Innocence, where she will be taught to grow and advance. It is a wonderful place, and you must steel yourself to let her go there. I think you will see her today, and then on one more occasion, when she will be able to speak more fully to you. They are teaching her already, you see. Goodbye, Lewis. Trust! All these things that I have told you are true.’
The spirit of Roger Wilcox turned, and walked slowly back into the cabinet, where it was absorbed in the swirling luminous mist. Madam Sylvestris, still entranced, sat upright in her chair. The stream of ectoplasm trailed from her mouth, and PC Lane saw how it disappeared into a denser cloud of mist behind the medium’s chair. Madam Sylvestris began the stertorous breathing that Lane had heard at the Spitalfields seance, and presently the mist parted, to reveal a little girl standing uncertainly in the centre of the cabinet. Lane half rose, but Portman pushed him back almost roughly into his chair.
Lane could not see very clearly, but the little girl was the image of his dead child, and she was wearing her favourite pink flounced dress — the dress in which she had been laid to rest in Putney Vale Cemetery.
‘Dada!’ The lisping voice came not from the child, but from the medium. ‘Dada! Nora Maitland is here. She’s been playing with me. She only came yesterday. Tell Mammy not to cry. Next time you come, I’ll not need to speak through the lady.’
‘Catherine Mary! You’re to be a good girl, and do what they tell you up there. Dada will come to see you again—’
Suddenly, the spirit disappeared, and the medium uttered a long, heavy sigh, and opened her eyes. Mr Portman quickly rose, unfastened the shutters, and rang a bell at the side of the fireplace. The bright morning sunlight flooded into the room. There was nothing to be seen but the empty corner with Madam Sylvestris sitting in her chair. The seance was over.
The door opened, and the foreign maid came into the room, carrying a tray on which stood three glasses of sherry. She placedthem on a table, curtsied to her mistress, and went out, closing the door behind her.
‘How did it go?’ asked Madam Sylvestris. She looked drawn and tired, and to Lane’s amazement seemed to know nothing of the events of the last hour. ‘I do hope the dear child came through. I saw her in the spirit yesterday, but only as a thought-form.’
‘It was a triumphant success, madam,’ said Alfred Portman. He handed her a glass of sherry, and motioned to PC Lane to take a glass himself.
‘It was wonderful, ma’am,’ said Lewis Lane. ‘It was my baby, right enough. She mentioned poor little Nora Maitland, a neighbour’s child who was run over and killed by a runaway horse and cart only yesterday. I don’t know how you do it, ma’am, but it’s a miracle!’
The handsome woman smiled, and sipped her sherry.
‘I don’t “do” anything, Mr Lane, I’m simply a medium, a channel, if you like, through which the so-called dead can communicate . Did you see a man called Roger Wilcox?’
‘I did, ma’am, and he told me that I’d see Catherine Mary only once more, before she went off to the – what was the place called?’
‘The Garden of Innocence,’ said Portman gravely, though Lane thought he saw a spasm of amusement cross the man’s face.
‘That’s quite true, Mr Lane,’ said Madam Sylvestris. ‘And on that last occasion Catherine Mary will appear as a detached entity, who will be able to speak independent of my voice-box, and come close to you, with all the semblance of a child still living in the flesh. By then, too, she will have mastered the art of speech quite dramatically, and she will be able to take a loving farewell of you in more understandable language. Please come here, to my house, at eight o’clock on the
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