A Drowned Maiden's Hair_ A Melodrama - Laura Amy Schlitz [34]
“Speak to me, my love!”
Maud’s flash of sympathy flickered and died. She bit her hand to keep from snickering.
“Horace, I am your bride for all time. When you join me in the great beyond, I will be yours eternally. But now — in the world of the living — you have claimed another love. There is another who will be your bride.”
Burckhardt gulped. “It is true. Forgive me, my angel! I have been so lonely — but I will cast her aside if you wish it, Agnes! I will love only you!”
“You do not understand,” the silvery voice chided. “My darling Horace, you have been faithful too long! The time has come for you to love again! It is your earthly duty!”
There was a pause. Burckhardt was adjusting to his amazement. “Agnes!” he sobbed.
Good heavens, thought Maud.
“God has chosen this woman for you! Love her as best you can!” commanded Agnes/Hyacinth. “Shelter and protect her! When you come to the land of light, we shall both be thine! And now, farewell!” Hyacinth’s voice was dying away. “Farewell, my darling, my only love! Horace, farewell!”
Maud picked up the ear trumpet and fumbled for the open seam, inserting the mouth of the instrument through the slit. After three farewells, Hyacinth had cautioned her. Wait for your cue.
“Agnes, do not leave me!” begged Mr. Burckhardt. “Stay a little longer! Comfort me!”
“Farewell, my only love! I am always your own Agnes,” breathed Hyacinth — and Maud joined in, whispering through the ear trumpet. She and Hyacinth had practiced intoning the words in unison. The effect was both haunting and precise. “Darling Horace, farewell!”
The final line was Maud’s alone. She knew that Hyacinth had fallen back in her chair so that her face was tilted upward, toward the light. Burckhardt would see that the medium’s lips were still, but the ghostly voice would go on speaking. “I will be yours . . . always!”
In the silence that followed, Maud withdrew the ear trumpet from the slit. She could hear Burckhardt gulping back sobs. Since he was making a good bit of noise, Maud shifted slightly, squirming into a more comfortable position. Next time, she thought, I won’t wear so much underwear.
“The spirit has passed,” stated Judith.
“Hyacinth?” said Victoria. Maud heard footsteps, the rustle of skirts, a light slapping sound. “Hyacinth, awake! Oh, heavens — she is so pale — she’s in a swoon. Hyacinth, come back!”
“Her pulse is rapid.” It was Burckhardt speaking. “Oh, God forgive me — what have I done? Shall I go for a doctor?”
Maud heard a gasping sound from Hyacinth. After a moment, Judith announced, “No. She’s better — her eyes are open —”
“Judith?” Hyacinth sounded babyishly meek. “I — I feel so queer. And oh, Mr. Burckhardt, I’m sorry! I — I had no strength. The spirits did not come.”
“The spirit came,” Burckhardt told her. “How can I thank you enough?”
Judith’s voice directed him. “Help me support her — she must go to bed at once — oh, that’s better! Can you carry her all the way up the stairs?”
“Easily,” gasped Burckhardt valiantly. “She weighs nothing.”
The conversation dissolved into murmuring, the voices growing more distant. Maud heard “nervous strain,” “all unselfishness,” “true medium,” and “sea air.” Then there was the sound of footsteps receding and footsteps on the stairs. At long last, Maud was alone. She lifted the tablecloth and crawled out. The fresh air was cool against her sweaty face.
“Maud,” announced Hyacinth at the breakfast table, “was magnificent.”
Maud stopped chewing her bacon and tried to look magnificent. It was the morning after the séance, and a lovely one: the sunlight stole through the lace curtains and dappled the tablecloth. Maud was eager to discuss the séance. She felt like an actor after a successful show. She knew she had done well, and she was ready for the others to tell her so. Unfortunately, Judith was scanning the columns of the newspaper; Victoria was removing the crusts from her toast.
“She was,” insisted Hyacinth. “I told you she would be.”
Judith looked up. “She did well enough,” she remarked,