Ghosts by Gaslight - Jack Dann [90]
Despite himself, a little thrill raced up Coleman’s spine at Mrs. Earnshaw’s admission of familiarity with his work; a similar confession, he felt certain, would not trouble her husband’s lips. He said, “You underestimate me, Madame. My father was a Swedenborgian, albeit an idiosyncratic one.”
“You don’t say,” Cal said.
“I do.”
“Do you imply that you have inherited your father’s beliefs?” Isabelle said.
“I imply nothing of the kind,” Coleman said. “My father found Swedenborg sufficient to his needs; my interest, however, has tended towards the manner in which we make our way through this life, rather than any other.”
“Yet surely,” Isabelle said, “the nature of our beliefs about the life to come may exert a profound influence upon our conduct in the life that is.”
“Undoubtedly,” Coleman said. “Although, from my observations, that influence is frequently more occult than direct.”
“Then why have you joined us?” Cal said. “Not that we regret the company.”
“I am on this train,” Coleman said, “in hopes of seeing Mr. Dunn’s balloons, about which so much has been written.”
“You have read Mrs. Barchester’s report of them?” Isabelle said.
“It was that which brought them to my attention,” Coleman said. “A friend passing through London made me a gift of her book. My thoughts of late have tended in the direction of the place of my birth. I would not call any point along the Hudson my home, but so much of my childhood was spent traveling up and down the shores of what we used to call the North River that something of the word’s glamour attaches to the region, as a whole. When my friend’s generosity presented me with Mrs. Barchester’s record of her tour up the Hudson, I took it as practically an omen that I should revisit the scenes of my boyhood. Her description of Mr. Dunn’s rather remarkable paper balloons iced the cake, so to speak. Even before I had turned the last page, I had booked my trip and written to another friend to ask if it were in his powers to arrange a visit to Summerland for me. It was, and”—Coleman spread his hands—“I have the pleasure of your company. I take it your motivations are of a more spiritual character.”
“We are going to prepare for my crossing,” Cal said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“My husband is ill, Mr. Coleman.” Isabelle laid a gloved hand on her husband’s. “We have exhausted all of his inheritance and most of mine in search of a cure. There is none. The last physician we consulted—Sir Luke Strett: perhaps you have heard of him? He is very well known on the Continent.”
Coleman was unsure. “The name is familiar, yes.”
“He advised us that Cal’s time is short, and that there are better ways to spend it than chasing false hope.”
“I’ve long had an interest in the writings of Mr. Dunn and his set,” Cal said. “Mr. Davis, the Fox sisters . . . the picture of the next life they have advanced seems so much more reasonable than that of the traditional faiths. Upon our return to Brooklyn, I threw myself into a study of their work. I read their books; I sat in on their séances; I heard their lectures. Had my health been firmer, I would have attended one of their conventions, although there was no real need of that. What I had learned was enough to justify my previous interest.”
Isabelle said, “During one of Mr. Dunn’s lectures, he mentioned that, upon occasion, he had aided those approaching this life’s end in readying themselves for the next. Afterwards, Cal and I succeeded in speaking to the man, and once he knew our story, he volunteered his services upon the spot.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes.” Cal nodded. “Not only did Mr. Dunn refuse what little payment we could offer, he provided for our travel from our home to his.”
“How very generous of him.”
“It was—it is,” Isabelle said.
“Perhaps you had rather I defer my visit to Summerland,” Coleman said.