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Mystery of a Turkish Bath, The

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<h3>Chapter Seven.</h3> <h4>Curiosity.</h4> There was suppressed but general excitement throughout the hotel all the next day. Someone had caught sight of the Princess Zairoff, who had driven out after luncheon in a low open carriage with three horses harnessed abreast in Russian fashion, that went like the wind. Colonel Estcourt was beside her, and curiosity was rife as to how he should have known her, and whether accident only was responsible for the meeting of two people, one of whom had come from Russia, and the other from India, to this prosaic English nook, for their health. Mrs Masterman sniffed ominously, as one who scents scandal and impropriety in facts that do not adapt themselves to every-day rules of life. A few other women, suffering from one or other of the fashionable complaints in vogue at this season, agreed with her, that “it certainly looked very odd.” They did not specify the “it,” but they were quite convinced of the oddity. It did not occur to them to reflect that there was not the slightest reason for any mystery on the part of the Princess, she being perfectly free and untrammelled, or that Colonel Estcourt had been singularly gloomy and depressed before Mrs Jefferson’s graphic description of the mysterious beauty attracted his notice. There is a certain class of people who always shake their heads, and purse up their lips, at the mere suggestion of “chance,” or “accident,” having a fortunate or happy application. They do not apply the same train of reasoning to the reverse side of the picture; the bias of their nature is evidently suspicious. These are the minds that refuse to credit those little misfortunes of picnic and pleasure parties, by which young people lose themselves in mysterious ways, and get into wrong boats and carriages, and generally contrive to upset the plans of their elders, when these plans have been framed with a deeper regard for rationality than for romance. Mrs Masterman belonged to this class, which doubtless has its uses, though those uses are not plainly evident on the surface of life; she spent the day in gloomy hints, and mysterious shakes of the head, and insinuations that no good was ever known to spring from a superabundance of feminine charms, which, in the course of nature, must have an evil tendency, and be productive of overweening vanity, extravagance, and even immorality. Still, even evil prognostications cannot quell the fires of curiosity in the female breast, and every woman in the hotel made her toilette with special care on this eventful evening, as befitting one who owed it to her sex to vindicate even the smallest personal attraction in the presence of rivalry. Colonel Estcourt was not at dinner, so his presence did not restrain comment and speculation, and the tongues did quite as much work as the knives and forks. “I do wonder what sort of gown she’ll wear,” sighed Mrs Ray Jefferson, who was attired in a “creation” of the great French man-milliner, accursed by husbands of fashionable wives, and whose power is only another note in that ascending scale of absurdity struck by the hands of fashion. “Perhaps she won’t come down in the drawing-room at all,” said Mrs Masterman spitefully, after listening for some time to the remarks around her. “Colonel Estcourt did not specify any particular night.” “Oh, I’m sure she’ll come,” said Mrs Jefferson, whose nature was specially happy in always assuring her of what she desired. “I’ve got an impression that she will—they never fail me. You know I’ve a singularly magnetic organisation. A great spiritualist in Boston once told me I only needed developing to exhibit extraordinary powers. But I hadn’t the time or the patience to go in thoroughly for psychic development. Besides it’s really a very exacting pursuit.” “Exacting rubbish!” exclaimed Mrs Masterman impatiently; “I can’t stand all that bosh about higher powers, and developing magnetism. Of course there are a set of people who’d believe anything that seemed to give them a superior organisation; it’s only another way of pandering to human vanity. Spiritualism is perfect rubbish. I’ve seen and heard enough of it to know. I once held a séance at my house, just to convince myself as to its being a trick or not, I was told that the medium could materialise spirit forms. I, of course, asked some people to meet him, and we selected a room and put him behind a screen as he desired, and there we all sat in the dark, like so many fools, for about half-an-hour.—” “Well,” interposed Mrs Jefferson eagerly, “and did you have any manifestation?” “Oh, yes,” laughed the gouty sufferer grimly, “a very material one indeed. By some accident the medium knocked down the screen just after we’d seen a spirit face floating above it. In the confusion some one struck a light, and there was our medium—standing on the chair without his coat, and wrapping some transparent India muslin about himself, which had been dipped in phosphorus I believe, so that it gave out a curious shimmering light in the dark. You may suppose I never went in for materialistic séances again.” “Still,” said Mrs Jefferson, “although you may have been tricked, it doesn’t stand to reason that spiritualism is trickery. I’ve come from the very core and centre of it—so to speak. I’ve been at more séances than I could count, and I’ve seen tests applied that prove the manifestations are genuine. Still there are heaps of professional mediums who are not to be depended on, I grant. If you want to know the truth of spiritualism, you can always work it out for yourself. That’s quite possible, only it’s a deal of trouble.” “I don’t believe in it,” reiterated Mrs Masterman stubbornly. “All mediums are cheats and humbugs.” “Oh!” said Mrs Jefferson. “If it comes to exceptions laying down the rule, where are we? The other day a clergyman was taken before the courts for drunkenness, but I suppose you’re not going to say all clergymen are drunkards. A doctor poisoned a patient by mistake, but surely we’re not to class our dear medical men as poisoners and murderers on that account. It’s just the same with any abnormal or extraordinary facts that set up a new theory for investigation. Impostors are sure to creep in, and the lazy and the indifferent and the sceptical call their exposure ‘results.’ Depend on it we don’t half investigate subjects now-a-days, and we suffer for it by giving place and opportunity for the development of a certain class of beings who prey on our credulity, and make profit out of our indolence and superstition.” “There’s something in spiritualism, you bet,” drawled the nasal voice of Mr Ray Jefferson. “I’ve had messages written to me, and things said that no third person could possibly have known about.” “Ah, slate writing,” sneered Mrs Masterman. “I’ve seen that too. Just another trick.” “How do you explain that?” asked Mrs Jefferson quickly. “Well, this way. I went to two or three different mediums so as to test them all. I found they had no objections to bringing your own slates and writing your own questions, but while they held the slate under the table they kept you talking to distract your attention, and from time to time they got convulsive jerks and movements by which it was quite possible for them to see what was written. Then you heard a scratching (the medium probably had a little bit of pencil in his finger-nail), and your answer was given you. Well, let that pass for what it’s worth, but I always noticed the medium asked if I wouldn’t like a message, and when I said ‘yes,’ he brought out his own slate.” “But,” said Mrs Jefferson, “didn’t he let you examine it first?” “Oh yes, and wiped it over with a damp cloth. Then it was held under the table, and in a few seconds covered with ‘spirit-writing.’ But I found out afterwards that you can buy slates with a false cover, this cover fits within the frame and is exactly like the other side of the slate, but, your spirit-message is already written, a touch makes the cover drop off, the medium covers it with his foot in case you should look under the table, out comes the slate, and there you are!” “On,” said Mrs Jefferson angrily, “it’s plain you’ve only been to the charlatans and impostors of spiritualism. Why, I’ve had a message written in a locked slate while I held the key and held the slate too. What do you say to that?” “I’ve only your word for it,” said Mrs Masterman sarcastically. “My slates were never locked.” “And I’ve only your word for what you’ve told us,” answered Mrs Jefferson with rising wrath. “I suppose my evidence may be as trustworthy.” “Well,” interposed another voice, “my view of spiritualism is, that it’s an intensely humiliating idea after you’ve done with this world to be at the beck and call of any other human being who can make you go through a variety of tricks, as if you were a performing dog, in order to convince people still in the body that there is another life. If that other life permits us to come back here and play tambourines, and knock furniture about, and write silly and ambiguous messages on slates, I don’t—myself—think it’s a very desirable one.” This view of the question produced a blank silence. It proceeded from a gentleman who was supposed to be a little “odd”—partly because he spoke seldom, and then with a startling originality, on any subject of discussion. Mr and Mrs Ray Jefferson looked at one another, somewhat dismayed. Mrs Masterman smiled triumphantly, the young poet murmured something vague about the inestimable beauty of sublime “mysteries,” but the subject was temporarily extinguished. The only side hitherto considered had been the ‘phenomenal,’ and people—once the idea was originated—felt really inclined to think that after all, when they quitted the earth plane, it would not be a very elevating prospect to find themselves dragged back to give séances and perform tricks like a French poodle in order to convince their friends and relatives that they were still in existence! The conversation only went on in subdued murmurs, and presently there was a feminine move towards the drawing-room. Once there the great subject as to whether Madame Zairoff would or would not appear that evening, was again freely discussed. That it was an equally interesting probability to the sterner sex was soon made evident by the unusual alacrity with which they joined the circle. They broke up into groups and knots, scattered through the length of the handsome, brilliantly lighted room, but a curious restlessness was apparent; no one settled down to cards or music. Even the “odd” individual moved about and dropped cynical remarks along the route of his progress, instead of sitting down to backgammon as was his wont. A few other misguided individuals, of the male sex, offered and accepted bets sotto voce on the chances of the Unknown appearing. At last, when expectation had been strained almost to breaking point, it was set at rest. The doors were thrown open, and, lightly leaning on Colonel Estcourt’s arm, appeared Mrs Jefferson’s much talked of, and beautiful “Mystery.” <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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