‘Yes. Salem talks of going back home before winter sets in and the fogs begin. I don’t seem able to breathe right in this air. If I stopped here long, I think I should die.’
As she spoke, she passed her thin transparent hand across her forehead, with a curious gesture of pain. As Bradley looked at her steadfastly she averted his gaze, and a faint hectic flush came into her cheeks.
‘Guess you think it don’t matter much,’ she continued with the sharp nervous laugh peculiar to her, ‘whether I live or die. Well, Mr. Bradley, I suppose you’re right, and I’m sure I don’t care much how soon I go.’
‘You are very young to talk like that,’ said Bradley gently; ‘but perhaps I misunderstand you, and you mean that you would gladly exchange this life for freer activity and larger happiness in another?’
Eustasia laughed again, but this time she looked full into her questioner’s eyes.
‘I don’t know about that,’ she replied. ‘What I mean is that I am downright tired, and should just like a good long spell of sleep.’ ‘But surely, if your belief is true, you look for something more than that?’
‘I don’t think I do. You mean I want to join the spirits, and go wandering about from one planet to another, or coming down to earth and making people uncomfortable? That seems a stupid sort of life, doesn’t it?—about as stupid as this one? I’d rather tuck my head under my wing, like a little bird, and go to sleep for ever!’
Bradley opened his eyes, amazed and a little disconcerted by the lady’s candour. Before he could make any reply she continued, in a low voice:
‘You see, I’ve got no one in the world to care for me, except Salem, my brother. He’s good to me, he is, but that doesn’t make up for everything. I don’t feel like a girl, but like an old woman. I’d rather be one of those foolish creatures you meet everywhere, who think of nothing but millinery and flirtation, than what I am. That’s all the good the spirits have done me, to spoil my good looks and make me old before my time. I hate them sometimes; I hate myself for listening to them, and I say what I said before—that if I’m to live on as they do, and go on in the same curious way, I’d sooner die!’
‘I wish you would be quite honest with me,’ said Bradley, after a brief pause. ‘I see you are ill, and I am sure you are unhappy. Suppose much of your illness, and all your unhappiness, came from your acquiescence in a scheme of folly and self-deception? You already know my opinion on these matters to which you allude. If I may speak quite frankly, I have always suspected you and your brother—but your brother more than you—of a conspiracy to deceive the public; and if I were not otherwise interested in you, if I did not feel for you the utmost sympathy and compassion, I should pass the matter by without a word. As it is, I would give a great deal if I could penetrate into the true motives of your conduct, and ascertain how far you are self-deluded.’