‘It’s no use,’ answered Eustasia, shaking her head sadly. ‘I can’t explain it all even to myself; impossible to explain to you.’
‘But do you seriously and verily believe in the truth of these so-called spiritual manifestations?’
‘Guess I do,’ returned the lady, with a decided nod.
‘You believe in them, even while you admit their stupidity, their absurdity?’
‘If you ask me, I think life is a foolish business altogether. That’s why I’d like to be done with it!’
‘But surely if spiritualism were an accepted fact, it would offer a solution of all the mysterious phenomena of human existence? It would demonstrate, at all events, that our experience does not cease with the body, which limits its area so much.’
Eustasia sighed wearily, and folding her thin hands on her knee, looked wearily at the fire, which flickered faintly in the grate. With all her candour of speech, she still presented to her interlocutor an expression of mysterious evasiveness. Nor was there any depth in her complaining sorrow. It seemed rather petulant and shallow than really solemn and profound.
‘I wish you wouldn’t talk about it,’ she said. ‘Talk to me about yourself, Mr. Bradley. You’ve been in trouble, I know; they told me. I’ve liked you ever since I first saw you, and I wish I could give you some help.’
Had Bradley been a different kind of man, he would scarcely have misunderstood the look she gave him then, full as it was of passionate admiration which she took no care to veil. Bending towards him, and looking into his eyes, she placed her hand on his; and the warm touch of the tremulous fingers went through him with a curious thrill. Nor did she withdraw the hand as she continued:
‘I’ve only seen one man in the world like you. He’s dead, he is. But you’re his image. I told Salem so the day I first saw you. Some folks say that souls pass from one body into another, and I almost believe it when I think of him and look at you.’