In spite of this, in spite of my admiration of Stilton’s intellect, and my yet unshaken faith in Spiritualism, I was conscious that the harmony of the circle was becoming impaired to me.  Was I falling behind in spiritual progress?  Was I too weak to be the medium for the promised revelations?  I threw myself again and again into the trance, with a recklessness of soul which fitted me to receive any, even the darkest impressions, to catch and proclaim every guilty whisper of the senses, and, while under the influence of the excitement, to exult in the age of license which I believed to be at hand.  But darker, stronger grew the terror which lurked behind this spiritual carnival.  A more tremendous power than that which I now recognized as coming from Stilton’s brain was present, and I saw myself whirling nearer and nearer to its grasp.  I felt, by a sort of blind instinct, too vague to be expressed, that some demoniac agency had thrust itself into the manifestations,—­perhaps had been mingled with them from the outset.

For two or three months, my life was the strangest mixture of happiness and misery.  I walked about with the sense of some crisis hanging over me.  My “possessions” became fiercer and wilder, and the reaction so much more exhausting that I fell into the habit of restoring myself by means of the bottle of brandy which Mr. Stilton took care should be on hand, in case of a visit from Joe Manton.  Miss Fetters, strange to say, was not in the least affected by the powerful draughts she imbibed.  But, at the same time, my waking life was growing brighter and brighter under the power of a new and delicious experience.  My nature is eminently social, and I had not been able—­indeed, I did not desire—­wholly to withdraw myself from intercourse with non-believers.  There was too much in society that was congenial to me to be given up.  My instinctive dislike to Miss Abby Fetters and my compassionate regard for Mrs. Stilton’s weakness only served to render the company of intelligent, cultivated women more attractive to me.  Among those whom I met most frequently was Miss Agnes Honeywood, a calm, quiet, unobtrusive girl, the characteristic of whose face was sweetness rather than beauty, while the first feeling she inspired was respect rather than admiration.  She had just that amount of self-possession which conceals without conquering the sweet timidity of woman.  Her voice was low, yet clear; and her mild eyes, I found, were capable, on occasion, of both flashing and melting.  Why describe her?  I loved her before I knew it; but, with the consciousness of my love, that clairvoyant sense on which I had learned to depend failed for the first time.  Did she love me?  When I sought to answer the question in her presence, all was confusion within.