Other Worlds, page 15
“Not another of anything,” Mr. Phelps said with a faint smile. “Mr. Davis may reasonably claim to be unique.”
“You sound as if you do not approve of him, Papa,” Marian said timidly.
“I don’t know what to make of him. He calls himself ‘The Poughkeepsie Seer,’ which rather smacks of charlatanry, and he is only twenty-four years old, quite uneducated, from a respectable but lower-class family. Yet this untutored young man has produced an astonishing book in eight hundred closely printed pages—The Principles of Nature, Her Divine Revelations, and a Voice to Mankind. It consists of lectures delivered by Mr. Davis while in a state of trance. Some of the thoughts expressed are quite profound; they suggest an acquaintance with philosophical and scientific subjects far beyond the normal scope of such a man. It is certainly possible that he has been used as a vehicle by spiritual guides of great power and wisdom, as he claims.”
At least, I thought to myself, he is not another of those elderly gray-bearded skeptics. Who knows, perhaps a man like that—young, flexible, spiritually gifted—can save us.
The morning of his arrival we were all at the window watching for him. I expected Mr. Phelps would send the carriage to meet his train, but my husband refused, saying the day was fine, the walk from the station short and pleasant. “It won’t hurt him,” he added. “A spry young fellow like that.” This comment smacked a trifle of spite, I thought. Men can sometimes be just as petty as women.
There was no question of recognizing him. As soon as I set eyes on the approaching figure I knew who he was.
Other memories have vanished into the mists of time, but every detail of his looks and his manner of speech remains fresh in my mind. I can even remember what he wore that day—his costume was smart yet gentlemanly—a black coat with a satin collar, brown-and-black-checked trousers, a scarf of green around his neck, and a tan felt bowler. It suited his erect, youthful figure. His long, springy steps required no assistance from the gold-headed stick he held in one hand. The other hand carried a portmanteau, which he swung to and fro with boyish exuberance, as if it weighed nothing. He glanced about with obvious pleasure in the beauty of the day, and a sweet smile curved his lips. He was clean-shaven. His dark hair waved from under the brim of his hat; when he removed the latter, as if to relish the freshness of the soft spring air, the sunlight woke golden highlights in the glossy locks.
I wore my brownish-pink taffeta, with bell-shaped sleeves embroidered at the cuffs, and a collar of fine batiste. It was always one of my favorite gowns.
Soon he was among us, greeting my husband with graceful deference and bowing over my hand. Marian behaved like a moonstruck schoolgirl. She goggled and gaped and was incapable of sensible speech. Mr. Davis favored her with considerable attention, his eyes ever wandering back to her face, but it was obvious that his interest was strictly professional. He was not long in explaining it.
“The moment I entered this house I sensed the presence of spirits,” he said solemnly. “And you, Miss Phelps—you feel them too, do you not? You are a clairvoyant of considerable power.”
I made an involuntary sound of surprise and protest. At once our visitor turned his full attention upon me, sensing my need for reassurance.
“Don’t be alarmed, Mrs. Phelps. There is nothing to fear. These forces are purely benevolent. They come to do you good. They are a mark of favor which few families have merited.”
I cannot describe my sensations.
“Some claim they are evil spirits,” Mr. Phelps said sharply. “Devils.”
“Nonsense, nonsense. But we will discuss the matter at a later time. With your permission, I would like to wander about the house, absorbing its atmosphere and talking casually to all of you. I would also like to examine the notes I understand you have taken. I am particularly interested in the mysterious writings; you have copies of them? Good. And of course I desire to meet young Master Henry.”
It was all arranged as he had asked. He spent part of the afternoon sitting quietly in the parlor, his eyes closed, his face uplifted, and the most angelic expression of smiling peace on his face. He roused at once when a clatter of boots on the porch announced the arrival of Harry, who was, for once, prompt in his return from school.
The meeting between them was fraught with significance. Harry’s reaction to some of our other visitors had reflected my own feelings of resentment. He had been prepared to greet Mr. Davis with the same outer courtesy and inner contempt he had felt for others, but even his reserve fell instantly before the warmth of Andrew’s smile and his companionable clap on the shoulder. (Already I could not help thinking of my friend by that name; it was not long before he gave me permission to use it.)
Andrew then asked Harry to show him around the grounds. They went off together and were gone for some hours, returning with hearty appetites in time for tea.
When the shades of night were falling and we gathered in the library, Andrew was gracious enough to share his thoughts with us. He had requested that Harry make one of the party. Harry was delighted to oblige. He was already devoted to Andrew, and the air of innocent satisfaction with which he assumed his chair and crossed his legs, in imitation of his new idol, was delightful to behold.
“Let me assure you again there is nothing to fear,” Andrew began. His smiling glance seemed to linger on me. “The spirits who visit you mean you only good. I know them. You know them too, Miss Phelps, if I am not mistaken.”
“I—I cannot say,” Marian muttered.
“I know them,” Harry cried.
“Now, my boy.” Andrew raised a finger in gentle admonition. “Like your sister, you are a natural medium, but you must not be led astray. Let me explain to all of you how the spirits operate. You have all testified that objects have been invisibly moved from one place to another. Not so! The objects were not invisible; the spirits who carried them acted directly upon your minds to render you incapable of realizing the objects were passing before your eyes, or even to realize that your mental attention had been diverted. You, Henry, and your sister have attracted these spirits. You are both exceedingly surcharged with vital magnetism and vital electricity, alternating with one another. When magnetism preponderates in your systems, then nails, keys, books and so on fly toward you. When electricity preponderates, then the articles move away from you. Laughably simple, is it not?”
“Not at all,” Mr. Phelps replied. “You said first, if I understand you, that objects were moved by spirit hands.”
“Of course. But the direction taken by the objects is determined by the electrical or magnetical condition of Henry and Miss Phelps.”
“I understand,” I exclaimed.
Mr. Phelps’s expression said, “I do not,” as plainly as if he had spoken. With a benevolent smile Andrew continued, “Henry is naturally nervous. This condition encourages the accumulation of magnetic forces. Miss Phelps has been made nervous by fear—unnecessary though that fear may be—and is now, I believe, the more powerful clairvoyant of the two.”
Harry stirred restlessly, as if he did not much care for this analysis. His papa looked keenly at him. Then he said, “Mr. Davis, your theory is most interesting. But it does not suggest what we are to do about Henry’s—er—magnetism. How can we rid ourselves of these undesired effects?”
“Why, you cannot. They will pass of themselves when the desired end is attained.”
“And that end is…”
Andrew drew from his pocket a sheet of paper, which I recognized as one of those on which Mr. Phelps had taken copies of the strange writings.
“I recognize this script,” he said calmly. “It is like the inscription I read upon a scroll which was presented to my mind some seven years ago. The characters mean, ‘You may expect a variety of things from our society.’ And this other inscription—on a turnip, was it not?—I interpret as ‘Our society desires, through various mediums, to import thoughts.’”
“What society?” Mr. Phelps demanded.
Andrew smiled gently. “Can’t you guess?”
“A society of lunatics, I suppose. Only a mind bereft of reason would conceive such bizarre antics.”
Andrew was a trifle taken aback by the vehemence, verging on discourtesy, of my husband’s tone. Mastering his surprise, he replied, with the same affable patience as before, “You are wide of the mark, Mr. Phelps. I hope to prove it to you before long. In fact, if you will permit me to attempt a demonstration now….”
“Why not?” was the ungracious reply.
Despite his vociferous objections, Harry was dispatched to his bed; and, at Andrew’s request, Mr. Phelps put Marian into the state which I now heard described, for the first time, as that of trance. As Andrew explained, Marian was more attuned to her papa’s mental vibrations than to his, powerful though they were, and might be expected to respond more readily to his questions. This concession put my husband into a better humor. Taking out his watch, he went through the now-familiar performance, and looked childishly pleased with himself when Marian’s face immediately took on the dreamy, peaceful expression I had seen before.
Andrew was proved right. When interrogated, Marian acknowledged the presence of five different spirits. The features of two of them were familiar to her; but when pressed to identify them she fell into a state of confusion.
“Never mind,” Andrew whispered. “Don’t pursue the matter. Waken her.”
“But—” Mr. Phelps began.
“Look at her.”
Marian’s face retained its look of unearthly calm; but her hands, which had been loosely clasped in her lap, clenched tightly and began to twist and writhe, as if imbued with a life of their own. The contrast between her peaceful look and her frantic hands was unnerving in the extreme.
“We will try again another time,” Andrew insisted. “Waken her.”
Mr. Phelps obeyed. Marian’s hands at once relaxed.
She remembered nothing of what had transpired, but admitted to feeling a little tired. So she too was sent to bed, and then I felt free to ask the question that was preeminent in my mind.
“You told me, Mr. Phelps, that this trance, or whatever it is called, was a therapeutic treatment for Marian’s nerves. It seems to be something more. What have you been doing to her?”
A dark flush suffused Mr. Phelps’s face. He seemed at a loss for words. Andrew kindly supplied them.
“It is therapeutic, Mrs. Phelps—very much so. In the trance condition the subject’s mind is open to influences it would not be aware of in the waking state. Miss Phelps receives the pure and healthful thoughts of her father; they do her good.” He glanced at Mr. Phelps and his lips curved in a roguish smile. “Thoughts may come from other minds as well, Mr. Phelps. You know that as well as I do. Don’t fight them. Let them in!”
THIRTY
I LEARNED, to my disappointment, that the following day was the last Andrew would spend with us. He had other commitments and other duties. When he heard this Harry begged to be given a holiday from school. I was more than willing; Harry’s attachment to Andrew could only be to his advantage. When Andrew added his pleas to ours, Mr. Phelps could not refuse, though he gave in grudgingly. Andrew spent part of the morning with Harry. However, he seemed more interested in Marian, who followed him about the house like a puppy.
When we assembled for tea, Harry was missing. He was usually prompt for meals, if for nothing else, and I began to be alarmed.
“We must search for him,” Andrew said seriously. “Without delay.”
Harry was not in the house. Andrew led the way into the yard. Some supernatural agency must have guided him, for he went at once to the orchard. And there—I still turn cold when I remember—there we beheld the form of my boy hanging limp and motionless from a limb.
Terror gave me strength. I was the first to reach him, but Andrew was close behind and was quick to reassure me.
“The rope is only under his arms. He is not harmed.”
I flung my arms around Harry.
“Mama,” he whimpered. “I screamed and screamed; why didn’t you come?”
Thanks to Andrew, I was soon calm again. As he pointed out, no harm had been done. I wanted Harry to go straight to bed, but he insisted he felt quite well and proved it by eating a substantial meal. When he finished, I repeated my suggestion, and this time Andrew seconded me.
“I will come up to say good night,” he promised.
When Harry had departed, Andrew drew his chair closer to the table. His face was grave. “I must leave you tomorrow; but I will try to come again soon, if my appointments permit. One of the mystic messages still eludes my understanding. I hope to attain insight into its meaning within the next few days. Let me repeat that no danger exists. Remain receptive to the influences that surround you—”
“I mean to do more than that,” Mr. Phelps interrupted. “I am sending Henry and Marian away for a few days.”
Andrew nodded, as if this plan came as no surprise to him. “And your reasons?”
“You yourself said the children were the cause—the innocent cause—of the disturbances.”
“They are. But you wish to test my theory. Good; I have no objection, it is only common sense. Do you, I wonder, have any other reasons?”
Mr. Phelps glanced at me.
“Speak,” Andrew urged. “You underestimate your wife, Mr. Phelps. You do her excellent understanding an injustice when you attempt to spare her feelings.”
“Very well,” Mr. Phelps said, with another doubtful glance at me. “I will speak. I am uneasy about some of the circumstances surrounding Henry’s desperate adventure this afternoon. He claims to have cried out. But if he had actually done so the servants must have heard him; they were in the kitchen having their supper and the doors and windows were wide open. Further, I examined the rope by which the boy was suspended and I am forced to conclude that he could have tied himself to the tree. I am not saying he did; I am only saying he could have done.”
“You are quite right,” Andrew said calmly. “He did.”
I remained silent and motionless. Andrew gave me an approving smile. “Mrs. Phelps, permit me once again to commend your excellent understanding. And permit me to explain the mechanism of a process you instinctively comprehend without, perhaps, being fully cognizant of the details.
“You see, my friends, Henry did not know he was tying himself to the tree. A nearby spirit caused him to do so and deluded him into believing he had screamed aloud.”
“And you call them beneficent spirits?” Mr. Phelps inquired sarcastically.
“Exactly. From my superior condition I know that Henry was meditating some imprudent act—a swim in the sound, perhaps, which might have caused him to take cold. The spirit intervened to prevent him. This adventure, which appeared so ‘desperate,’ was just the reverse. You need have no fear for the boy. Send him away if you like; it will not put an end to these marvellous experiences, but it may help you by giving you a period of respite.”
So, the following day, I bade farewell to my son and my friend—for such I hope I may call him. In some ways the next week was indeed a period of respite and relative calm. In other ways it was even more trying than the dreadful weeks that had preceded it.
It is hard to explain and harder, perhaps, to believe—but by sheer repetition we had become almost accustomed to uncanny events and eerie sounds. When a teacup flew through the air and smashed into bits against the wall, I would think, “There it is again!” I did not know what “it” was, and I did not like the way “it” acted—but I was used to it. However, when my best scissors were missing from the sewing box, only to be discovered later on the whatnot, I could not be sure whether “it” was playing tricks again, or whether the incident was only one of those cases of absentmindedness that may occur in any household. That was the sort of thing that happened; and so I still do not know for certain whether the absence of the two children was responsible for a cessation of the bizarre happenings. If Andrew’s idea was correct—and I felt sure it was—they were innocent vehicles for strange forces beyond their control. They could not help themselves, any more than an electric eel can help discharging itself of an excessive amount of current. (The figure of speech is, of course, Andrew’s.)
Though consoling, this theory did not really make me look forward to the return of my children. One may not blame an electric eel for giving one a shock, but one does not enjoy the experience.
The days of Marian and Harry’s absence were marked by other events of an equally distressing nature, however.
I had gotten into the habit of remaining in bed late in the morning. For weeks my normal rest had been disturbed by terrifying events, my nerves had been wounded by shock after shock. Not only was I entitled to a period of convalescence; my system actually required it.
Therefore, I was still in bed one morning when I heard a bustle within the house and a disturbance without—a tumult that gradually came nearer and nearer. Rising, I put on my wrapper and went to the window.
The disturbance without resolved into the clopping of horses’ hooves, the rattle of wheels, and the bellow of a loud uncouth voice, shouting words that were, as yet, indistinct. From the far end of Elm Street an omnibus approached. Heads protruded from every window. A large glaring yellow sign had been nailed onto the side of the vehicle, and as it drew nearer I was able to read the words painted upon it in staring black letters.
MYSTERIOUS STRATFORD KNOCKINGS, was what it read. It took me a moment or two to realize what it meant. Then a violent flush of shame and anger burned my cheeks.
The person on the box of the omnibus, flourishing a long whip, was the village hackman. His round red face and bulbous nose confirmed the rumors I had heard, that he was habitually intoxicated. As I stared in horror, the omnibus came to a halt immediately in front of the house, and the words the wretch was shouting became audible.
