Other Worlds (18 page)

I tried to act as usual, nodding and smiling as I walked on. They had not the effrontery to question me directly—not then. There were murmurs of "How are you feeling, Mrs. Phelps?" and "I had heard you were unwell, Mrs. Phelps," to which I replied as casually as I could. By the time I reached the shop door my hands were shaking, and I was vastly relieved to find that the only customer at the counter was old Mrs. Babcock, who was avoided by the other ladies because her sole topic of conversation was the
fifty-year-old visit of Mrs. and General Washington. I had heard the story myself at least a dozen times, and had vowed I would never listen to it again. This morning I actually raised the subject myself, to prevent Mrs. Babcock from mentioning other matters.

Even she failed me. Properly nudged, she rambled on for a time about Mrs. Washington's chariot, drawn by four white horses ridden by black postilions in scarlet and white livery with white cockades in their hats. But the spreading gossip had penetrated even her senile brain. She broke off in the middle of a sentence to inquire, with the rudeness old ladies feel entitled to display, "What is going on at the parsonage, Mrs. Phelps? I have heard the most peculiar stories about all of you."

I don't remember what I said. When I finally reached home I found I had purchased red ribbons instead of blue, and had forgotten the buttons for
Harry’s
trousers.

Even now I break out into a cold perspiration when I think of it. In some ways it was the hardest part of the whole affair. I did not see how I could go on.

Then the miracle happened. Andrew came. Like an angel of mercy bearing a heavenly message, he rescued me from my torment.

I smile, though sadly, when I remember how casually I responded to the first mention of his name. Of course, I did not know who he was. When I heard of his projected visit he seemed like another of the ghouls who came to feed their horrid curiosity on our suffering.

Nothing spreads so fast as gossip, and malicious gossip has a demonic life all its own; it appears to die in one spot and springs up, without apparent cause, in a dozen others. I am not certain how the word of our troubles reached so rapidly beyond the confines of Stratford. One would think that a clergyman's principles would prevent him from telling tales to his wife and friends, but I
am no longer so naive as to believe that; I suspect Mr. Phelps wrote to some of the acquaintances who shared his interest in spiritualist matters. I could hardly believe he would do such a thing, but the promptness with which these vultures gathered was highly indicative.

I protested, as vigorously as my highly nervous condition allowed, when Mr. Phelps informed me we would be entertaining certain newspaper persons.

"It is our duty to science to report these happenings," he said solemnly. "Be realistic, Mrs. Phelps. The story will spread no matter what we do. Is it not common sense to make sure that what is printed is the truth, instead of superstitious fancies?"

He had a way of putting things that made it impossible for me to disagree with him. My feelings told me he was wrong, but gentlemen do not have much regard for a woman's feelings.

So, once the plague of clergymen had passed, the second plague, of newspaper reporters, descended upon us. At one time or another we had representatives of the
New Haven Journal and
Courier,
the
Derby Journal,
and the
Bridgeport Standard.
There was
even a person from one of the New York papers, his name was Beach, or Shore, or something of that sort. And never did our invisible tormentors fail to entertain them.

I actually developed a certain liking for one of the reporters, Mr. Newson, of the
Derby Journal.
He was a nice-looking young fellow, with thoughtful brown eyes and a modest manner. His newspaper—I was told—has a much more limited circulation than the others, so his professional position is inferior in consequence, I suppose. I don't think that fact accounts for his good manners, however. He seemed a naturally kind-hearted and sympathetic man, and his unfailing courtesy to me, as well as his instinctive comprehension of the difficulties of my position, could not fail to make a good impression on me. I particularly appreciated his taking me aside, soon after his arrival, to assure me that he hoped I would not misunderstand the precautions he and the others felt it necessary to take.

"It does not imply the slightest suspicion of anyone, Mrs. Phelps," he said earnestly. "It is the usual procedure, I assure you. I would feel obliged to do the same if the President of the United States were involved."

It is strange, is it not, how distinctly I remember this speech and the young man's pleasant appearances when I have forgotten so much? I am not sure what other persons were present on that occasion—there were a number of them, all newspapermen—or even when it took place. Sometime in the spring, I think.

So many things happened that spring.

All that evening the house reverberated to raps and thumps, coming now from one side of the room and now from another. The newspaper persons were impressed, but they were also incredulous. One of them insisted on sitting close by Harry's side, and another—the person from the New Haven paper, I believe— never took his bold black eyes from me. Finally I could bear no more; I announced my intention of retiring.

Even this expedient did not end my martyrdom. With Mr. Phelps's eager acquiescence, the committee announced its intention of following us upstairs and taking up a position in the hallway. I verily believe Mr. Phelps would have consented to them entering our bedroom if they had insisted.

Under the circumstances I felt that it would be more convenient, as well as more respectable, if I shared Marian's bed that night. Mr. Phelps did not object after I took him aside and explained my reasons—strange gentlemen at all hours upstairs and downstairs. The evil imaginations of Stratford gossips would have them in "my lady's chamber" as well, if we did not take the utmost pains to anticipate and forestall any such charges.

Marian and I spoke little as we prepared for bed. The door was closed, but I, at best, was uncomfortably aware of the presence of strangers only a few feet away I had not even been allowed to lock the door. This was represented to me as a safety precaution, to enable help to reach us quickly if we were disturbed or frightened. But I knew it for what it was, a demonstration of suspicion. Marian did not complain, though I presume she shared my feelings. Both of us made haste to assume our nightgowns, removing the last part of our garments beneath the concealment of their ample folds. It was an agonizing experience for a modest female; I had never felt so vulnerable. When the plague of clergymen was upon us, I felt sure none of those gentlemen would have burst into my room without knocking first. I did not feel the same confidence in the newspaper persons. Their moral standards, as everyone knows, are not of the highest.

I will say that for the most part they kept their voices down, in deference to our need for rest. Now and then, however, we would hear a loud exclamation and thunderous footsteps running along the passageway Apparently the knocks and rappings had followed the investigators upstairs.

Having finished her ablutions, Marian knelt by the bed to say her prayers. In her long white gown and frilled nightcap, her thin face hidden in her hands, she looked very young and vulnerable. When I knelt beside her for my own devotions, I was moved to touch her lightly on the head and I would have said a few affectionate words if she had responded in the slightest way She did not look up. Somewhat chilled, I mumbled through my petition and got into bed. After emptying the wash water into the jar and blowing out the lamp, Marian joined me.

The window was tightly closed against the noxious night airs and the room was uncomfortably warm. The muttering conversations and the footsteps outside kept jarring me out of the sleep I so
desperately craved; but eventually I began to drift off. I do not believe I was sound asleep, only dozing, for when I heard the crash it jolted me awake in an instant. The sound was ear-shattering and seemingly at my very side. It was followed by the bursting open of the door.

The four men crowded into the doorway. I believe there were only four of them—at that moment they looked like a multitude— and every eye was fixed on me with a fierce intensity that, even more than the dazzle of the light, made me involuntarily shield my eyes.

Mr. Newson ran to the bed.

"Ladies," he cried. "Are you injured?"

Marian, uttering little whimpering sounds, held out her hands. Instantly he wrapped them in his and went on, "We heard the most frightful crash against the door. We feared for your safety; that must excuse this intrusion."

"The cause of the crash," said one of the other men. He held up the heavy pitcher of white earthenware that made part of the toilet set. It was not valuable; but it had been in my family for many years and it would be difficult to match a single piece without replacing the entire set. I was chagrined to observe that the handle had been broken off the pitcher.

"And here," the same person continued, "here is the result of the crash—an indentation in the boards of the floor, where the pitcher struck it. It is a miracle the vessel was not broken—it struck with such force as to leave a deep dent."

I looked at Marian, whose hands were still firmly held by Mr. Newson. Eyes downcast, she continued to moan faintly, but I had the impression she was not so disturbed as she pretended.

"Where was the pitcher when you retired?" asked the inquisitor.

He looked accusingly at me; I slid farther down in the bed and
pulled the sheet up to my chin. Indignation was beginning to replace my initial feeling of shock. I am sure I hardly need say that I am not accustomed to carrying on conversations with strange men while in bed. My annoyance was increased by the fact that Mr. Phelps made no attempt to remove the intruders, but stared as curiously as they

"It was not in my bed," I said sarcastically. "You may think women lacking in intelligence, gentlemen, but I assure you I would have observed its presence, even in the dark, had Marian brought it to bed with her."

"Then Miss Phelps was the last to handle it?" the questioner went on, unmoved by my justifiable indignation.

"I put it in the comer, there," Marian said faintly. She turned her face aside.

Mr. Newson bent over her. "Your cheek is very red, Miss Phelps," he said respectfully.
"Did the pitcher strike you in passing?"

"Something struck me," Marian whimpered. "I do not know what it was."

"It could not have been the pitcher." This time it was Mr. Phelps who spoke. He had gone to stand in the comer Marian had indicated, and as the others turned toward him he continued triumphantly, "Observe the path the pitcher must have taken. If thrown from here, it would have followed a straight line, striking either the corner of the room or the bureau there. In order to reach the door it must have followed a semicircular path."

"Impossible," one of the men exclaimed.

"But true." Mr. Phelps rubbed his hands together in satisfaction. "The fact has been observed in other cases of this sort. It has also been noted that objects propelled through the air in this mysterious fashion often move with unnatural slowness. That would account for the fact that though the pitcher struck the door with
extraordinary force, it did not break." He glanced at me. There was no compassion or affection in his look, only the cold curiosity of a scientist. "What a pity, Mrs. Phelps, that the room was dark. I suppose you saw nothing of interest?"

"I was asleep."

One of the men made a small, wordless sound and nodded significantly. I knew what he was thinking. So did Mr. Newson.

"Let me state at once, and for the record," he said firmly, "that neither of these ladies could have been responsible for the hurling of the pitcher. To hurl it with such force would be impossible for weak female muscles. Besides, we entered the room instantly, did we not, and found both ladies in bed with their hands under the bedclothes. In order to throw the pitcher they must have got out of bed. They would not have had time to return to it before we came in. What is more, I was holding Miss Phelps's hands firmly."

Marian looked a little foolish when she heard this explanation. Mr. Newson's gesture in holding her hands had had a different motive from the one she had hoped. It struck me that there were several flaws in his argument; what use was it to hold Marian's hands after the object had been thrown and had been heard to strike the door? I saw no reason to mention this. I had not been sound asleep. I would have been aware of Marian getting out of bed if she had done so.

But I remember Mr. Newson very kindly. He never retracted the statement he made that night, and continued to insist that there was no physical explanation for the marvels he had seen; some of the others were not so fair-minded.

Another rather gentlemanly reporter was the person from the
New York Sun.
I recall his name now—it was Beach. I gathered that he had some considerable reputation, for Mr. Phelps was childishly pleased to welcome him.

Though his manners were good enough, I saw at once that he
had come prepared to suspect Harry. One would think that incidents such as the one I have just related, among many others, would put my poor boy in the clear. But such are evil minds—no facts impress them when a firm predilection has been established. Oh, I own that persons not acquainted with Harry's true nature might have had cause, in the beginning, to assume he was playing rude tricks on us; boys have been known to do such things. However, Harry would never have kept up with the plan after it became apparent that I was disturbed by it. Besides, as I believe I have made eminently clear, he was not even in the room when some of the things happened.