Other Worlds (13 page)

They say our invisible tormentors are devils, damned souls sent to punish us for some hidden sin. Andrew (he said I might call him Andrew) insists they are spirits of good. I wish I could be sure. When he spoke, when I was in his presence, I believed him. He has such a wonderful voice. His fiery dark eyes, his handsome features, his tall, youthful frame—his entire being vibrates with such sincerity that I am carried away by it. But he has gone now—never to return? I walk out to do my marketing or take a little exercise—and the whispers buzz behind me. I wish I were back in Philadelphia. I wish I had never married. But what else could I have done? I was
alone—grieving for my deceased husband, helpless as women always are without a strong man to lean on, my children suffering from the lack of a father's care.

I have never been, nor wanted to be, a disciplinarian. I am sure children respond more readily to affection. After their dear papa passed on I did not have the heart to punish the children for trivial acts of mischief. They missed their father—Henry particularly. He is such a sensitive boy.

When the Reverend Dr. Phelps proposed marriage to me, my answer was, in some degree, influenced by the needs of my children But not entirely—oh, no. Mr. Phelps is a fine man. Fine-looking, too, for his age—not that sixty is old ... He seems older because he is so serious and scholarly. I respect him very much.

When I told him I would be his wife he kissed me gently on the brow. Then he took his leave, promising to return that evening to greet the children as their new papa.

After he had gone I stood in the downstairs hall, looking up the stairs. The weather was dreary, dark and chill; snow hissed against the windows like whispering voices. I was conscious of a strange and inexplicable reluctance to ascend those stairs. As I hesitated, my hand on the knob of the newel post, it seemed to me that there was something up there, just out of sight around the turn of the stairs. A dark, shapeless shadow loomed on the wall of the landing.

I know now that it was a portent, a foreshadowing of what was to come. It could have been nothing else. No danger awaited me at the top of the stairs, only the nursery and my darling children. The two little ones would be tucked in their cribs now, but I had promised to come to Harry after Mr. Phelps left.

The shadow was gone. It had never really been there; I knew that. But my feet dragged as I mounted the stairs.

After the gloom of the hallway the nursery looked bright and cheerful. A fire crackled on the hearth. I reminded myself not to
call it "the nursery" Harry disliked the word. He was too old, he insisted, for a nurse or a nursery. Soon he would be all of twelve years old!

He sat on the rug before the fire, his legs crossed and his chin propped on his hands. He was playing with his little toy theatre, his favorite plaything of all the toys I had given him. It was an elaborate affair, though it was made of pasteboard and the characters were cut out of paper. It had real red satin curtains and a small stage. Harry often put on performances for me, taking all the parts himself and moving his paper people around the stage as he spoke in voices that moved from gruff to falsetto.
Hamlet
and
Julius Caesar
were among his favorites—in greatly abridged versions, of course. Apparently some new play was being plotted, for there were only two cardboard personages on the stage—a slender, ringletted female who usually represented the heroine, and a villainous-looking person who had been Cassius and Hamlet's wicked uncle in his time.

"Never mind, Marian," I said. "Harry only means that he misses his mama. I miss you too, Harry. But I hope you will be polite to Mr.
Phelps. You will see more of him ... I mean to say . . . You don't really dislike him, do you, darling? He is a good man—"

"I hate him!" Harry stepped back. Fists clenched, face crimson, he looked challengingly at me.

Marian rose, putting down the book she had been reading. "He doesn't mean it, Mama. Don't be upset. He only says it to vex you."

"Why, Marian, how spiteful you are," I exclaimed. "Harry would never wish to vex me."

"Never, Mama." My son flung his arms around me. "I love you, Mama."

"And I love you, my dearest."

"So you will tell that horrid old man to go away and leave us alone?"

"Darling, he is not old or horrid."

Harry clung to me, his face hidden in my skirts. Marian said, in a flat, expressionless voice, "Are you going to marry Mr. Phelps, Mama?"

I had come to tell them that very news. I do not know why the question rang in my ears like an accusation or a threat. I don't know why it took so long to answer.

When I said, "Yes, I am," I had my explanation all prepared. Their need of a father's love, my need of a husband's care. I had actually started my speech before I realized there was no need for it. In the same strange voice Marian murmured, "I wish you happiness, Mama."

Harry said nothing. He moved away from me. Dropping to the floor before his little theatre, he began moving the figures around the stage. His face was absorbed. The villain moved toward the maiden and pushed her over onto her cardboard back. Harry laughed in his boyish fashion.

There,
I said to myself.
You see how it is
—
there was no need to worry. He has taken it well.

Before we were married he informed me we would not be living in Philadelphia, as I had assumed. He had accepted a position as pastor of the Presbyterian church in a small town in Connecticut. Knowing what I know now, I marvel that a shudder did not pass through my body when I heard the name Stratford. But at the time—despite what some people have said—I was not reluctant to make the move. I had always loved Philadelphia, but the death of my first husband had cast a gloom over the city where
we had lived together; I saw little of our former friends. Besides, it is a wife's duty to follow cheerfully and uncomplainingly wherever her husband leads.

Dr. Phelps kindly explained the reasons for his decision. His duties as pastor of the congregation in Huntington, New York, combined with his position as secretary of the Presbyterian Educational Society in Philadelphia, involved considerable travel to and fro. He found it increasingly wearisome, and now that he was about to contract new familial ties, he had decided to find a quiet country town in which to settle.

He assured me I would love my new home. His eyes shone with the enthusiasm that is his most youthful and attractive characteristic.

"It is a very old town, my dear, founded in the early eighteenth century Washington was constantly there."

"It seems to me that Washington was everywhere except at home," I said.

Mr. Phelps looked at me in a puzzled way "But, my dear," he said mildly, "it was necessary for him to travel a great deal, first as Commander-in-Chief of the American forces during the War of Independence, and then as President. The demands of his office—"

"Of course. I did not mean to be frivolous. Tell me more about General Washington and Stratford."

"He has become such a legend it is difficult to remember that he died—why, it is exactly fifty years ago, in 1799. I talked with residents of Stratford who well remembered his final visit to that city Mrs. Benjamin Fairchild was able to serve him potatoes from her garden, which he relished very much."

I wonder, I thought to myself, if they still grow potatoes in their gardens, the good people of Stratford. And why should they not? Potatoes are a suitable product for a village garden.

In fact, my first sight of Stratford was a pleasant surprise. The
train was not very nice—they make such a noise, and are so very dirty—but the scenery was lovely. Rich meadowland, grand old trees, picturesque vistas crowned by majestic hills, trickling streamlets of pure water running down to the blue waters of the Sound, which sparkled in the spring sunlight. Upon the southern horizon rose the outline of Long Island, which was formerly called Sewanhacky—the Island of Shells—by the Indians who once inhabited this idyllic region. Mr. Phelps, as excited as a boy, told me this fact and others of historical interest. The history of Stratford is as peaceful as its appearance; the bloody skirmishes of war have passed it by, except for encounters with the dusky aborigines. The community's chief claim to fame derives from the visits of General and Mrs. Washington.

Apparently the Great Man's wandering habits were shared by his wife—or else, I mused, she was forever trying to catch up with him! I did not share this whimsy with Mr. Phelps. He would only have looked at me with his puzzled smile. But I suspected I would hear more about the General and his lady than I cared to hear.

Stratford itself was as charming as Mr. Phelps had claimed and not as bucolic as I had feared. It had two churches, a number of shops, and many elegant houses. Our house was on Elm Street, and when the carriage turned into this thoroughfare I found it broad and spacious, lined with fine old trees whose shade was welcome on the warm afternoon. Of course it was not a paved street, one could hardly expect that. But the dwellings of our new neighbors were large and handsome, with wide green lawns that, like our own, stretched down behind the houses to the waters of the Sound.

We had—so Mr. Phelps told me—a property of some three and a half acres. Ideal for the children, I agreed, but I expressed some natural maternal concern about the nearness of the water. Mr. Phelps brushed this aside.

"Henry must learn to swim. It will be good for the boy, you have made him something of a namby-pamby, my dear. Quite natural; but it is time he learned more manly pursuits. As for the younger children, they can hardly get into trouble with you in close attendance, not to mention the servants."

Though the sun had shone brightly during the first part of our journey, clouds gathered as we proceeded. The sullen gray skies were an ominous backdrop for a brides first vision of her new home.

Yet it was a pleasant house, even under cloudy skies—gleaming with fresh white paint, its facade adorned with a fine portico supported by tall Grecian pillars. Inside, the house was equally immaculate. We had sent servants ahead to prepare for our coming, and, Mr. Phelps said, the good ladies of the congregation had been tireless in their assistance. He had told me little about the place, beyond assuring me that it was elegant and spacious; when I stepped into the hall I suppose my face must have displayed my surprise, for Mr. Phelps smiled.

"Is it not handsome?"

"It is so
long,"
I said. "And what a peculiar arrangement for a staircase."

Mr. Phelps stood with his feet apart, viewing the hallway with the fond pride of a new proprietor.

"It was built for a sea captain," he explained. "His wife supervised the construction while he was on his final voyage to China. She did not want him to miss the sea, so she designed the hallway to be exactly the dimensions of a clipper ship's deck— seventy feet long by twelve wide. The twin staircases carry out the same idea of allowing the captain to fancy himself still aboard his beloved ship. After pacing the main deck, he could climb one stair to the hurricane deck, and then descend by the other stair."

"A pretty notion," I said.

And a peculiar notion, I added—but to myself. What is well in a ship does not always suit a house! However, when Harry began running up one staircase and down the other, expressing his loud approval, I was able to contemplate my extraordinary hallway more favorably. It was certainly a splendid place in which to play. Harry gleefully announced his intention of being up and down the stairs all day long. When Mr. Phelps heard this, his expression was decidedly solemn. The room he intended to use as a library was to the right of the stairs. But he said nothing at that time, and I promised myself I would persuade Harry to be considerate of his new papa's need for quiet.

Harry was equally approving of the rest of the house. He declared it was perfect for hide-and-seek, with its many corridors and chambers.

When winter came and the icy winds swept across the Sound, some of the deficiencies of the house became apparent. The drawing room chimney smoked abominably upon occasion, and since this was apparently caused by a certain velocity and direction of wind, nothing could be done about it. The house was a cold house. I was constantly shivering in icy drafts that no one else seemed to feel. Mr. Phelps did not object when I ordered heavier draperies for all the windows and kept the carpenter busy caulking and refitting window frames; but one day in mid-January, when he saw how the woodpile had shrunk, he took me to task for extravagance.

"It is all your imagination, my dear. None of the rest of us is affected by these drafts. You are a little hothouse plant, I am afraid."

I
was
the only one to complain of the cold. But I do not believe now that it was only my imagination.