Other Worlds (22 page)
Authors: KATHY
"There have been others. None so elaborate as the first, but similar in design."
"Yes, quite—figures kneeling in graceful attitudes of prayer, is that not correct? Believe me, these are not meaningless, or—as you may have suspected—mockeries of solemn gatherings. On the contrary! The artificial figures pantomime an impressive lesson: 'Behold, there is no more substance in the mere ceremony of prayer than there is beneath these garments which compose us.'"
I do not understand how anyone can quarrel with the profound wisdom of this interpretation.
With Andrew's permission, I went running off to explain it to Mr. Phelps, who had made a point of absenting himself from all our discussions. I could see he was struck by it; but for reasons I cannot understand he had conceived so strong a prejudice against Andrew that after a moment of reflection he shook his head and pronounced it, "Ingenious but without substance. Typical, I fear, of Mr. Davis's thinking."
"You cannot so easily discount his identification of Rob—of Marian's father."
"I can. He was all over the house on his earlier visit. I believe Marian keeps a portrait of her father in her room."
Against such a closed mind it was impossible to contend.
Andrew assured me that he did not curtail his visit because of any act or word of Mr. Phelps. Of course he is a busy man, much in demand ... All the same, I know he would have stayed longer if he had not been wounded by Mr. Phelps's coldness.
The morning of his departure was dark and drear. Even nature seemed to weep in slow persistent drops.
His last words to me were a repetition of the blessed verse:
"Fear not, all danger is o'er;
We disturbed thy house,
but shall do so no more."
And he was right—I know he was. If only we had believed him and followed the course he suggested! The grace of his presence, brief as it was, did bring about a cessation of the troubles. It was not his fault that they broke out again later, more virulently than before. This time there was no doubt as to the satanic nature of the visitation, for the tormenting spirits proclaimed their true identity in the very accents of Hell.
After Andrew left,
I was ill. A form of brain fever, the doctor said; and for once perhaps the old humbug was right. I feel the effects of it yet.
My illness had one unlooked-for effect. It aroused compassion in hearts which had been hardened against me. Foremost among these was a woman I had thought my bitter enemy— Mrs. Reverend Mitchell.
Hers was the first face I saw when I roused at last from a period of pain and evil dreams. I was weak but in possession of my senses; and my chief emotion was astonishment when her face cracked into a stiff but kindly smile.
I learned later that she had sat with me for two days and nights, tireless in her care. We never became friends; we were too unlike. I am not sure she really approved of me. But her sense of integrity was as rigid as her gaunt, upright frame, and she was prompt to make restitution when she felt she had been unjust.
She admitted as much several days later when, my recovery being almost complete, she was preparing to leave me. Being a pastor's wife, she must take the opportunity to preach a little sermon first.
"You must forgive the townspeople, Mrs. Phelps. People are always ready to think the worst of those they envy."
"Envy! I believe I am the most unfortunate of women."
"If you believe that, you know little of the world," Mrs. Mitchell said dryly. "There are children in this town who live on scraps you would not give to your pet dog or cat; young women driven by hunger to expedients I shudder to contemplate."
I turned my head away. I had heard this sort of thing before. Mr. Phelps was always preaching on the subject of counting one's blessings. All very true, no doubt, but unhappiness is not lessened by hearing of the miseries of others.
"You have been ill," Mrs. Mitchell continued. "That is not surprising. But you must make an effort. I will help all I can. I owe that to you. I must admit that, at one time, I entertained certain unjust suspicions."
"What made you change your mind?" I asked curiously.
"I suppose your illness was in some part responsible," said this honest, unattractive woman. "You suffered; clearly you were a victim. My husband always believed that. I rejected his ideas at first, but in time I saw that he was right."
"I am grateful for his support, and for your kindness."
"Should you need me, I will return at once. But I hope the worst is over."
I was sitting up for the first time that day. Mrs. Mitchell had helped me to move to an armchair near the window where I could enjoy the balmy air and the sunshine. Spring had come while I lay on my bed of pain. Fresh green leaves stirred in the breeze and the lawns were gay with flowers. I smiled at Mrs. Mitchell.
"I know it is over. Mr. Davis assured me of that."
Mrs. Mitchell's lined face took on a most curious expression. After a moment she gave herself a little shake and remarked, "Mr. Davis is all very well, I suppose. But your husband is a good man, a wise man. Trust him, and put your faith in God."
I was more inclined to put my faith in Mrs. Mitchell, though of course I did not say so; she would have considered the remark blasphemous. Like all strong-minded people, she prided herself on her ability to judge others. She had decided I was injured and innocent, and she would remain fixed in that opinion unless I did something to change it.
I vowed sincerely that I would not. The good opinion of others is important to me. It is a weakness, I suppose. Mr. Phelps says that we should not mind what other people say if we are sustained by a conviction of good behavior. Men can do that, perhaps. Morally they are our superiors—so the Scriptures assure us. We women wish—nay, we must have—love and warmth and approval.
Mrs. Mitchell did succeed in restoring my social status. There was no question but that she was responsible, for when callers came she was always with them, ruthlessly forcing them to civility and cutting off those delicate, barbed questions at which women excel. Not all the ladies were bullied by her; a sizable contingent remained aloof, but her followers did as she told them, and for the first time in weeks I entertained callers and returned to my work with the Ladies' Circle.
However, I did not receive anyone until I had made some attempt to improve my appearance. I looked terrible—hollow-eyed, pale, almost as gaunt as Mrs. Mitchell. I had lost so much weight that all my gowns hung on me. I kept Marian busy for days taking them in. She is clever with her needle, if with little else.
She was touchingly pleased to see me up and about again,
and assured me that the manifestations had indeed subsided. A few panes of broken glass, an occasional rap—nothing more.
I was happy to accept this assurance. I wanted to believe it.
On the surface Harry was his dear self, and far less nervous than he had been. Yet I was conscious of a distance between us. He was always rushing off on some expedition when I wanted to talk to him.
I mentioned this to Mr. Phelps. He brushed my fears aside. "The boy is growing up, Mrs. Phelps. You would not want him always clinging to his mama's skirts."
I fully expected that Mr. Phelps would suggest I return to share our old room as soon as I was recovered. To be truthful, the idea was repugnant to me. Rest and privacy were absolutely essential to my nerves, and I was prepared to put forth this argument if he raised the subject. There was no need; he did not refer to it. I am convinced I could not have survived without those hours of privacy. It was wonderful to close the door at night and be quite alone, free to dream and read and think my own thoughts. Perhaps Mr. Phelps sensed this.
Or perhaps he had other reasons.
It was sometime in the middle of June, I believe, that Mr. Phelps called me into the library for the purpose of showing me a letter he had written. It was addressed to the editor of the
New Haven Journal.
When I read the opening lines, my heart began to pound.
"Public attention has been called of late to certain strange manifestations which have been denominated 'the mysterious knockings.'"
Flinging the letter on the desk, I cried, "Are you mad? To call attention to this again?"
"Read the ending," Mr. Phelps insisted.
Somewhat sullenly I turned over the pages to the place he
indicated, and read: "For some weeks now these annoyances at my house have been subsiding and now, as I hoped, have ceased altogether."
"I felt that for your peace of mind you should be convinced of this," Mr. Phelps said. "You seem so much better—"
"I am perfectly well."
"I am glad to hear it."
I put the letter aside. Next to it, lying open on the desk, was a copy of that hateful periodical
The Spiritual Philosopher.
"You have not given up your interest in these matters, then," I said.
"There is nothing harmful in them. I refuse to accommodate myself to the demands of ignorant people."
As my eye wandered down the columns of print, a name caught my eye. Involuntarily, my lips shaped the words.
"The
Great Harmonia,
by Andrew Jackson Davis.
A
Philosophical Revelation of the Natural, Spiritual, and Celestial Universe."
"Yes," said Mr. Phelps coolly. "Mr. Davis is prolific, if nothing else."
"Will you not send away for this volume? The price seems reasonable—only a dollar and a quarter."
"I think not. I am tolerably familiar with Mr. Davis's ideas."
"I have been wondering if we ought to write him, to tell him of the happy ending to our troubles."
"He is on some sort of western tour at present. I am sure he has lost interest in us."
I would have replied, but Mr. Phelps gave me no opportunity. "There is one other matter I meant to mention to you. I have decided Henry should sleep in my room for a while. I have put a little cot in there for his use."
The change of subject was so abrupt I could only stare at
him. He took my surprise for calm acceptance; with an approving smile he went on, "Henry is nervous, you know. Your friend, Mr. Davis, said it was his natural state. He sleeps better when there is someone with him."
Heaven forgive me—I did not question or inquire. I was not ready to receive the truth. In my quiet chamber, some distance from the rooms where the others slept, I was able to remain unaware of what was happening.
One
day
in July, Mr. Phelps saw fit to inform me that we were going to have visitors. I have complained of clergymen and newspaper persons, but this was the worst plague of all—Mr. Phelps's relations. They had spoken of coming before; but, like the rodents that desert a doomed vessel, they had been careful to keep their distance while we were enduring our agonizing experiences. Now we had apparently been restored to favor. Dr. and Mrs. Phelps, and Mr. Austin Phelps, proposed to spend a few weeks in Stratford.
Dr. Phelps, my husbands brother, was a stolid, reserved gentleman who spoke very little, perhaps because his wife talked so much he could not get a word in. She was the silliest of old ladies and had never approved of me or my children. But Austin was the one I dreaded. He was Mr. Phelps's son by his first marriage and a man of absolutely terrifying respectability Mr. Phelps was immensely proud of him, for he had followed his fathers profession of theology and was expected to have a distinguished career. I could have wished he was not so courteous to me. The icy correctness of his manner was almost worse than open resentment.
They arrived in the midst of a violent thunderstorm—another of those omens of nature to which I had become increasingly sensitive. Austin had not changed. When his hand touched mine in greeting, it felt like an object carved of stone.
Mrs. Harriet Phelps kept me constantly occupied for the next few days. She was unable to endure her own company—small wonder!—and followed me around the house, talking incessantly I discovered that she was not the one responsible for keeping the family away while we were suffering; she was fascinated by the subject.
"Did the scissors grinder really ascend into the air?" she asked, round-eyed.
"Of course not. That was complete fabrication."
"But windows were broken; Harry was carried through the air. Oh," she went on, without giving me time to reply, "I was most intrigued by it all. I would like to have visited you then; but you know, Mrs. Phelps—"
"I know. Many of our friends abandoned us at that time."
It was perfectly safe to insult Mrs. Harriet. She never noticed.
"Ah, well," she said complacently. "People are very ignorant of spiritual matters. It is different with me. Oh, I do wish something would happen while I am here!"
They say that God is not the only one who grants wishes.
It was while I was attempting to escape Mrs. Harriet for a brief time that I happened to overhear a conversation between Austin and Mr. Phelps. The gentlemen spent most of their time in the library, talking, as I supposed, of theological matters. How wrong I was in this assumption I was soon to learn.
Never before had I heard Austin raise his voice. The vehemence of his tones attracted my attention as I passed by the room; wonderment kept me motionless long enough to overhear his words.
"I am astonished at your attitude, Father. Surely you encourage matters that are better ignored."
"You have never doubted my word before, Austin," said Mr. Phelps, in tones of mournful reproach.
"I do not doubt it now. I am sure all the things you have described are literally true. I only wonder at your interpretation of them."
"You admitted last night that no one in the house could have been responsible for the sounds you heard."
I could bear it no longer. I flung the door wide.
"What sounds?" I cried. "What has happened? Mr. Phelps, you assured me the affair was over. You promised me!"
I think Mr. Phelps said something about eavesdroppers, but I was too overwrought to heed his words. The others were apologetic and kind, Austin made me take a chair, and Dr. Phelps stood by me, his hand on my wrist.
"You must tell her the truth, Brother," he said to my husband. "It is far less alarming than the things she might imagine. Mrs. Phelps, your pulse is racing. Calm yourself."
Then they told me what had happened.
At midnight Austin had been awakened by a deep sigh breathed through the keyhole and repeated several times, quite loudly. This was followed by a tremendous hammering outside in the hall. When he got up and struck a light he found dents on the banister, as if it had been beaten with a hammer. Going upstairs, he found the children all asleep and the servants' door locked.
"Locked?" I interrupted.
"I have been taking that precaution for some time," my husband said. "It was necessary to eliminate the servants from suspicion. I have effectively done so."
"But my children are still suspects, I suppose!"
"No one suspects you, Mrs. Phelps," the doctor assured me.
"You heard nothing last night?" Austin asked.
