Other Worlds (20 page)

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."

Marians 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. Marians 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 Marians 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 subjects 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!"

"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
marvelous
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 1 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 absent-mindedness 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.

"Here it is, ladies and gentlemen, the house where it all happened! Here you see the door that was thrown open by a skeleton hand and there is the very identical spot from which the scissors grinder ascended into the air, constantly turning of his wheels all the while, until he was lost to view, coming down next day in Waterbury. To your right—"

The fellow continued to shout his outrageous lies, and his auditors stared with all their might. Every window was filled with gaping faces. Ignorant, evil-minded curiosity wiped every countenance clean of humanity; even the faces of the children looked like masks carved out of some vegetable substance.

I clapped my hands over my ears. As I turned from the window the housemaid came running in.

"Oh, Mrs. Phelps, ma'am, have you heard—"

"Only a deaf person could fail to hear. Call the constable— call Judge Watson—call Mr. Phelps ..."

"The Reverend said as how he would go out to talk to them, ma'am."

I rushed back to the window in time to hear the front door open. The bellowing ruffian on the box of the omnibus stopped in midsentence and shrank back. From under the shelter of the portico I saw Mr. Phelps appear. He walked slowly toward the gate, where he came to a halt.

He did not speak; he only stood there, arms at his sides. Slowly at first, then in a rush, most of the heads pulled back into the bus. A few of the bolder ones, including one woman with a coarse, painted face, stared back at Mr. Phelps with even more avid interest. Finally, however, his quiet dignity had the desired effect. The hackman's rubicund countenance turned redder, if such a thing were possible. Snatching up his whip, he flicked the poor horses until they broke into a trot and the omnibus rumbled away

Not until it had disappeared among the trees, and the sightseers who had followed it on foot had shamefacedly dispersed, did Mr. Phelps turn and walk slowly back to the house.

I suppose he could not have done anything else. A clergyman's dignity does not allow him to shout or call people rude names. I wished he had, though. I would like to have done something—I don't know what—something violent. It would have relieved me to see him do it.

I had difficulty arranging my hair, my hands shook so—not with nervousness but with rage. The comments of the maid who helped me hook up my gown did not improve my temper. I was well aware of the fact that the servants stayed on only because Mr. Phelps paid generous wages and was considered a good master. The girl's broad hints that she was sacrificing her safety and peace of mind by remaining irritated me exceedingly, but 1 said nothing until she mentioned, of all things, her "reputation."

"What can you possibly mean?" I demanded. "No one has accused you of anything; your so-called reputation has not been damaged in the slightest."

She did not reply. Glancing in the mirror to make sure my hair was tidy, I saw her face reflected. She did not
realize
I could see her. The sly shifting of her eyes, the faint, meaningless smile, struck me unpleasantly.

"Well?" I demanded, turning to face her. "What is this talk of reputation?"

Her eyes fell. "You haven't been out much lately, ma'am."

"I have not been well."

"Yes, ma'am. Only—you haven't heard what the people are saying."

"I don't care what they are saying. How dare you try to repeat idle gossip. That will do; get on with your work."

She obeyed at once, averting her face as she passed me. I felt rather regretful then; I made a point of never losing my temper with the servants, and I realized that she had probably spoken with good intentions—to warn rather than to gloat.

This interchange made me determined to speak to Mr. Phelps at once. His duties had taken him into town on several occasions. He had 'said nothing to me of a change in people's attitude, but it was not his way to complain or ask my advice.

When I approached the library 1 realized that he had visitors. As a rule one could not hear sounds from within a room when the door was closed. On this occasion, however, I heard not one but several voices raised loud enough to reach my ears, even through the thick panels of the door. I thought one of the voices was that of Mr. Phelps, but could not be sure. It was immediately lowered, and I heard nothing more.

Naturally I did not remain in the hall; and it was not until dinnertime that Mr. Phelps and I met.