Other Worlds (14 page)

Mr. Phelps's pastoral duties were not onerous. He was at home a great deal. Snow and freezing weather kept us constantly indoors, and I envied him his ability to amuse himself with one hobby or
another. One of his interests, however, caused me some concern as the long months of winter dragged on.

He had never made any particular secret of this interest, but it was not one he advertised abroad. I knew some of his parishioners would not approve of their pastor dabbling with what he called "spiritual philosophy" They would have had other names for it—and so did I. Once I peeped into the journal he had been reading with great interest, and found it was full of references to apparitions and mysterious rappings, phantoms and eerie voices.

I could hardly believe it. I found ghost stories deliriously thrilling—fun to tell on stormy nights by the fire, with good company at hand. But that Mr. Phelps, so serious and so intelligent, could be equally captivated, surprised me. However, when I mentioned the subject to him—I believe I inadvertently used the term "magic"— he was sharp with me.

"I am not concerned with children's fairy tales, Mrs. Phelps, but with unknown science—forces as yet misunderstood by our limited human minds."

"But," I ventured to say, "they speak of the Spirit World, of wonderful messages from the Apostles and the prophets. There was a mother who heard from her little daughter, who had died."

"Ah, that." Mr. Phelps leaned back in his chair. His face took on a dreamy, far-off look. "Imagine hearing, from the lips of St. Luke or Isaiah, a description of the realm of the blessed! The temptation, the well-nigh irresistible lure of that most wonderful of mysteries ..." His dreamy expression faded, and his voice took on its normal brisk note. "But it is all speculation, there is as yet no real proof that these communications are genuine. Well, my dear, this is a very serious talk for such a little lady. Did you remember to speak to Cook about yesterdays roast? It was sadly overdone. Such a thing must not occur again."

I did not pursue the matter. It sounded rather dull, after all.

Another peep into his journal confirmed this impression. There was a long, tedious article on something called Patheticalism, or Pathetism—a means of curing diseases without the use of drugs, which sounded most odd. And although there were many references to goodness and truth and unity, and other admirable qualities, there were few thrilling stories.

So the dull days dragged on. I kept myself busy sewing and playing with the children, and practicing on the piano, which I had sadly neglected in Philadelphia. The ladies of Stratford were assiduous in good works; I served on a dozen committees to educate the heathen and supply them with modest clothing, to call on the sick (who, being of the lower classes, were often rudely unappreciative of the attention), and to improve the lot of servants, children, and fallen women. We did not entertain or go out a great deal. Mr. Phelps seemed more than content, closeted in his library for hours on end.

Then, one February evening, came the event that was to bear such dreadful fruit.

I had been up with the children, helping to tuck them into bed. (There was little else to do in the evening.) After they were snug in their little cots I read them a story and kissed them good night.

Harry was no longer a resident of the nursery He had firmly announced that he was too old for the company of babies, and had demanded a room of his own. There was no difficulty about that; the house had three floors and a sufficiency of bedchambers. Being older, Harry was allowed to sit up later than the little ones so long as he remained in his room, quietly reading or playing. Usually I went to talk with him for a while after the little ones were in bed. It was for me the best part of the day, and it was all too short. I knew my husband awaited me in the drawing room, and although he usually read to himself and spoke little, he liked me to be there.

That evening there was a change in the routine. As I left the nursery I saw Harry coming along the hall. He was fully dressed.

"Why, Harry," I exclaimed. "What are you doing here? You know Papa said you were to be in your nightgown and in your room at this hour."

Harry gave me a bewitching smile. "It is by his orders that I am freed from prison this evening, Mama. I am to attend him in the library."

"Oh, Harry, have you been naughty again? I begged you—"

"Nothing of the sort."
Harry’s
boyish smile broadened. "I am surprised you have so little faith in me, Mama. I assure you, I am not expecting a beating or a lecture."

"But, Harry—"

"Oh, Mama, don't fuss. You are always fussing."

He scampered away. Filled with the direst forebodings, I started after him. Mr. Phelps may laugh at my premonitions, but I solemnly swear I felt an icy chill run through me. I went after the boy, trying to catch up—all in vain, of course, my stays were too tight to let me breathe deeply, and Harry is very agile when he does not wish to be caught. He was in the best of spirits; he teased me by waiting on the landing till I had almost touched him, and then slipped down one of the twin stairs as I started down the other.

I was pleased to see him merry, but I had cause for concern. Harry had not been well. Physically he seemed in excellent health. Mr. Phelps pointed out, rather smugly, how tall and rosy-cheeked he had grown since we came to Stratford. But his behavior the past few weeks had worried me. It was a kind of nervous excitability. Harry was always volatile—it is the sign of a highly intelligent and artistic character—but of late I fancied his moods were more intense and more rapidly changing. I had had the doctor. He was no help at all. After listening to my description of
Harry’s
behavior, and examining the boy, he had laughed and proclaimed him a thoroughly healthy specimen.

"All he needs, ma'am, is a good touch of the stick. They are
limbs of Satan, these young fellows, and they are worse at this time of year when the festivities of the holiday season are over and they see nothing ahead but dreary weather and long months of school. Whack him, ma'am, whack him often and soundly. That will cure his trouble."

Is it any wonder, then, that I was concerned about any unusual mannerism or event where Harry was involved? His spending time with his papa in the library was certainly unusual. As he had indicated, he seldom visited that apartment except for punishment.

Needless to say, I followed him into the room. Mr. Phelps did not appear overly pleased to see me.

"You said you had work to do this evening," he reminded me. "Some sewing task for the Women's Institute that must be finished before tomorrow."

"I have plenty of time," I replied. "You cannot blame me for being curious; what are my two favorite gentlemen planning to do in this mysterious interview?"

"There is nothing mysterious about it," Mr. Phelps said. "I simply saw no reason to mention it to you. Henry has not been himself of late. I have been subjecting him to a course of Pathetic medicine."

"Harry?" I exclaimed. "Medicine? "

Harry threw himself into a big leather chair and crossed his legs. "It is great fun, Mama."

"The term is misleading," Mr. Phelps went on. "There are no drugs or medicines involved. It is a correct Theory of Mind, assisting the spirit to heal itself."

I sat down. "I will help you, Mr. Phelps."

"I hardly think it will interest you, Mrs. Phelps."

"If it is to do with Harry, it will interest me. Pray make allowance, Mr. Phelps, for a mothers natural feelings."

He could not deny me after that. Mr. Phelps has a great deal to say in his sermons and elsewhere about parental love.

I am ashamed to admit what ill-defined fears crowded my mind. I was soon disabused of them; the proceedings were so harmless as to be almost silly With the room in semidarkness, Mr. Phelps took out his watch and held it before the boy's eyes. In a low, soothing voice he bade him follow the gleaming surface as he moved it gently to and fro.

After a while he said softly, "Can you hear me, Henry?"

"Yes" was the reply, in a voice equally soft.

"How do you feel, my boy?"

"Very calm. Very well."

A few more sentences were exchanged, of the same order. Mr. Phelps kept repeating the words "calm" and "well." Finally he said, "You are calm, you are at peace. You will continue in that state, Henry Wake now."

Harry rubbed his eyes. "Is it done?"

"Yes, all done. Off to bed now. Sleep well."

"Yes, sir. Good night. Good night, Mama."

When he had gone Mr. Phelps turned to me. "Well, my dear, I trust you are now convinced that I am not abusing the boy"

"I never thought—"

"Lying is a sin, Mrs. Phelps. You suspected me. I confess it hurts me deeply."

In some confusion I apologized, adding, "Indeed, Mr. Phelps, I have never known you to be unkind to anyone. But I don't understand what you were doing. Why did you tell him to wake? He was not asleep. He spoke to you, answered you; his eyes were wide open all the while."

"The process is too complex for you to understand," Mr. Phelps replied. "It is a scientific process. I assure you, I have had considerable experience with it. I employed it on my brother when he suffered from a heart condition, and was able to relieve him greatly."

I know now that the method he employed is called Magnetism,
or Mesmerism; it is used, in Pathetic medicine, to put the patient into a proper state of mind. Andrew explained it to me later. When
he
explained, I understood quite well. It is all about vital magnetism and vital electricity, and how one is positive and the other negative. He showed me, with an actual magnet, how the invisible force pulls objects toward the poles. It made very good sense, and it does explain some of the things that happened that spring . . .

Oh, but if that were all—if I could believe there was no other cause. There are doors unseen, opening into unimaginable realms. Once those doors have been opened, what creatures may enter in?

That winter evening I had no such precise fears, only a vague uneasiness. I could hardly forbid the experiments, I had seen nothing to complain of; but the uneasiness persisted, and next day I found myself mentioning the matter to Marian. Ordinarily I do not confide in her, but I knew that any problem involving Harry would touch her.

Like the younger children, she seemed happy in Stratford—as nearly happy as Marian can be. She feels little. She had entered into the various activities of the Ladies' Circle and was constantly busy. Having finished her education the year before, she had nothing else to do except look for a husband, and in that respect, I must confess, I found Stratford somewhat lacking. Marian is not pretty. In order to succeed in what must be any woman's chief endeavor she requires a broad circle of acquaintances. There were few young men of the right age and social position in Stratford. However, Marian did not complain.

She surprised me—it is one of the few times she has succeeded in doing that—when I mentioned Mr. Phelps's treatment of Harry.

"There is no harm in it, Mama. Indeed, I find it beneficial. It is like a pleasant sleep, and one feels so calm afterwards."

"What," I exclaimed. "He has done it to you?"

"He does nothing except assist my own spiritual powers to
increase." Marian's thin cheeks were flushed. "I feel much better for it."

"You don't look better for it," I retorted, somewhat sharply "What have you been doing to yourself? You are thinner than ever and there are shadows under your eyes."

Marian murmured something about sleeping badly.

"If that is all... "

"It is nothing serious. I... I dream sometimes."

"We all do," I said.