Other Worlds (19 page)

Mr. Beach had children and grandchildren of his own. He rather pointedly told us several stories about "the young rascals' tricks." I knew then where his suspicions lay; and I was sure of it when he asked, later, if we might not talk with Harry for a while after the boy had gone to his room.

We all went upstairs—except the babies, who were, of course, already asleep. Harry was in bed reading. He was delighted to see us.

We were talking quietly—I do not recall the subject—when Mr. Beach started and stared at a certain spot on the carpet. I could not see it from where I sat, so I got up and moved to a better position.

The object at which Mr. Beach pointed was only a tin matchbox. But I am sure it was not there before or I would have noticed it, since it was four or five inches long and almost as wide. I keep a tidy house, or try to do so.

As we continued to stare in wonderment at the box it moved, sliding along the carpet toward the bed. Its lid flew open. A dozen or more matches jumped out onto the floor.

Harry was as dumbfounded as the rest of us. Poor boy, he had been so often accused that his first exclamation was "I didn't do it! It wasn't me!"

"That is quite all right, my lad," Mr. Beach said. He spoke soothingly—but at the same time his hand explored the empty air, as if expecting to find a string or thread running between Harry and the matchbox. He found no such thing; and I could not help but feel satisfaction when I saw his expression of chagrin.

Harry was extremely upset. Tossing and turning in his bed, he whimpered, "They want to burn me. That is what the matches were for—to burn me in my bed!"

"Nonsense," Mr. Phelps exclaimed. "Such womanly cowardice does not become you, Henry."

"He has been attacked before," I retorted indignantly.

"Minor things only—no more severe than the rest of us have endured."

"His clothes have been ripped off his body, his things marred and hidden—"

"Please, Mrs. Phelps. You forget we have a guest."

That was always his way, to suggest that I was losing my temper and forgetting my manners. His voice had been as loud and intemperate as mine.

We had turned our eyes and our attention away from Harry as our discussion became heated. A shriek from the boy interrupted us. He had pulled himself up to the very head of the bed and was crouched against the pillows. His trembling hand pointed to a bright yellow tongue of fire quivering on the bedclothes, not far from where his feet had been.

I felt that my senses were about to leave me. Mr. Phelps stood frozen. It was Mr. Beach who sprang forward and extinguished the flame.

"A scrap of newspaper was set alight," he said, holding up the partially charred fragment. "Don't be alarmed, Mrs. Phelps. No damage was done, the sheet is barely scorched."

It was absurd to suggest I should not be alarmed. Any mother
would be beside herself after such an experience. Harry, too, was crying and wailing. I was exceedingly wounded by Mr. Phelps's attitude. When I insisted I would spend the night at my boy's bedside he accused me of being hysterical. Was it hysterical to fear a repetition of this dreadful occurrence? If another fire had started while the boy was sound asleep . . .

Mr. Beach came to my rescue by offering to take Harry into his bed that night. So it was arranged, and so far as I know, the rest of the night passed peacefully. When Mr. Beach left us next morning he assured me he would be scrupulously fair in reporting what had occurred, and I must admit he kept his promise.

So, when I come to think about it, the newspaper persons were not as bad as they might have been. The "spiritualist consultants," as they called themselves, were another matter.

One of them was a certain Mr. Sutherland, the editor of Mr. Phelps's favorite publication,
The Spiritualist Philosopher.
He had the impertinence to include us on a kind of psychic tour, whose main attraction was those same Fox sisters whom Mr. Phelps had told me about. As if we were in the same category as those shameless girls, who had made a public display of their tricks and had even taken money for performances!

Is it any wonder that when I first heard the name of Andrew Jackson Davis I took him for another of the vultures? That morning, when Mr. Phelps opened his mail and remarked, "We have attracted widespread interest. Mr. Davis himself proposes to call on us," I said only, "Not another of them?"

"Not another of anything," Mr. Phelps said with a faint smile. "Mr. Davis may reasonably claim to be unique."

"You sound as if you do not approve of him, Papa," Marian said timidly.

"I don't know what to make of him. He calls himself 'The Poughkeepsie Seer,' which rather smacks of charlatanry, and he is
only twenty-four years old, quite uneducated, from a respectable but lower-class family. Yet this untutored young man has produced an astonishing book in eight hundred closely printed
pages—
The Principles of Nature, Her Divine Revelations, and a Voice
to Mankind.
It consists of lectures delivered by Mr. Davis while in a state of trance. Some of the thoughts expressed are quite profound; they suggest an acquaintance with philosophical and scientific subjects far beyond the normal scope of such a man. It is certainly possible that he has been used as a vehicle by spiritual guides of great power and wisdom, as he claims."

At least, I thought to myself, he is not another of those elderly gray-bearded skeptics. Who knows, perhaps a man like that— young, flexible, spiritually gifted—can save us.

The morning of his arrival we were all at the window watching for him. I expected Mr. Phelps would send the carriage to meet his train, but my husband refused, saying the day was fine, the walk from the station short and pleasant. "It won't hurt him," he added. "A spry young fellow like that." This comment smacked a trifle of spite, I thought. Men can sometimes be just as petty as women.

There was no question of recognizing him. As soon as I set eyes on the approaching figure I knew who he was.

Other memories have vanished into the mists of time, but every detail of his looks and his manner of speech remains fresh in my mind. I can even remember what he wore that day—his costume was smart yet gentlemanly—a black coat with a satin collar, brown-and-black-checked trousers, a scarf of green around his neck, and a tan felt bowler. It suited his erect, youthful figure. His long, springy steps required no assistance from the gold-headed stick he held in one hand. The other hand carried a portmanteau, which he swung to and fro with boyish exuberance, as if it weighed nothing. He glanced about with obvious pleasure in the beauty of the day, and a sweet smile curved his lips. He was
clean-shaven. His dark hair waved from under the brim of his hat; when he removed the latter, as if to relish the freshness of the soft spring air, the sunlight woke golden highlights in the glossy locks.

I wore my brownish-pink taffeta, with bell-shaped sleeves embroidered at the cuffs, and a collar of fine batiste. It was always one of my favorite gowns.

Soon he was among us, greeting my husband with graceful deference and bowing over my hand. Marian behaved like a moonstruck schoolgirl. She goggled and gaped and was incapable of sensible speech. Mr. Davis favored her with considerable attention, his eyes ever wandering back to her face, but it was obvious that his interest was strictly professional. He was not long in explaining it.

"The moment I entered this house I sensed the presence of spirits," he said solemnly. "And you, Miss Phelps—you feel them too, do you not? You are a clairvoyant of considerable power."

I made an involuntary sound of surprise and protest. At once our visitor turned his full attention upon me, sensing my need for reassurance.

"Don't be alarmed, Mrs. Phelps. There is nothing to fear. These forces are purely benevolent. They come to do you good. They are a mark of favor which few families have merited."

I cannot describe my sensations.

"Some claim they are evil spirits," Mr. Phelps said sharply "Devils."

"Nonsense, nonsense. But we will discuss the matter at a later time. With your permission, I would like to wander about the house, absorbing its atmosphere and talking casually to all of you. I would also like to examine the notes I understand you have taken. I am particularly interested in the mysterious writings; you have copies of them? Good. And of course I desire to meet young Master Henry."

It was all arranged as he had asked. He spent part of the afternoon sitting quietly in the parlor, his eyes closed, his face uplifted, and the most angelic expression of smiling peace on his face. He roused at once when a clatter of boots on the porch announced the arrival of Harry, who was, for once, prompt in his return from school.

The meeting between them was fraught with significance. Harry's reaction to some of our other visitors had reflected my own feelings of resentment. He had been prepared to greet Mr. Davis with the same outer courtesy and inner contempt he had felt for others, but even his reserve fell instantly before the warmth of Andrew's smile and his companionable clap on the shoulder. (Already I could not help thinking of my friend by that name; it was not long before he gave me permission to use it.)

Andrew then asked Harry to show him around the grounds. They went off together and were gone for some hours, returning with hearty appetites in time for tea.

When the shades of night were falling and we gathered in the library, Andrew was gracious enough to share his thoughts with us. He had requested that Harry make one of the party. Harry was delighted to oblige. He was already devoted to Andrew, and the air of innocent satisfaction with which he assumed his chair and crossed his legs, in imitation of his new idol, was delightful to behold.

"Let me assure you again there is nothing to fear," Andrew began. His smiling glance seemed to linger on me. "The spirits who visit you mean you only good. I know them. You know them too, Miss Phelps, if 1 am not mistaken."

"I—I cannot say," Marian muttered.

"I know them," Harry cried.

"Now, my boy." Andrew raised a finger in gentle admonition. "Like your sister, you are a natural medium, but you must not be
led astray. Let me explain to all of you how the spirits operate. You have all testified that objects have been invisibly moved from one place to another. Not so! The objects were not invisible; the spirits who carried them acted directly upon your minds to render you incapable of realizing the objects were passing before your eyes, or even to realize that your mental attention had been diverted. You, Henry, and your sister have attracted these spirits. You are both exceedingly surcharged with vital magnetism and vital electricity, alternating with one another. When magnetism preponderates in your systems, then nails, keys, books and so on fly toward you. When electricity preponderates, then the articles move away from you. Laughably simple, is it not?"

"Not at all," Mr. Phelps replied. "You said first, if I understand you, that objects were moved by spirit hands."

"Of course. But the direction taken by the objects is determined by the electrical or magnetical condition of Henry and Miss Phelps."

"I understand," 1 exclaimed.

Mr. Phelps's expression said, "1 do not," as plainly as if he had spoken. With a benevolent smile Andrew continued, "Henry is naturally nervous. This condition encourages the accumulation of magnetic forces. Miss Phelps has been made nervous by fear— unnecessary though that fear may be—and is now, I believe, the more powerful clairvoyant of the two."

Harry stirred restlessly, as if he did not much care for this analysis. His papa looked keenly at him. Then he said, "Mr. Davis, your theory is most interesting. But it does not suggest what we are to do about Henry's—er—magnetism. How can we rid ourselves of these undesired effects?"

"Why, you cannot. They will pass of themselves when the desired end is attained."

"And that end is ..."

Andrew drew from his pocket a sheet of paper, which I recognized as one of those on which Mr. Phelps had taken copies of the strange writings.

"I recognize this script," he said calmly. "It is like the inscription I read upon a scroll which was presented to my mind some seven years ago. The characters mean, 'You may expect a variety of things from our society' And this other inscription—on a turnip, was it not?—I interpret as 'Our society desires, through various mediums, to import thoughts.'"

"What society?" Mr. Phelps demanded.

Andrew smiled gently. "Can't you guess?"

"A society of lunatics, I suppose. Only a mind bereft of reason would conceive such bizarre antics."

Andrew was a trifle taken aback by the vehemence, verging on discourtesy, of my husband's tone. Mastering his surprise, he replied, with the same affable patience as before, "You are wide of the mark, Mr. Phelps. I hope to prove it to you before long. In fact, if you will permit me to attempt a demonstration now. . . ."

"Why not?" was the ungracious reply.

Despite his vociferous objections, Harry was dispatched to his bed; and, at Andrew's request, Mr. Phelps put Marian into the state which I now heard described, for the first time, as that of trance. As Andrew explained, Marian was more attuned to her papa's mental vibrations than to his, powerful though they were, and might be expected to respond more readily to his questions. This concession put my husband into a better humor. Taking out his watch, he went through the now-familiar performance, and looked childishly pleased with himself when Marians face immediately took on the dreamy, peaceful expression I had seen before.