Other Worlds (21 page)

Though his manner was calm as usual, I saw at once that something had disturbed him. The presence of the servants prevented me from questioning him then; so after the meal I followed him
into the library. He glanced up with an appearance of surprise from the book he held.

"Is something wrong, Mrs. Phelps?"

"You ask me that? After the degrading performance I was forced to witness this morning? What do you propose to do about it, Mr. Phelps?"

"There is nothing I can do. The road is a public thoroughfare. I cannot prevent people from using it."

"Indeed. Mr. Davis will be back in a few days; perhaps he can think of something."

Mr. Phelps's face darkened. "I had forgotten he was coming. Most unfortunate. But I suppose I can hardly retract the invitation now."

Such was my surprise at hearing these unkind words in the coldest possible voice that I sank into a chair. "Why, Mr. Phelps! You welcomed Mr. Davis at first, and heaven knows he has already—"

"He has already done me considerable damage." It was so unlike Mr. Phelps to interrupt me, or condemn anyone so flatly, that I gaped at him. He continued, "What has he done, in fact, but spout a lot of nonsense about magnetism, and suggest we send the children away? I had already determined to do that."

"His manner is extraordinarily comforting."

"Do you find it so?" Mr. Phelps laughed sharply. "Then let me tell you, Mrs. Phelps, that this morning I received a delegation of elders from the church who informed me that I must end these— their term was satanic operations."

"But what has Mr. Davis to do with it?" I cried. "As if he—and we—would not see the horrible business ended, if we could."

"The implication," said Mr. Phelps dryly, "is that I have encouraged these phenomena by my spiritualist researches. Mr. Davis is notorious in those circles, which means that his very
name is anathema to narrow-minded sectarians." He was silent for a time, his expression fading from severity to weariness. Finally he said slowly, "I am unjust to Mr. Davis. I am sinning against him in my thoughts. He is, I am sure, completely sincere. You must excuse me, Mrs. Phelps. The threat of a church trial—"

"Oh, no!"

"Alas, yes. It was nothing less than a threat. I am to be subjected to parish discipline if I do not succeed in putting an end to these phenomena."

I burst out weeping. It was not fear of the future that moved me. He had been for some time considering retirement from the ministry. He had the means to do so. But he had hoped to end his days in this peaceful village, enjoying the affection and respect of all who knew him. The stigma, the awful shame of dismissal—and under such circumstances . . . We would never dare show our faces on the streets of Stratford.

He comforted me as a father might have done. Still sobbing, I said fervently, "You do not deserve this. I wish there were something I could do."

But the thing he asked I could not do. No doubt it would have been courageous and dignified to brave the hostile looks of the townspeople—to demonstrate, as Mr. Phelps said, that we had nothing to be ashamed of. The very idea of it made me ill. It was beyond my powers.

If I had contemplated such a thing, another incident, a day or two later, would have destroyed all my courage.

It happened after we had retired for the night. I was still awake, reading by lamplight, when I heard voices outside—loud, quarrelsome voices. I did not realize the men were intoxicated. Drunken persons do not come to Elm Street. It is a respectable neighborhood.

They shouted terrible things and threw stones. None of the
stones struck the house. No doubt their aim was spoiled by drink. But the words hurt worse than the stones would have done.

By the time the constable arrived the men had dispersed, driven off by our servants; and we learned, with the utmost indignation, that since there had been no damage to property the men could not be charged. We could not even identify them. I thought the constable had a strong suspicion as to who they might have been, but he was not at all cooperative. He made it plain that my presence was not desirable, so I was sent ignominiously to bed, like a young child. I lay awake for a long time in a state of nervous indignation.

There was no repetition of the stone-throwing. Perhaps, after all, the constable took steps to warn off would-be attackers. However, every day that week odious curiosity-seekers perambulated the street, stopping to stare openly at the house. Needless to say, I did not go out. Mr. Phelps refused to change his schedule, emerging every morning for his constitutional. He paid no attention to the gapers, but passed through them as if they did not exist.

On the following Monday morning he went to fetch the children. I asked if he thought this was wise. He replied shortly that he had no intention of imposing on his friends any longer. A week had been specified, and a week it would be, no more.

I was heartened by the fact that there were not so many people outside that morning. Overcast skies and threatening weather may have done something to discourage them, but I allowed myself to hope that the worst was over. Even more cheering was the fact that Andrew was due to arrive on the noon train. If only Mr. Phelps would be delayed in returning! It would do me good to have a little private talk with Andrew.

I had a fuss that morning with Sara, who is only six. She said she did not want to go to school. That is not an uncommon complaint from a child on Monday morning; but Sara, who had only started
school the preceding fall, seemed to love it. When 1 questioned her she broke out crying and said the other children had been teasing her. She would not or could not tell me what they had said.

My heart ached for the child, but I knew it would not be good for her character to let her retreat from unpleasantness. My kisses and encouragement did her good; and I promised her the new doll she had been wanting if she did as 1 asked.

Scarcely had she left the house when she came running back, waving a slip of paper.

"Mama, see what I found on the ground near the gate."

It was a message written in the same strange characters I had seen before on numerous objects. With a thrill of horrified amazement, I saw that the ink was still wet. The child's hand had actually smeared one of the characters.

Sara was completely undone by this mysterious apparition and broke into such howls when I tried to send her off that I gave in and let her return to the nursery.

1 sat by the window in the parlor. I fear my embroidery did not progress noticeably. At long last I heard the whistle of the train. Mr. Phelps had not returned. I hoped he had decided to stay for dinner with his friends.

The station is only a short distance from the house—a few minutes' walk for a healthy, young man. It seemed longer than that before I at last beheld the longed-for presence. I had time to fear he would not come at all—that Mr. Phelps had written and told him not to come.

To touch his hand, to behold his smile, was like a soothing medicine. When we were seated, I handed him the paper, pointing out the smudged character.

"It was not yet dry when I took it from the child. You see, Andrew, that Harry could not have done this."

"I know. I have always told you, have I not, that Harry is only
the unwitting agent of angelic spirits, who may also act directly." He pondered the message for a time, his handsome face grave yet glowing. Then he closed his eyes. His lashes were very long and dark. "Yes," he whispered. "It comes to me now. A weak, a partial translation only . . .

"Fear not, when he returns, fear not, all danger is o'er, We came, we disturbed thy house, but shall do so no more. Believe us not evil, nor good, till we prove Our speech to humanity
—
our language of love."

The words are exact. I copy them from the transcription he sent me later, after he had left us. But no copy can convey the tenderness and beauty of that deep, grave voice.

"Oh, is it true?" I whispered. "They mean you, of course; you are the one whose return means the end of the danger."

"I believe so," Andrew replied humbly "But you appear unwell— weary and distressed. What has happened in my absence?"

The sad tale poured forth in a spate, in a cleansing flood. I may have wept a little. Before I finished his hand was on my shoulder, gently pressing it.

"How well I know," he said, infinite sadness coloring his voice. "The bigotry of the ignorant—it is a cross all of us must bear who struggle to attain enlightenment."

"You, too?" I asked, wiping my eyes.

"Oh, yes. And," he added tranquilly, "no doubt I will see more of the same thing, for I do not intend to be moved from my chosen path. But it is more difficult for you—a lady's delicate, sensitive constitution..."

"It is; it is. But few men, I daresay, have your strength of character."

He shrugged deprecatingly. "Few men have been blessed as I have been with spiritual aid."

I could have prolonged the conversation forever. Unfortunately, we were soon interrupted by the arrival of Mr. Phelps with Marian and Harry

My husband greeted our visitor with cold courtesy. Andrew tactfully ignored his changed manner.

"I understand you have had some unpleasant encounters with certain of your fellow citizens on this plane of existence," he remarked.

"Nothing to speak of." Mr. Phelps's look at me was decidedly critical.

Andrew did not miss the look. The hidden emotions of the soul are an open book to him. "Do not blame Mrs. Phelps for confiding in me," he said. "The whole town is talking of your difficulties. I heard perfect strangers discussing the matter on the train as we neared Stratford."

Mr. Phelps winced. Andrew continued sympathetically, "My dear sir, you know as well as I that the blind refuse to see and the deaf to hear. Pay no attention to narrow-mindedness. I bring comfort." From his pocket he took a sheaf of papers. "These," he said, tapping them with his finger, "are the translations of the messages I copied from your notes. Now I understand all, and I felicitate you on being chosen as a communicator of heavenly messages. When you hear—"

Mr. Phelps started to his feet. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Davis. I cannot listen to your translations, as you call them."

"Mr. Phelps!" I exclaimed.

"They will calm you," Andrew urged, holding out the papers.

"No. I appreciate your good intentions. But I have reflected on this and have concluded that in some respects my critics are right. I have been misled. I must decline to continue in that error."

"Oh, Papa," Marian whispered.

Mr. Phelps started. I believe he had actually forgotten she was there. I know I had.

"Come, Marian." Mr. Phelps held out his hand. "This sort of discussion does not do you good. Come to your room."

"Wait," Andrew exclaimed. "A moment, if you please." Slowly he rose from his chair. His head turned; his eyes seemed to follow some invisible object as it crossed the room, from the door to the window. "They are here," he said quietly.

Mr. Phelps made an impatient gesture. "Mr. Davis—"

"One of them stands by your chair, Miss Phelps." In the most natural way possible, Andrews glance focused on a spot in empty air behind and above Marian's head. She glanced up nervously.

"You feel his presence, do you not, Miss Phelps?" Andrew asked, still watching the unseen presence. Marian swallowed noisily but did not reply. Andrew went on, "Yes, I understand. He wishes me to describe him to you. You know him, but the others are not aware of him. Perhaps they will be convinced by the description of a stranger."

Dropping back into his chair, he pressed his hands to his eyes. His voice dropped to a low, throbbing murmur.

"He is a man of medium height and proportions, wearing a set of Dundreary whiskers. He has a rather long nose; slightly tilted, narrow lips; a broad, benevolent brow. There is a large brown mole on his chin."

I pressed my hands to my breast. A long shudder ran through Marian's body. But the one most affected by the identification was Mr. Phelps. Pale as a sheet, his lips quivering, he stared at Andrew.

"You know him, Mr. Phelps," said the latter. "He says he knew you in life."

Mr. Phelps nodded painfully. "I knew him. Before ... He was Marians father. The first husband of Mrs. Phelps."

"Oh, the means of communication may be imperfect at first," Andrew said. My expression must have shown some of the reservations that still troubled me. He leaned forward and took my hands in his. "Dear lady, try to have faith. Some of these manifestations only seem peculiar to you because you do not understand their deeper meaning. Take, for example, the tableaux of figurines
composed of clothing. I read in the newspaper a description of one, called the chapel scene ..."