Authors: KATHY
Other Worlds (23 page)
"The medicine I take—for my nerves—contains laudanum. I sleep very soundly ..." But I could not go on. Was this why Mr.
Phelps had not objected to my having a room of my own? Was my door, like those of the servants, locked after I retired?
Tears overflowed my eyes. Mr. Phelps and Austin exchanged glances. The latter said, "You have had a difficult time, Mrs. Phelps. But you could be of great help to my father if you would."
"What can I do? I swear I am innocent! I am a Christian woman, a member of the church—"
"I believe you." Austin sat down beside me. "I admit I came here with certain suspicions; but what I have seen convinces me that you are wholly innocent of complicity. I hope this statement makes you feel better."
"It does, oh, it does. Thank you."
"Your active participation would be of great assistance to me," my husband said. "I have felt obliged to conceal certain things from you because of your highly nervous state—"
"You lied to me!"
Mr. Phelps's rigid, self-righteous expression did not change. "I have never lied to you. The statement I sent to the newspaper in June was correct. But when the rappings started again—"
"Why did they start?" I demanded. "You did something to bring them on!"
"Not until—" Mr. Phelps checked himself. "This exchange is unworthy of us, Mrs. Phelps. Can you not accept reality better now that we have the support of my family and the sympathy of many of our friends?"
I looked at Austin. He smiled—a warm, encouraging smile such as I had never before seen on his austere face.
"The facts you mention do mean a great deal," I admitted.
"Then let us work together," Mr. Phelps urged. "I believe I am on the way to understanding these matters now."
"I will try, indeed I will. But my nerves will not stand much more."
"They need not endure indefinitely. I give my solemn promise that if we have not put an end to this business by the end of the summer I will send you away for a while—to Philadelphia, perhaps. Would you like that?"
"You need not talk to me as if I were a child, or bribe me with promises." I felt I owed it to my self-respect to say this; but in fact the promise did hearten me. To foresee an end, however distant, makes any trouble easier to endure.
Mr. Phelps frowned slightly but did not reply to my criticism. He was too eager to demand the help he requested.
"Does the name D'Sauvignon mean anything to you?"
The question was so contrary to anything I had expected, I could only stare.
"No," I said finally. "Should it?"
"According to the information I have received, a man of that name was instrumental in cheating you in the settlement of an estate. Wait, I will spell it for you; it may be that my pronunciation has misled you."
When he had done so, enlightenment dawned on me. "You pronounced it wrong; it is a French name. There was a clerk of that name—or one similar to it—in a law firm in Philadelphia. But how did you hear of him?"
My husband appeared a trifle embarrassed. After some hemming and hawing, he explained that one night, when the rappings had been particularly insistent, he had determined to ask questions, as had been done in other cases of the kind. To his surprise he received intelligent answers, spelled out by means of letter of the alphabet—hence his mispronunciation of the name.
The unknown, invisible respondent had informed Mr. Phelps that he was in hell, but had been permitted to tell him (Mr. Phelps) that an injustice had been done me. Mr. Phelps was all agog to
check the accuracy of the information, but had been at a loss as to how to begin his investigations without my cooperation.
Needless to say, I was astonished at Mr. Phelps's folly. He had adamantly refused to encourage communication with the benevolent spirits Andrew had recognized. These spirits had now departed—I had Andrew's word for that. Then who—or
what
— had replied to Mr. Phelps's questions? But I knew the answer. It had identified itself as a damned soul.
However, the astonishing accuracy of the information filled me with a sense of wonder that, for the moment, overcame my fears.
"Yes, indeed, there was such a man," I exclaimed. "How amazing."
"Perhaps I should go to Philadelphia, to see what can be done," Mr. Phelps said.
"Perhaps you should. It is not the money," I added seriously. "If a wrong has been committed, we ought to correct it and punish the wrongdoer. He may cheat others."
"Quite right." Mr. Phelps smiled approvingly at me.
"In that case," I said, "I will be quite content."
While we
eagerly awaited Mr. Phelps's return, I found great relief in talking with Austin, whose support comforted me a great deal. Of warmth he had very little, I think; but he did me justice and that was all I asked. He even showed me a most peculiar letter, written in pencil, that had been thrown down out of the empty air onto my husband's desk. I remember part of it because it was so very odd.
"Dear Brother," it began—being addressed, of course, to my husband—"The Lord is dealing bountifully with his chosen people. Brother Converse has had the cholera, and Brother Fairchild has grown so fleshy as scarcely to be recognized . . . Old Tiers has gone crazy and is shut up in a madhouse ..."
There was a good deal more of this crude gossip, relating events that had purportedly happened to former friends of ours; and the insane epistle was signed with the name of a well-known minister living in Philadelphia!
Austin agreed with me that it was impossible to make sense of any of this. The letter was so absurd that it was impossible to be frightened by it, despite its mysterious origin. Indeed, I found myself smiling over certain sentences.
Mr. Phelps returned the following day He had found enough evidence to confirm our suspicions, but not enough to justify taking the case to law. This annoyed me. Mr. Phelps, however, was inordinately pleased to have confirmation of his informant's accuracy.
It had been impossible to keep Mrs. Harriet from finding out that the rappings had begun again. She was disgustingly excited, and insisted on being allowed to speak personally to "the spirits." I tried to put her off until Mr. Phelps returned, but I could not keep her quiet on the subject. One afternoon I was entertaining a few ladies, who had called for the purpose of meeting Mrs. Harriet, when the wretched woman began telling my callers about the strange messages.
Mrs. Mitchell was among the visitors. My attempts to change the subject having proved in vain, I glanced apologetically at her— and saw that she was leaning forward in her chair listening as avidly as the others. Her lips were primmed disapprovingly, but her eyes gleamed with interest.
I have often wondered whether strong desire can actually bring about a longed-for result. Though they would have denied it, every one of those respectable, proper ladies yearned for a demonstration of magical powers. Perhaps that is why they had their wish granted.
There was a little distraction at the time, over teacups and hot water; no one actually saw the paper until it came drifting down onto the carpet.
Harriet pounced on it with a little squeak of excitement and read it aloud: "Sir Sambo's compliments, and begs the laddys to accept as a token of his esteem."
Excited exclamations broke out. The grubby sheet of paper was passed from hand to hand.
The ladies stayed late that afternoon. But nothing else happened.
As soon as Mr. Phelps returned Harriet showed him this epistle. He shook his head over it, smiling faintly. "Sir Sambo does not spell very well, does he? Seemingly there are tricksters in the spirit world as well as this one." ·
"It must mean something," Harriet insisted.
"It means nothing."
"Then I wish he would write me a good letter," Harriet rambled on. "One I could send to some of our relatives—the doubting Thomases, I call them—you know who I mean!"
She repeated this request, half-jokingly, the following afternoon when the family was gathered in the parlor. Only a few minutes afterwards a paper dropped onto the table.
However, it was not addressed to Harriet. It began, "Dear Mary"
Harriet paused. Her eyes were not the only ones that turned questioningly toward Marian, who had retreated to her corner and was bent over her sewing. She had become even quieter that usual the past few weeks, and had taken to dressing in mouse colors— dark gray, drab brown. Hearing the name which might be taken for a variant of her own, she dropped her embroidery and clasped her hands.
"Mama, truly, I did not ask—"
"No one has accused you of anything," I said.
"Go
on, Harriet. What does Sir Sambo say this time?"
"It is not from Sir Sambo," Harriet said seriously. "The letter goes on to say that the writer is well, and asks me—or Mary—to give his love to Miss Kennedy and to Mrs. and Mr. Davis. Do you suppose that is the same—"
"Never mind," Mr. Phelps said impatiently. "What is the signature, Harriet?"
Harriet's eyes were round with awe. "H. P. Devil," she whispered. "Those are my initials—H. P. Do you think—"
"I think it is a pack of nonsense," Austin said. "It is eminently plain that if these are spirits, they are lying, deceiving spirits."
"I agree," my husband said. He shot me a look of odious triumph. He was thinking of Andrew's insistence that our visitors were angels, from a superior sphere, and that this latest message proved Andrew had been wrong. The fallacy of this argument is so obvious I need not point it out.
The imbecile communications continued, but erratically. We might receive two in one day; then a week would pass with no letter. They were so ridiculous I was unable to take them seriously, and though the raps and thumps continued, with an occasional broken pane of glass to enliven the proceedings, I no longer felt much alarm. Familiarity had bred contempt, as Austin had said. Harry had lost all interest in the matter. He was out all day with his friends, swimming and playing ball, and Mr. Phelps assured me he was sleeping soundly at night.
Our visitors left in August. I would never have supposed I would be so sorry to see Austin go. I had come to rely on his calm, his sober composure, his quiet sympathy.
Things were different after they left. I cannot describe the difference, though I felt it keenly. Perhaps the weather, which was unusually hot and muggy, had something to do with my restless mood. The nights were as stifling as the long hot days, without the slightest breeze; I would have found it impossible to sleep without my medicine. Marian began to show signs of sleeplessness; the rings under her eyes darkened daily.
The summer was drawing to an end. Harry complained of the imminence of school, and I began thinking about Philadelphia. Mr. Phelps had promised we would go if the rappings continued—and they had, though we had come to take them for granted. Indeed, they were partially responsible for my increasing popularity. I was constantly entertaining ladies. It made me laugh to see how they
would sit with teacups poised and eyes darting hopefully around the room, awaiting another communication from the air. There were a few—rude, stupid collections of gossip—signed with names like "Sam Slick" and "Beelzebub."
I had another attack of illness about that time—I cannot remember exactly when—the same thing as before, I think, though I believe the heat had a great deal to do with it. Mrs. Mitchell was unable to nurse me. I forget why. Some family obligation ... It did not signify. I did well enough without her. Indeed, after the indisposition had passed I felt better than I had for a long time. Waking one morning to find the air crisp and the leaves turning bronze, I was filled with a burst of energy. When Marian came in I was turning out all my clothes to see which needed refurbishing and which should be given to the poor.
"Mama, you should not tire yourself," she said in her low, breathless voice. "Sit down and tell me what I can do for you."
She had tried to help with the nursing when I was ill—so Mr. Phelps had told me. I cannot remember that she was ever there, though. She had never been a—how can I put it?—a noticeable person. That summer I had the impression, when I thought about her at all, that she was more or less invisible. Rarely she would materialize, murmur a sentence, and vanish again.
"Nonsense, I feel perfectly well," I said. "You had better sit down; you are quite faded, Marian. Are you ill?"
"No . . . Not entirely healthy, perhaps ..."
The murmuring, inconclusive sentences were typical. I went on with my business.
"You will be better when we go to Philadelphia," I said. "We might consult Dr. Bishop—he always did you good. The doctor here is no use at all."
"Philadelphia! Are we going there?"
"Why, yes. Mr. Phelps said we would go in the autumn."
"He has said nothing to me."
"There is no reason why he should. But he assured me we would go if these peculiar things kept on happening."
Marian did not reply. I glanced at her. She sat with her hands tightly clasped and her head bowed.
"Well, they are still happening," I said. "Only the other day your papa found another letter while he was alone in the library."
"That was two weeks ago, Mama. Before you were ill."
"What does that matter? We will be going." I held up a gown—my black wool—to the light, looking for traces of moth.
Marian's surprise had raised doubts in my mind, however. I realized that Mr. Phelps had not referred to the subject in recent days and decided I had better speak to him about it. To my chagrin, he equivocated.
"Do you feel it would be wise, Mrs. Phelps? Matters are fairly quiet now; people might start talking."
"Why should they?" I had already thought of this and had prepared my counterargument. "I have kin in Philadelphia and it has been a long time since I visited them."
"Well, perhaps."
"I want to get away from here."
I had not meant to say that. The sentence startled me almost as much as it did Mr. Phelps, who gazed at me with concern.
"Has anything happened that you have not told me about?"
"No . . . But I feel, Mr. Phelps, it is not over. Something is going to happen—something terrible. You jeer at my premonitions—"
"No, Mrs. Phelps, I do not. What would you say to sending Henry away to school?"
A year earlier the suggestion would have roused me to anger and despair. Now I considered it coolly.
"Have you asked Harry what he thinks?"
"Henrys opinions are of little concern to me," Mr. Phelps said. "Children never want to do what is good for them. However, I have talked with him and he is not unwilling." He hesitated for a moment, and then added, in a strange, muted voice, "Marian is the one who seems most distressed at the idea."
"You consulted Marian on this matter and not me?"
"You were ill. It was necessary to take steps if the boy was to be admitted at the beginning of the term."
"I see. But I could not imagine why Marian should mind. She is very fond of Harry, to be sure ..."
"Marian is far from well." Mr. Phelps looked grave. "I am more concerned about her than I am about Henry."
"She needs a husband and a family of her own."
"Women always regard marriage as a cure for all ills."
"Perhaps. But in Marian's case it is true. She will never meet anyone here; the town is too small."
Mr. Phelps picked up a book. We had had this discussion before; he was bored with it and was indicating as much. So I left the room. I had planted the seed in his mind and could only hope it would bear fruit. It would be good for Marian to spend the winter in Philadelphia—a wider circle of friends, good medical attention. Harry could go to school in the city and we could all be together.
I well remember my cheerful, optimistic mood that afternoon. I should have known. I should have heeded the stab of premonitory terror that had pierced my heart and not allowed it to be buried by hope.
I have tried to remember exactly when it happened. My memory is not good. Too many horrors have bruised it. And that horror, the worst of all, coming after a period of relative peace—just when my poor tired mind hoped a haven had been reached . . .
Well, I cannot remember; but I know it was only a few days after the conversation I have just described. I happened to be alone
that afternoon—it was not one of my days for receiving callers__
and I was sitting in the parlor sewing on a new frock when I heard a commotion in the hall. I went to the door, to see Mr. Phelps and Marian emerge from the library. He had put both arms around her in an attempt to guide her swaying, staggering steps, but she struggled and pushed at him. Her face was ashen pale, her eyes glazed; she babbled a string of nonsense syllables in a low, hoarse voice.
As I ran to assist my husband, Marian's limbs gave way entirely She would have sunk to the floor if we had not supported her between us.
With the help of the servants she was taken to her room and placed on the bed. Smelling salts soon restored her; but when I questioned her she only murmured that she felt unwell and wanted to sleep.
I went to Mr. Phelps, who stood near the window.
"What happened?" I asked. "I have never seen her like this."
"I cannot imagine. We were attempting to ... That is, I was giving Marian a mesmeric treatment—as I have done a hundred times—when she suddenly fell into a kind of fit."
"I have never approved of those treatments of yours. I knew they would do her harm!"
"You never said so," Mr. Phelps protested. His eyes fled from my accusing stare, and turned anxiously toward the bed. He let out a cry of alarm. He pushed roughly by me. I turned. Marian's face was completely concealed by her pillow.
Mr. Phelps pulled it off. Marian's face, far from being pale, had turned bright red.
"How did that happen?" I cried. "Did she do it herself?"
"I don't think so. ... Good heavens! Now it is the sheet!"
I did not actually see it move; but suddenly it was over her face.
Mr. Phelps removed it. Marians eyes remained closed, her body unmoving, but now her breath came in long, harsh gasps.
"A pin," Mr. Phelps said. "Give me a pin."
I found two—large safety pins. With hands that shook visibly, Mr. Phelps fastened the sheet in place. Marian did not stir.
My agitation was so great that I started to shake her. Mr. Phelps took hold of my hands. I think I struggled with him. I had to do something, but did not know what. When I looked back at Marian, her face was once again concealed beneath her pillow.
I snatched it off and clutched it to my breast, feeling as if I were grasping some animate, animal thing that might move again if I let go.
"Do something," I cried. "She can scarcely breathe! Give her air! Open her collar!"
In fact, she was wearing a gown with a low collar that did not in any way impede her breathing. Nevertheless, Mr. Phelps unfastened the top two buttons and laid the gown back from her throat. The harsh, painful breaths continued. Almost as a gesture of desperation, Mr. Phelps untied the black ribbon she wore around her neck, though it too appeared loose.
Under the ribbon was a narrow piece of tape. Mr. Phelps ripped it off. It had concealed a narrow cord, tied so tightly that it was embedded in the flesh. Marian's breathing was like a series of death rattles, horrible to hear.
"I cannot reach the ends with my fingers," Mr. Phelps exclaimed. "Scissors, knife—something—quickly!"
It seemed to take forever to find them. At last I located a pair of embroidery scissors. Mr. Phelps had great difficulty inserting the point under the cord; his fingers shook so violently I feared he would stab the girl. But at last the cord was severed. Marians breathing at once grew easier.
Finally she opened her eyes.
"Did I faint?" she asked weakly. "What has happened?"
