“Yes. I wish you wouldn’t.”
I knew what he meant. He didn’t want me to keep on looking at that
chair; he didn’t want to know that I was thinking of her. I bent my head
closer over my sewing, so that I no longer had the phantasm in sight.
It was then I was aware that it had risen and was crossing the
hearthrug. It stopped at Donald’s knees, and stood there, gazing at him
with a look so intent and fixed that I could not doubt that this had
some significance. I saw it put out its hand and touch him; and, though
Donald sighed and shifted his position, I could tell that he had neither
seen nor felt anything.
It turned to me then—and this was the first time it had given any sign
that it was conscious of my presence—it turned on me a look of
supplication, such supplication as I had seen on my sister’s face in her
lifetime, when she could do nothing with him and implored me to
intercede. At the same time three words formed themselves in my brain
with a sudden, quick impulsion, as if I had heard them cried.
“Speak to him—speak to him!”
[Illustration]
I knew now what it wanted. It was trying to make itself seen by him, to
make itself felt, and it was in anguish at finding that it could not.
It knew then that I saw it, and the idea had come to it that it could
make use of me to get through to him.