AN OLD-TIME SEANCE AMIDST OLD-TIME SCENES AND OLD-TIME FOLKS
When the tea things had been carried away and stowed with the washed and
shining dishes in the cupboard at one side of the room, the floor swept,
and the apartments made tidy, Lissa ushered into it, as first to arrive,
Mr. Jenkinson and Mrs. Jenkinson and their mother, Mrs. Price.
They were English people, and firm converts to spiritism, Mrs. Price
being so absorbed in it as to appear of unbalanced mind. Mrs. Jenkinson
had a delicate constitution and a nervous temperament, which made her
easily excited and wrought upon. Already she figured as a medium.
They were soon joined by Solomon Garrett, a stoutly built farmer of the
neighborhood, who had, several years before this, come from Scotland
with a party of Mormon emigrants. When met by the plural-marriage
doctrine he had renounced his faith and refused to continue his journey
to Salt Lake City. Subsequently he had located on the Nebraska plain.
His conversion to this new creed of spiritism had been recent and
half-hearted.
With him were the Pemberton twins, two pale, fair-haired young ladies,
who looked so exactly alike as to appear one and the same person. No one
except their mother could identify them, and it was said that in their
childhood she was liable to whip Clementina for the sins of Seraphina.
The young ladies themselves seemed to enjoy the confusion they caused,
and dressed always in twin gowns, imitating closely each other’s
speeches and gestures. It has been asserted on the best of authority,
their own words and their mother’s, that if one was ill the other one
was likewise affected. And since they had become spiritists they claimed
to have been visited by the same visions and communications.
Following the Pemberton twins came the McCleary family, whom I shall
more fully describe.
Those present were the father, mother, son, George and daughter Esther.
Mr. McCleary was a small, quiet, pale, sleek, red-eyed, inoffensive
little man, usually known as Mrs. McCleary’s husband. He seemed to feel
it his bounden duty to affirm all his wife’s statements, and when asked
a question had a way of casting an imploring glance at her,—as if
begging her to answer for him, which she usually did,—but who, so far as
known, was a kind, indulgent father to his children, and an honest and
industrious neighbor. When not otherwise engaged, Mr. McCleary might be
found amusing himself with a planchette. With it he talked, reasoned,
and speculated upon the problem of life. Sometimes he whispered to the
partner of his bosom certain wonderful secrets which he believed the
planchette had imparted to him. And—they were secrets no longer.
Mrs. McCleary was a short, well-preserved woman of the “fat, fair and
forty” type. She had remarkable black eyes, blue-black, waving hair, and
very white, plump hands, with which she continually gesticulated to
accompany the unceasing flow of words from her tongue. Her speech
retained enough of the Irish brogue to make it pleasant to the ear.
Mrs. McCleary imagined herself an invalid, though no one, not even
herself, could determine the nature of the malady with which she was
afflicted. It seemed to be rather a delicacy of constitution than any
pronounced illness. Some of her neighbors were uncharitable enough to
remark that if Mrs. McCleary were to receive some shock that would rouse
her from the helpless state she fancied herself to be in she would be as
well and strong as any one.
George McCleary, an undergraduate from an Eastern college, was in no way
remarkable, but Esther was the hundredth woman, whose influence was felt
throughout the little community.
She was but a slight, delicately built girl of eighteen years, yet what
a marvel of diligence and endurance.
In the McCleary family there were six children younger than herself, and
upon Esther devolved almost the entire care and responsibility of the
household, a responsibility which she accepted uncomplainingly and
discharged faithfully.
Esther was pretty and more than pretty. She was interesting. There was
in her face a sweetness and brightness of expression that charmed all
who met her, and won their affection. Then, too, she was one of those to
whom all turn for instruction and advice. She knew how to do things.
From the fashioning of a gown to the most intricate fancywork, as well
as the rarer concoctions in the culinary department, Esther was the most
competent authority in the neighborhood.
Nor did her usefulness end here. In the sick room she was unequaled. “A
most uncommon handy person to have around,” one of the good fathers in
the community had said, and perhaps that best expressed her
qualifications. God bless the “handy” person.
What if Esther’s features were slightly irregular and her figure too
slight for beauty. No one thought of that after the first half hour of
her acquaintance.
Donald felt his gaze returning repeatedly to that pale, cream-tinted
face, as seated that night near his sister-in-law he listened to the
chatter of the women.
Mrs. McCleary sank into an easy chair, panting and short-breathed from
the exertion of removing her wraps, and turning to Lissa began to talk
volubly.
“How very noice ye look, dear! Your hair curls so beautifully. When
Esther was a little girl Oi used to do up her hair on curl-papers for
her, but now she must do it for herself. It is really too much for me.
Alice, Oi see yer not intoirely free from thet cough yet. Ye should
nivver let it run. It moight run ye into consumption. Oi’ve known many a
case to turn out so, hev ye not Miss Lissa? Ye must attind to it. Oi do
wish ye’d thry some of moi Indian cough surrup. Oi hev a commoonication
from a great Indian docther, advoising it. Mrs. Cloyne, did Oi tell ye
how Georrge was cured of the faver?”
All this she uttered without pausing for reply.
Donald glanced at Esther at the mention of curl-papers, but not a tinge
of color dyed the paleness of her cheeks. She was evidently accustomed
to her mother’s revelations. George, however, looked a trifle annoyed at
the mention of his name.
Mrs. Clyne took advantage of the woman’s brief halt for breath to say
that she had never heard the story.
“Well, ye see, Georrge, was very ill, so ill we’d given him oop ter die,
an’ Oi was cryin’ an’ prayin’ the great docther ter do sumthing fer him,
whin if ye’ll belave me, the boy reached oop his hand, an’ in a moment
we saw some leetle black specks lyin’ in it, lookin’ fer all the world
like Ayer’s pills. He held thim so we all saw thim an’ thin he put thim
in his mouth, an’ in the shortest toime he was aslape, an’ frim that
very hour he was better.”
“What do you think it was?” asked Mrs. Clyne.
“Why, bless your sowl, what could it be but medicine put in his hand by
some watchful spirit? Ye needn’t smoile, Mr. Mark Cramer, nor you, Mr.
Bartram; there were a plenty present who’ll swear to what Oi tell ye.
Ain’t it so, Mr. McCleary?”
“Yis, yis,” the little man mumbled; “it is as she says.”
They were interrupted by the arrival of Professor Russell, who came
bustling in with Auntie Dearborn, a sprightly, handsome old lady, who
was carrying a huge basket upon her arm, which appeared filled with
manuscripts.
She was most becomingly dressed in black silk, with fine white lace at
wrist and throat, and her pink-tinted face, white hair, mild blue eye
beaming with kindliness, and lips wreathed in smiles, made a beautiful
picture. She had arrived at a sweet old age. Every one liked her,
despite her eccentricities, which some pronounced a mild form of
insanity. Alas, the borderland between sanity and insanity is scarcely
defined, and if good Auntie Dearborn was insane she has many companions
who would scorn such accusations. Who among us does not like to believe
we have an inspired pen?
Auntie was thoroughly imbued with the idea that the spirits of the
departed poets used her hand as the medium for presenting their verses
to the public, and she kept a constant and ever-accumulating supply of
her “poetry” on hand to read whenever she could find audience.
After shaking hands with Lissa and kissing her most affectionately, the
old lady said in a stage whisper:
“You see, my dear, I have brought along some o’ my poetry, for I know’d
you would want to hear it, because I’ve really been inspired by the
great Byron himself this week. It is most remarkable.”
Lissa smiled kindly.
“Thank you, Auntie. I shall be glad to hear it, I am sure, and so,
perhaps, will others here. You will stay with me to-night of course?”
“Well, now really, dearie—it would be very pleasant and you’re drefful
kind to ask me, but you see there’s Natty, poor dog, shut up in his
kennel, who’ll howl all night if I don’t come back, and the chickens
will have to be fed in the morning—”
Here she was interrupted by the announcement of the Professor that if
they were ready the company would form themselves into a circle about
the room, as he saw several spirit forms impatient to communicate with
their friends.
In compliance with his request they were soon seated, except Esther,
who, unobserved by all except Donald, slipped quietly out of the room.
Joining hands, the members of the circle sat expectant, their eyes
closed.
We are describing an old-time seance, reader, and may be forgiven the
minuteness of detail, for even with later experiment with psychic forces
it is found there is magic in the mystic circle.
The silence was broken by Russell, who declared there was a disturbing
element in the circle. Some sceptical person repelled the gentle spirits
who desired to communicate.
All eyes were turned upon Mark Cramer, who smiled as he arose and left
them. Then Esther McCleary was missed.
“Where is Esther?” asked Mrs. McCleary plaintively. “Oi declare that
girrl has left the room ag’in. Oi desire her to sit with us.”
And Mark was sent after the run away.
“They’re asking for you, Miss Esther,” he said as he saw her shrink into
a dark corner of the adjoining room as he entered it.
“O dear! Can’t you hide me somewhere? I don’t want to go. I shall have
to dance again. It’s all so terrible, and I don’t believe it’s right, do
you, Mr. Cramer?”
“No, Esther; but then my opinion should have little weight against so
many. I sat down in the circle thinking I might be able to help you. I
am really sorry for you, if you are unable to withstand the mesmeric
powers of that rascal—for I believe that is all there is of it. Try, if
you are obliged to sit with them, to keep control of your own _will_.
Put all your soul in opposition to him and don’t forget yourself for a
moment. Can’t you?”
“I’ll try; oh, I’ll try, but I’m afraid ’twill be no use! Ah, they’re
calling me again, and I must go. Come into the room and help me if you
can.”
Mark reentered, seating himself in one corner of the room outside the
circle. The Professor made room for Esther beside himself, but she
declined his civility, and passed around to the side of her mother, not
noticing, until too late to retreat, that she had placed herself next to
Donald Bartram. She flushed slightly as she gave him her hand,
humiliated that she should be placed in such a position.
Again silence prevailed for the space of several minutes. Donald glanced
through half-closed eyes about the circle, noting the placid content of
Auntie Dearborn, the grim determination of Solomon Garrett, the
complacent expectancy of Mrs. McCleary, the awed, half-frightened look
of Lissa, the sly, furtive glance which each Pemberton twin cast
frequently at her sister, and he felt a hysterical inclination to laugh.
The thought must have been communicated to his companion upon the right,
for he felt her fingers tremble in his. He rolled his eyes up to hers
with an affected air of terror. Then a ripple of merriment burst from
Esther’s lips, in which he joined. The Pemberton twins giggled in
unison, while all started and opened their eyes.
Russell frowned and demanded quiet, fixing his gray eyes upon Esther.
Mrs. McCleary rebuked her daughter, but explained that Esther was
“hystericky,” and biting her lips to subdue the nervous inclination to
laugh, Esther closed her eyes and quiet was restored. Donald, thrilled
by her trembling fingers, dared not again look toward her, and presently
he saw Mrs. Jenkinson, his neighbor on the left, begin to jerk
spasmodically. Her eyelids quivered, she sighed a few times, then
drawing her hands from those who clasped them she began rubbing them
briskly together, then slapped them energetically for a moment, while
every eye was fixed upon her. She was under “control.”
Suddenly she began to speak in a high, shrill voice.
“My friends, I have a message for you to-night,” and continuing without
hesitancy she delivered a somewhat tedious harangue to the listening
believers, who sat awed and open-eyed, as if her words were really from
the world beyond. All present knew Mrs. Jenkinson to be illiterate and
only able to use provincialism in conversation. They marvelled at the
correct English which fell from her lips, even though the thought
expressed was of little value.
Her “inspired” speech ended, Mrs. Jenkinson sank into a chair, dropped
her face in her hands and remained quiet.
A few moments later Mrs. McCleary began to manifest similar signs of
influence, and sang in a sweet, plaintive voice the old hymn, “Oh, sing
to me of heaven, when I am called to die! Sing songs of holy ecstasy to
waft me to the sky,” etc.
Mark remembered that Mrs. McCleary was not a singer in her natural
state, and again was forced to marvel at this exhibition of power which
he had no faith to believe emanated from the source prescribed by
Russell.
Donald, too, was becoming interested, and forgot the humorous side of
the spectacle. When his eyes again sought Esther’s, to his surprise he
found them fixed and vacant, her face unusually pale and rigid. He
noticed, too, that the small, brown hand he held felt cold and
unnatural. Glancing from her to Russell he saw the man looking fixedly
at her. Then the Professor arose, and passing to Esther’s side moved his
hands several times before her face, though without touching her. He
then took a handkerchief from one of the gentlemen and bound it tightly
over her eyes, closely shutting out every ray of light.
“I think, my friends,” he said, as he placed several chairs in the
unoccupied space of the room, “we shall prove that, though Esther cannot
see with mortal vision, there are spirit forms about her who will direct
her course and thus demonstrate their presence.”
All sat in hushed expectancy until Esther, rising from her chair, glided
like a phantom to the middle of the floor, and humming a soft, slow
waltz, she floated about the room, avoiding the chairs and other
articles in her way without losing step or breaking time in the least.
It was wonderful. Mark would have been staggered in his scepticism had
he not seen the same performance once enacted by a subject in the hands
of a noted mesmerist.
“This is only further proof of the scheming falseness of that villain
Russell,” he reflected. “It shall not be my fault if he is not banished
from my house from this day forth. If he would only attribute his power
to the right source I could endure him, but spirits—bah!”
For ten minutes the girl waltzed without interruption, then, as if led
by unseen hands, she passed from the room and threw herself, apparently
exhausted, upon a small lounge in the adjoining apartment.
“She has been dancing with a stronger partner than herself and got tired
out,” said Russell coarsely. “We’ll let her rest a while.”
When the company was again seated in the circle Mark slipped out and
removed the handkerchief from the eyes of the prostrate girl. Her face
was chalky in its pallor, and there was scarcely a perceptible evidence
of respiration.
“My God! How like death this is,” muttered Mark as he bent over her. “If
she were my daughter she should never come into the presence of that man
again. Then he strove to waken her.
“Esther, Esther,” he said, shaking her gently by the arm. “Awake!” But
not a muscle of the rigid face relaxed. He lifted her hands and slightly
punctured the smooth flesh with a pin. She did not wince nor show that
she felt it. Again and again he sought to arouse her. Mark was beginning
to fear that the sleep was one which would find its awakening in another
world, when Russell entered the room.
“You can see the result of your spirit-waltz, Professor,” he said.
Russell placed his hand upon the girl’s brow.
“Ah, yes, she has been taking a fine nap after it. But she is waking up
now. Come, Esther, ain’t it about time for you to come out to see us
again? I’m afraid you’re a sleepy-head. Come, you’re awake now!” and
laughing coarsely, Professor Russell returned to the company.
Esther, to Mark’s delight, arose to a sitting posture, passed her hands
several times over her eyes as if striving to collect her thoughts, and
seeing only Mark present, asked plaintively:
“What is it, Mr. Cramer? Where am I? What has happened?” She looked
about the room in a bewildered way. Then, as the sound of voices from
the adjoining apartment fell upon her ear she turned, and burying her
face upon the lounge burst into hysterical weeping.
Mark sprang to her side.
“Don’t Esther, child! Don’t cry! What is the matter?”
“O Mr. Cramer, have I been dancing again? Has that horrible, horrible
man made me a waltzing puppet for the people to laugh at? It is too
dreadful! What shall I do? What shall I do?”
“I am sure there was nothing ridiculous or laughable in your dancing,
for it was really artistic; but truly, Esther, are you entirely
unconscious when you perform that feat?”
“Indeed I am. I could not believe them when they told me about it the
first time I danced that way. This time it seemed when I awoke as if I
had been dreaming of dancing or of hearing dance-music. _He_ makes me do
it, that horrible man! I am sure the spirits have nothing to do with
it.”
“Your hands are placed some of the time as though dancing with a
partner.”
“Are they? I can’t help it. I remember nothing since Mr. Bartram made me
laugh in the circle,—oh, he was witness to my disgraceful
exhibition!—until I seemed to hear the Professor’s voice, and looking up
I saw you there.”
“You say you seem to have heard dance-music in a dream?”
“Yes, I have a feeling as though I had been floating up in the air and
hearing music. A sort of dim remembrance of a dream. Oh, if mamma would
never compel me to see him again! I shall leave home and go where he
shall never find me if that man continues to come to our house. He is so
detestable! I hate him!” And the girl shuddered and again covered her
face with her hands.
“I have told mamma so, but she will not listen to me. She is wholly
wrapped up in the belief of spirits, and in Russell.”
“Your dislike is very strong to be based only upon this power he has of
making you dance hypnotically,” Mark said. “Are you just to him?”
“I have reasons enough for my dislike of him,” Esther replied,
compressing her lips. “And what am I to do if my own mother will not
listen to me? Think of being subject to the power of such a man. I
believe him thoroughly unprincipled, and—”
“The villain! If he dares!” Mark ground his teeth.
Here Lissa put her head in at the door.
“Come, Mark,” she whispered, “Professor Russell is writing messages.”
Mark stepped quietly into the sitting-room just as the Professor, who
sat at a small table scrawling with a pencil a profusion of characters
on a sheet of writing-paper, finished it and paused, while the paper was
passed from hand to hand for examination.
At first nothing could be made of it. Finally some one discovered it was
addressed to Lissa. Another read it Alice, and still another Anna.
By this time the Professor had aroused himself, and read with little
difficulty:
“Lissa, my dear sister: How long I have desired to speak with you and
let you know I am near you. The only added happiness I could wish for in
this life is recognition of my friends on earth. If you will let me
converse with you, and Alice, and mother, I will improve every
opportunity. I can see you, so cast away all doubt and fear, and help me
to communicate with you. Believe,
ELSIE.”
Lissa found she could trace the words as read, now that she knew what
they were.
The Professor produced two slates, between which he placed a small
pencil, and immediately all in the room heard distinctively the sound of
the scratching of the pencil as it apparently wrote upon the slate.
When the slates were brought forth from beneath the table and opened
there was a long communication upon one of them for Mrs. McCleary,
purporting to have come from her mother, and Mrs. McCleary declared it
was in her own handwriting. She could “recognize it anywhere,” she said.
Whereupon Sol Garrett took part in the conversation.
“I’ve been a thinkin’ sence I sot here a good deal about this here
writin’ business. An’ it seems to me mighty curis how my old mother came
to write me a message when she never in her hull life writ me a word,
nor never learnt how. Even her will was signed with her cross-mark. I
reckon she must ‘a ben learnin’ pretty fast sence she died.”
Donald’s eyes twinkled merrily as he glanced at Russell’s face, which
really showed embarrassment for a moment.
“We cannot tell, Mr. Garrett, what her opportunities may have been in
the other world. We may know hereafter much that is hidden from us now,”
he said after a little preliminary cough to clear his throat.
“Well, how is it that Injun control o’ yourn hain’t learned to read an’
write, if their chances are so good over there? He allus complains
’cause he can’t read.”
“Perhaps because he is of another language and nation,” replied Russell,
evidently annoyed at the persistence of his interlocutor.
“Wall, ye see my mother was a Scotch woman, and didn’t talk as we do,
an’ I can’t see how she come to use such perty English in that letter.”
“Perhaps,” interposed Russell hastily, “there was some mistake about it
and the letter was intended for some one else.”
“It was directed to me,” persisted the farmer, “an’ I don’t know another
feller round these parts that answers to the name of Solomon Garrett.”
“Well, we will not discuss this matter now,” said Russell, anxious to
turn the subject of conversation. “Mother Dearborn is going to read us a
poem, Mrs. Bartram tells me. We will listen to that now, and continue
this subject at another time.”
Auntie Dearborn, thus appealed to, fumbled in her big basket, and after
opening several papers selected one, which she smilingly announced was
“inspired by Lord Byron himself.” Then in a musical voice she read:
“Friends of earth, to you I hasten
With a message from on high.
Sorrows seek you but to chasten;
Bear all bravely, I am nigh.
When the stars shine, I am by.
When you whisper, know I hear you.
When you call, to you I fly.
When the night falls, I am near you.
“In the night-winds, hear me calling,
When your eyelids close in sleep,
While the evening dew is falling,
Still my watchful care I keep.
For in life, dear one, I met you,
Met you but to see and love.
Now I never can forget you,
Though I roam in space above.
“O my darling, are you weary
Of the fruits the world can give?
Are your days and night-times dreary
In the lonely life you live?
Then, oh, think that you can fly, love,
To my waiting, loving arms,
For ’tis no hard thing to die, love,
When the world has lost its charms.
“Still you will not know I’m speaking,
Though your blindness gives me pain;
Must I be forever seeking
For your notice, all in vain?
See, I softly press your pillow,
Softly touch your dewy lips,
Brush your bosom’s heaving billow,
Clasp your dainty finger tips.
“Once when midnight shadows thickened,
In your dreams I saw _you_ start,
While your breath came warm and quickened
By the fluttering of your heart.
Then no more I need to try you,
For you felt my heart was thine,
Felt my hovering presence nigh you—
Then it was your soul met mine.”
When Auntie had finished reading this production, which all present
declared truly Byronic, Professor Russell bade them each write upon a
piece of paper the name of some departed friend and the spirits would
respond to their questions through his “control.”
The slips were written, folded as directed, and thrown into a hat, while
the Professor again went into a trance state, and taking one of the
slips in his fingers—his eyes having been previously bandaged—he awaited
communication from the other world.
“I can see a name, ‘Henry Arthur,’” he read slowly. “He is present. I
see him distinctly. He is of medium height and wears a uniform.”
“It is my brother,” said Mrs. Jenkinson. “He was in Her Majesty’s
service in England. Are ye well, Henry, and happy?” she asked.
“I am well, and much happier than I ever was upon earth,” came from the
Professor’s lips in a thin, nasal tone. “You have the right principle,
Helen. No one can be sick. There is no sickness, if we only deny the
belief in such a thing. Stick to your faith and you are all right.”
The Professor selected a second paper.
“I see the name Maria,” he said. “Maria, are you there? Will you answer
if a friend wishes to speak with you?”
“Has she—has she blonde hair?” asked Donald, with some hesitation.
“Yes, and blue eyes,” answered Russell. “She is very delicate and pale,
and is holding out her hands to you.”
“Ah, yes; she wants me to take her, probably. Sorry I can’t. Ask her if
she is all right and likes the other world as well as this.”
The answer came in a husky falsetto:
“Yes, better.”
“Do you forgive me for all my ill conduct toward you?”
“Yes, I have nothing to regret. I remember only the delight of our
acquaintance and your many kindnesses.”
“You are sure you forgive me for the last blow I dealt you?”
“Yes, I know it was not your heart that spoke, in that, but the force of
circumstances.”
“You forgive all my neglect and—cruelty?”
“O yes, if there was anything to forgive.”
“Are you surrounded by friends?”
“Yes, there are many we both have known.”
“Ah, Tommy and Jack, and the rest, I suppose. Are you where I may see
you if at any time I should pass in my checks?”
“O yes; certainly.”
“Well, good-by.”
“Good-by.”
“I feel greatly relieved after this revelation,” Donald said, “as it
settles two doubts in my mind which have always troubled me. First, as
to whether it is a crime to slay innocent creatures whose only fault,
perhaps, is a proclivity to take what is not theirs; and second, as to
whether there is more than one heaven and whether we shall meet our
victims in the other world. I killed Maria because she would steal
chickens, a natural propensity for which I should not have blamed her,
probably. She was my favorite cat, and my conscience has never been
quite easy since, but now that I know that she is all right and safe I
feel relieved.”
A peal of laughter from Mark was echoed by a loud guffaw from Solomon
Garrett and several others in the room.
“Mr. Bartram, I consider such levity out of place,” said Russell
angrily. “It seems that you are the same incorrigible Don that you were
when I knew you in Iowa. Age doesn’t seem to have improved you.”
“But if Maria’s spirit was not there how could you have seen her?” asked
Donald innocently.
“There are many spirits who bear the name of Maria while upon earth,”
Russell replied with dignity.
“But the one whose name I wrote is the one who should have appeared; and
I repeat, I am glad to know she is all right.”
“How you can jest on this subject is more than I can understand,”
replied the other, as he began to make preparations for departure.
The Pemberton twins giggled and said in unison, “How funny.”
At this juncture Auntie Dearborn began to chuckle. She appeared to try
to control her desire to laugh, and put her handkerchief to her mouth,
while her face grew red. But the more she tried to stifle the laughter,
the more it overcame her. Finally her merriment became almost
convulsive, and Auntie shrieked in a frenzy of mirth. And in the midst
of the laughter, for the effect was contagious, Professor Russell took
his leave.
This hysteria of the old lady was not an uncommon phenomenon, and
excited little comment among the guests, though most of them joined
heartily in the outburst, and departed to their homes freed from the
superstitious awe which had held them earlier in the evening.