CHAPTER XVIII.
A NEST OF PSEUDO-SPIRITUALISTS.
As Florence Harper left the room in which the singular and exciting interview described in the last chapter took place, and fled in strange alarm from the house, the girl who had admitted her came gliding in with her noiseless step from the adjoining apartment, and, standing before the woman, who yet remained in a partially ecstatic condition, said,—
“Oh, mother! This is dreadful!—dreadful!”
“What are you saying, child? What is dreadful? I see beautiful visions, and hear music of angelic sweetness. I see nothing dreadful. Give me your hands, Adele dear.”
And she reached forth her small hands, so white and thin as to be semi-transparent. But the girl stepped back a single pace, eluding the offered grasp.
“Why don’t you give me your hands, child?” The woman spoke with some impatience.
“Because I would rather keep them in my own possession just now,” replied Adele, in a low, clear tone, the slight quiver in which showed a disturbed state of feeling.
“You are perverse,” said the woman. “The spirits must be consulted. There are evil influences at work.”
“They are at work in that Mrs. Fordham, if, as this young lady says, she has stolen a child!” Adele made answer, speaking firmly. “I never liked her. She’s wicked!”
“Adele!”
“I believe it, mother.” The girl was resolute. “She tried to get me in her power; but I was able to resist her, thank God!”
“Daughter! daughter! What is the meaning of this?” exclaimed the woman, in surprise and displeasure, rising as she spoke, and advancing toward Adele, with the evident belief that if she could get her hands upon her she could more effectually bring the full power of her strong will to bear in subduing her rebellious spirit. But Adele retreated into the next room, saying, in a quick, decided voice,—
“I’m getting heart-sick of all this, mother! There is in it more of evil than good, I sadly fear. I don’t like the people who come here. Some of them may mean all right; but some of them, I know, mean all wrong; and your Mrs. Fordham is one of them. And so is Mr. Dyer. I hate the very sight of him! He said something to me last night.”
“What did he say?” eagerly asked the mother.
“I can’t tell you now, because I promised him that I would not. But if he says it again I’ll dash the first thing into his face that I can lay my hands on.”
Just then the door-bell rang, and Adele answered the summons. The very man about whom they were speaking entered. The moment Adele saw him she started back, and, running along the passage, escaped from his presence up-stairs.
“Mr. Dyer!” said the mother, with a pleased familiarity of manner, singular under the circumstances, to say the least of it. She gave him her hand, which he grasped hard, and retained while they walked back into the darkened parlors.
“Mrs. Weir!” was his simple response. His tone was low, penetrating, agreeable. Let us describe Mr. Dyer. It is the countenance that indicates the man. Chin, mouth, nostrils, eyes, forehead,—on these each one writes his character, though he tries never so hard to play the hypocrite. The lineaments of the face never lie. But in the present instance the face was so much hidden by a hairy veil that much of its true expression was concealed. Intellectually, taking his rather low forehead as a guide, Mr. Dyer was not a man of superior endowments. But his small brown eyes, shining out from their hollow recesses, indicated mental activity and alertness. The skin of his face was colorless, and had a bleached appearance, all the lines running down, as if it had been rained upon every day for a dozen years. High up, reaching nearly to the cheek-bones, the hairy investure began, and that seemed to have yielded also to the causes which made all the facial lines perpendicular. It was guiltless of curl, or curving line of beauty, but shot down, straight and thick, a dark brown mass, wiry and unsightly. The hair upon his head was long, dry, harsh, and straight, lying like the mane of some beast upon his shoulders. His full, pouting lips indicated sensuality. Yet even this countenance had been schooled by a sinister purpose so as to deceive some by its meek expression of goodness.
Mr. Dyer was that intellectual, strong-willed woman’s plaything, a biologist,—we use one of the names assumed by a modern sect of pseudo-spiritualists,—a getter-up of circles, and a leader in the insane orgies of mesmerism run mad. He was wonderfully given to trance-ecstasies, and could elevate himself into the highest of the spiritual spheres in a moment and at will. Familiar tête-à-têtes with Adam, Noah, Moses, Socrates, Washington, and the world’s hosts of worthies and heroes, were had by him daily; and most of them honored him as the medium of important communications to the world. From some cause, however, by the time these communications reached the sphere of nature, they had lost all meaning and coherence. Still, Mr. Dyer enunciated them with oracular gravity, and many who listened imagined a deep symbolical meaning.
Not possessing that strong, masculine, reasoning mind which gives man power over man by virtue of superior intellectual force, and yet having a large share of that bad ambition of which Milton’s Satan was a type, Mr. Dyer sought influence over others—females particularly—by means of modern witchcraft, going from house to house “and leading silly women captive,” and, by his devilish arts, withering or destroying the budding germs of rational freedom in little children, whenever they chanced to come within the sphere of his blasting influence. He was one of a bad class of sensualists, whose active propensities gain power by cunning and hypocrisy. It was a day of evil triumph with him when he discovered that he was a “powerful medium,” and could subdue by means of his stronger will the consciousness of sickly, nervous women, and so control the wonderful organism of their spirits as to make them speak and act like mere automatons. It was a vast improvement on Maelzel and Kempelon!
At the time of his introduction to the reader, Dyer had already been the instrument of promoting four separations between husband and wife. He was himself a married man; but, having discovered that another, a handsomer, brighter, and more attractive woman than his lawful partner, was conjoined to him as to the spirit, and therefore, according to his reading of the matter, his real wife, he had separated himself from the heart-broken woman against whom he had committed one of the most grievous sins in the crowded calendar of human wrongs. In the eye of the law he was a vagrant, for he had no apparent means of support. But he managed to get his share of worldly gear from his duped or corrupt admirers. It was sufficient for some of them that the familiar spirits, or demons, required their favorite instrument to be clothed and fed and supplied with needful money.
Such was the man whose appearance gave evident pleasure to Mrs. Weir, notwithstanding the intimation of her daughter, just made, that his evil eyes had fallen upon her, and that already his polluting breath had touched her fair young cheek.
As the two entered the parlors, Dyer still holding the woman’s hand, he gazed into her eyes with a fixed look, beneath which her own did not quail.
“And what have the spirits been saying to you this morning?” He spoke in a low voice, modulated to musical cadences, and bent his face close to hers. “I can see, by the lucid depth and strange ethereal brightness of your eyes, that you have been holding sweet communion with them.”
They sat down upon a sofa, and Mrs. Weir replied,—
“New spheres are opening to me. I am anxious to rise higher, higher, into more celestial states; but the spirits are ever teaching me lessons of patience. I am too worldly yet, they say. The dross of this outer sphere is dimming my fine gold; the stain of earth is on my garments. Their low whispers are lingering yet in my ears, and my soul feels the hush of a deep tranquillity.”
“Beautiful! Celestial!” And Mr. Dyer raised his hands in almost saintly benediction.
“Of all this the scoffing world knows nothing,” went on Mrs. Weir, murmuring in a soft, sweet voice. “It is too gross and sensual, and, like the swine, tramples on these precious pearls.”
“And still, like the swine,” added Dyer, “turns upon and rends us who cast them at its feet.”
“Alas! too true!” Mrs. Weir spoke almost sadly.
“But the spirits sustain us. Their communications are our exceeding great reward,” said Dyer, with enthusiasm. “We are not in the world nor of it, but enjoy the glorious privileges of the immortals.”
He leaned closer.
“To the pure all things are pure——”
The door-bell rung, and each gave a start,—a shade of disappointment clouding the brightness of their faces.
“Did you expect another visitor at this time?” asked Dyer.
“No,” replied Mrs. Weir, as she listened to the light steps of Adele on the stairs and moving along the passage to the door.
Both sat very still, hearkening. A low ejaculation of surprise escaped the lips of Adele. Then were heard the rustling of a woman’s garments, and the movement of feet.
Mr. Dyer and Mrs. Weir arose as the parlor-door was pushed open.
“Mrs. Fordham!” exclaimed the latter, as a tall woman in black entered with a slow, stately step, holding by the hand a shrinking little girl, who drew back in partial fear at the sight of strangers. Close behind them was Adele, her usually quiet face now alive with feeling, and her glance fixed with eager interest on the beautiful child. She reached out her hand and said,—
“Come, dear!”
But the woman reproved her with a look, and drew the little one closer.
“Mrs. Fordham! Welcome again!” said Dyer, giving the visitor his hand. “You drop down upon us as if from cloud-land. I thought you were far away. But who have we here?”
And he stooped a little, carefully examining the child’s face.
“A prize,—a treasure,—a good gift from our generous spirits,” answered Mrs. Fordham, as she sat down with the air of one who felt herself at home, and lifted the child upon her lap. Drawing her head down upon her bosom, she made a pass or two with her hand, and the little girl was still as an effigy.
“There never was a more impressible subject,” said the woman, “nor one through whom spirits communicate more freely. I saw it in her the instant my eyes rested on her face. Then I consulted the spirits, and they said that she was born to a high mission. But how was she to be brought into the sphere of her holy calling? In common language, she was not mine. I was not the instrument of her birth, and therefore, in the world’s regard, had no right to dispose of her. Again I consulted the spirits. The answer was clear. The bars of custom must be thrown down, they said. The child was destined to a high use, and human bonds must not restrain her. For a time the spirit was willing but the flesh weak. I hesitated, held back, doubted; but clearer and clearer came the indications. At last all communication was withdrawn from me. I asked, but received no answer; again and again I called to my old and dear companions, but not even a faint, far-off echo was returned to my half-despairing cry. Then, and not till then, I yielded. I sent forth my thought and affection toward this child—this beloved one of the spirits—and drew her toward me. Though distant as to the body, I felt that my hands were upon her, and that she was approaching. And she came in good time,—came and threw herself into my arms,—a young devotee to this new science, a neophyte priestess for service at the altar in that grand spiritual temple, the walls of which are towering upward to heaven.”
Mrs. Fordham’s eyes gradually assumed an upward angle: a rapt expression came into her face; her voice was deep and muffled by feeling.
“Precious darling! Chosen one! Beloved of the angels!” said Mrs. Weir, bending over the little girl, who now lay in a trance-sleep against the woman’s bosom.
“Will the spirits communicate through her now?” asked Dyer.
“Let me inquire of them,” answered the woman. And she relapsed into a state of real or apparent cessation of all exterior consciousness. Ten minutes of almost pulseless silence followed, the child still lying in her strange, unnatural sleep.
“They will speak,” said Mrs. Fordham, in a deep yet hushed tone. Then she laid her hand gently on the colorless face of the child-medium, and held it there for the space of several seconds. A few light passes followed. The child caught her breath: there were slight convulsive spasms of the chest and limbs, while a most painful expression saddened her gentle face.
“Dear child!” murmured Mrs. Weir.
“It is the strife in her soul of evil spirits against the good,” said Mrs. Fordham. “She is not yet wholly purified for her great mission. Happily for her, the battle is fought in states of unconsciousness. She is spared all suffering.”
“The spirits love and protect her,” said Dyer.
“They love and protect their own; and she is theirs,” answered Mrs. Fordham.
As she spoke, she raised the child to a sitting posture. Her eyes were still closed, and the look of sadness and suffering yet remained. Dyer drew a chair and sat down directly in front of her. Mrs. Weir took another and did the same, but arose immediately, and, looking to the opposite side of the room, said,—
“Come, Adele; bring a chair and sit down with us.”
But Adele neither answered nor stirred.
“Daughter, did you hear me?” Mrs. Weir’s voice was firmer.
“I do not wish to come into the circle,” replied Adele.
“Don’t be foolish, child: come,” said Mrs. Weir.
“No, mother: I wish to be excused.”
Mrs. Weir was moving across the room toward her daughter, when Dyer said,—
“Stop, madam! Let us consult the spirits.”
Mrs. Weir came back.
“Mrs. Fordham, ask the spirits about this strange perverseness,” said Dyer.
The woman closed her eyes and sat quite still for a minute.
“The spirits require the circle to be harmonized,” was Mrs. Fordham’s decision.
“You must come, Adele!” Dyer spoke half authoritatively.
But Adele stood as firm as marble.
“Adele!” Mrs. Weir’s voice, now sharp and commanding, thrilled through the rooms.
“There are other spirits besides Mrs. Fordham’s familiars, and they tell me not to harmonize her circle to-day,” answered Adele, speaking very calmly, and with meaning emphasis.
“They are evil, lying spirits!” exclaimed Dyer, with excitement.
“From the infernal spheres,” said Mrs. Fordham, solemnly. “I am afraid, Mrs. Weir, that sirens are seeking to possess your daughter, that they may utterly destroy her.”
“Adele, come! Flee to us quickly!” cried Mrs. Weir, in a tremor of excitement, stretching forth her hands.
“My spirits are true, and I believe them!” answered the girl, resolutely. And she stood immovable.
“The spirits will not communicate unless the circle is harmonized,” said Mrs. Fordham, with ill-concealed impatience.
“Let the perverse creature withdraw, then.” Mr. Dyer spoke sharply.
“Go!” said Mrs. Fordham, waving her hand.
But Adele stirred not.
“Go!” repeated her mother.
There was not a sign of obedience.
“All things must harmonize, or the spirits will not answer. If the girl will not come into the circle, she must leave the room.” It was Mrs. Fordham who spoke.
“The spirits tell me to remain, and I will obey them!” said Adele, with unwavering firmness.
“They are bad spirits!” Dyer almost thundered out the words, his pent-up anger and impatience getting the better of his self-control.
“Lying spirits!” shrieked Mrs. Fordham, catching the excitement of the man.
“Who is to decide?” asked Adele, calmly.
“Heaven’s messenger!” said Mrs. Weir, pointing to Mrs. Fordham. “It is through her that the spirits of the higher spheres descend.”
“Heaven’s messengers don’t rob mothers of their children!” Adele answered. “If there are lying spirits in the case, they have found access to her ears, not mine!”
“Heavens and earth!” exclaimed Dyer, starting to his feet; “what does the girl mean?”
Mrs. Fordham’s self-imposed calmness all departed, and the fire in her eyes shot out toward Adele like serpent-tongues. With three or four quick passes, she restored the little girl who sat in her lap to a half-dreamy consciousness of real things, and then, taking two or three strides toward the door, said, glancing over her shoulder,—
“The same room, Mrs. Weir?”
“The same,” was answered, and woman and child disappeared from sight.