Tibby: A novel dealing with psychic forces and telepathy

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,

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:

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.