The Collected Supernatural and Weird Fiction of Elia W. Peattie

by Elia W. Peattie

  And there, before him, with head sunk on breast, with little blue hands lying relaxed in the lap, with the curious box beside it was the dejected child-figure again. For some reason the chills of the night seemed to have got in the conductor’s blood. Then his courage reasserted itself. He made a rush for the child, intending to gather it in his arms, or do anything by which he might convince himself that it was not—but even as he reached out his hands, the trolley slipped on the dripping wire, a thousand bails of blue electricity dripped from above, the tracks turned into white fire, and the little figure was gone!

  (N.B. Only the dull need to be told that there is a time for all things. This weather is the time for ghost stories. There are times when this column is devoted to the accurate reporting of events, but that is on different sort of weather from the present. When the sun, the moon, Earth and Uranus stand in a row like boys at school with their toes on the line, one always writes ghost stores!)

  The Great Delusion

  A Drama in One Act For four men and five women

  CHARACTERS

  DR. JOHN FOREST scientist and spiritist

  ELEANOR FOREST his wife

  HAROLD FOREST his son

  SHEILA O’HARA Harold’s fiancée

  MARGOT GRANT Harold’s old nurse

  GRAFTON the butler

  LADY GRISEL BEATTIE

  MRS. GARDEN guests at a meeting

  PROFESSOR DEEMER.

  TIME:

  Two years after the close of the World War. A night in spring.

  PLACE:

  The study in Dr. Forest’s home in England.

  Notes on Characters and Costumes

  DR.FOREST: He is a man of fifty or sixty, tall, thin, gray, with a clean-shaven, pale face, and dark eyes that look out from under heavy brows, burning with a fanatical fervour. His voice varies between a natural, rather gentle, courteous, quiet, unpretentious way of speaking, to a deep, impressive tone of commanding oratory. He holds himself with a quiet dignity, and bows with deferential reserve in response to the remarks of his admirers. When he speaks of Harold and of his own work, he straightens, seems taller, and stares off into space, exultant. Throughout the play it is necessary for the character to catch the elusive hint of satisfaction that the doctor feels in the role of comforter that he plays. One cannot call his air exactly smug, and yet, if he were not so grave, he would be smug.

  MRS. FOREST: She is a slim, quiet woman, about the doctor’s age, with a weary manner. She rouses herself to smile at praise of him, or to anxiously defend the slightest criticism or question of him; the rest of the time she sinks into a weary lassitude. She is gray and quietly dressed in some sombre colour.

  GRAFTON: The butler is a small, thin man, quiet white, with a seamed, smooth-shaven face, dressed in the conventional garb of the butler.

  MARGOT: She is an elderly lady, with faded blue eyes, gray hair that shows under her white cap, a dark dress with a long, full skirt, relieved with a white kerchief and cuffs. She seems feeble beyond her years, and piteously distressed when she is aroused from her séance.

  PROFESSOR DEEMER: He is a square-jawed, dynamic man of forty-five, dressed in well-cut business clothes, wearing glasses on a dark cord. His movements are definite, and his whole air is that of a successful broker or business man, rather than that of a professor.

  MRS. GARDEN: She is a little, elderly lady, brightly dressed in a flowered crêpe, with a bright hat to match. She wears black velvet around her neck to hold her sagging chin. She is deliberately, intensely, and nervously young and alert. She turns quickly from one of the characters to the other, with nervous, bird-like movements.

  LADY BEATTIE: She is a slim, grave woman of forty, with a beautiful, sad face. She is dressed in mourning.

  SHEILA: She is a beautiful young girl of twenty with a tender, quiet manner, a gentle, motherly way about her most of the time, as though she had gained control of a deep sorrow, and had become the finer person for it. She is grave, self-contained, and thoroughly poised. Her detachment from the rest of the group at the opening of the play is very deliberate and intentional, and should be got over. She is dressed in a simple, becoming afternoon dress of dark blue or black.

  HAROLD FOREST: He is a haggard young man of twenty-five, dressed in a private’s uniform. He moves slowly, as though he had been long ill, and his pale, haggard face is the face of a person recovering from serious sickness. His speech is rapid, broken, and rather casual, as though many things had meant too much to him for him to be very definite about them. He speaks often with a weary light in his eyes, and a half smile on his lips.

  PROPERTIES

  GRAFTON: A large silver tray, with letters.

  DR. FOREST: A pencil and a scroll of paper.

  STAGE POSITIONS

  Up stage means away from the footlights, down stage means toward the footlights, and right and left are used with reference to the actor as he faces the audience. R means right, L means left, U means up, D means down, C means centre, and these abbreviations are used in combination, as: U R for up right, R C for right centre, D L C for down left centre, etc. One will note that a position designated on the stage refers to a general territory, rather than to a given point.

  THE DELUSION

  SCENE: The study in the Forest home. It is a dignified and beautiful apartment, with panelled walls, French windows, and a lofty fireplace. Against the R wall, well down stage, is a fireplace with a low-burning fire. Above the fireplace, in the R wall, is a door. In the back wall, U R C and U L C, are French windows. R C is a long, carved table with a wing chair back of it. D L C is a small divan. Against the L wall, about C, is a tall clock, ticking. There are wing chairs D L, below the divan, and well D R, by the fireplace. A small table is against the back wall U C, and a pot of incense burns on it. In front of that table, standing so that it faces up stage and slightly to the R, is an easel, which seems to hold a large oil painting. It is night. The scene is dimly lighted with a low-burning fire, a floor lamp left of the divan, blue moonlight which streams in through the French windows, and, more noticeable than any other light, a strange lavender light which shines on the picture on the easel.

  AT RISE OF CURTAIN: MARGOT, a quiet Scotch body with cap, kerchief and cuffs, is sitting immovable in the armchair behind the table, facing the audience. DR. FOREST is standing R C. In the window U R C, stands SHEILA. Well D L are LADY BEATTIE, MRS. GARDEN, and MRS. FOREST. DEEMER stands C.

  DEEMER.—It’s been most convincing, Dr. Forest. Most convincing. I came here filled with doubt. I leave, a convert.

  LADY BEATTIE.—I’ve no words, Cousin John. No words. You’ve opened the gates of Heaven to me. If your dear Harold, whom we all mourned, still lives, still remembers, why, so does my boy. So do all the hosts of the departed.

  MRS. GARDEN. —Yes, we may go rejoicing from now on. What I’ve learned in this room during the past year has brought the sunshine flooding back into my life. I took off my mourning as you see, and I’ve resumed life as if there’d been no sense of loss.

  DEEMER.—But, Dr. Forest—is it not—singular—that your medium brings messages from no one but your son—from no one but Captain Forest?

  MRS. FOREST.—Ah, you see, Professor Deemer, dear old Margot is so very new to all this sort of thing. At first she was quiet unwilling to try, but when she saw how desperately we wished her to, she consented. She has always been such a quiet body; shy, except with us. Harold was—I mean, is—the core of her heart.

  DR. FOREST. Yes—the core of her heart. When she goes questing into the unknown, her spirit speeds straight to Harold. She heeds no one else.

  MRS. FOREST.—No one else. I said to her the other day that we mustn’t be selfish. There were others who longed to hear from their friends—even as we long to hear from our boy, but she begged me not to ask any more of her.

  LADY BEATTIE.—No, no, I don’t suppose we should. It is enough that she has proved they are still living, all those we thought we had lost. Oh, that is quite enoug
h. I say that over and over to myself. What if I have had no direct word from Dick—

  MRS. FOREST.—You have had indirect word from him several times, dear Lady Grisel. Several times Harold has referred to him in his writings.

  DEEMER.—Sir, you have changed the whole outlook of humanity. You’ve slain despair.

  MRS. GARDEN.—It isn’t that what you have done is so unheard of, Dr. Forest. Others have established communications with the dead—

  MRS. FOREST.—Oh, not that word; not “dead”!

  MRS. GARDEN.—Oh, pardon me! With the departed. But always there seemed some reason to doubt. There other investigators might have been deceived, mightn’t they? With you, Dr. Forest, one of the foremost scientific men of the age—there can be no doubt.

  DEEMER.—No. No doubt.

  There is a little moan from MARGOT, and all look quickly toward her. For the first time, SHEILA moves, and turns from the window.

  MRS. GARDEN.—She comes out of her trance by herself?

  MRS. FOREST.—We never hasten her. We’re deeply anxious not to shock her.

  SHEILA hastens to MARGOT, to her right, and puts her arm consolingly around the bent shoulders. There is another shudder and a piteous little moan from MARGOT, and SHEILA tightens her arm about her.

  SHEILA.—It’s quite all right, Margot, old dear. You’re right here at home. This is Sheila, Margot. Do you understand?

  DEEMER.—Oh, yes, poor dear. Well, thank you, Dr. Forest, thank you.

  He turns, bows silently to the women, and then turns and goes out quickly U R.

  MRS. GARDEN.—Thank you, Mrs. Forest, thank you. I can’t begin to say how much—Thank you, doctor; it’s meant so much.

  She goes out U R.

  LADY BEATTIE.—Goodnight, Cousin John, and thank you. One should be satisfied.

  She turns slowly, and goes out U R.

  SHEILA has paid no attention through these farewells, but is still bending over MARGOT, patting her shoulder, murmuring to her soothingly.

  DR. FOREST.—That’s right, Sheila, my dear, help her back on to our plane. I dare say it seems a dull enough place to her after all she’s been seeing. I’m always sorry for her when she has to come back.

  SHEILA.—I’m sorry for her, too, sir, but for another reason.

  MRS. FOREST.—Hush, hush, Sheila, my dear. I’m sure you have no desire to distress us.

  DR. FOREST.—Let the child say what she has to say, Eleanor. Our boy can talk with the angels if he likes, but I’m quite sure if he had his choice, he’d prefer Sheila.

  MRS. FOREST.—Don’t be impious, John.

  MARGOT, with a sigh, looking about with a wan smile and stretching out her trembling old hands before her, tries to raise herself slowly to her feet. SHEILA helps her rise, pulling the chair back out of her way, and stands for a moment, steadying MARGOT, with her arm around her. With a quick catch of her breath, MARGOT raises her head and smiles at SHEILA.

  MARGOT.—I’m richt enough, now, Miss Sheila. Thank ‘e for a gude lassie. My Harold’s ane lassie. Thank ’e, thank ’e. SHEILA turns and watches MARGOT go slowly out U R.

  DR. FOREST.—Now, come here, Harold’s ane lassie, and tell us what it is that troubles your sweet soul. What makes you feel so sorry for Margot?

  MRS. FOREST.—Don’t be forever questioning Sheila, my dear. Let her have her reticences. You scientists are so—so explorative.

  DR. FOREST.—This from you, Eleanor. If it hadn’t been for my explorative ways, as you call them, should we have had word from our boy?

  MRS. FOREST.—That’s true enough, John. DR. FOREST.—Speak, Sheila.

  SHEILA.—You asked, sir, why I was sorry for dear old Margot.

  DR. FOREST.—Yes, my dear.

  SHEILA.—I’m sorry for her because we make her do something she doesn’t wish to do.

  DR. FOREST.—Why wouldn’t she wish to penetrate beyond the veil that hangs between our boy and ourselves? She is privileged to actually look upon his face. She sees him moving about his new world, at ease, friendly with the great host of other young heroes; smiling, talking, even singing. She said she heard him singing the other day, didn’t she, Eleanor?

  MRS. FOREST.—Yes, she said she heard him singing.

  DR. FOREST.—What grieves you then, Sheila? Isn’t she fortunate beyond any of us?

  SHEILA.—I hardly know how to say it, sir, but it’s as if she weren’t satisfied. In her conscience, I mean.

  DR. FOREST.—She’s honest, Sheila. Never question her honesty.

  SHEILA.—No, no. But she seems so jaded, so exhausted, so pitiful. I can’t tell why, but she breaks my heart.

  DR. FOREST.—The only thing that need break your heart, my child, is to lose Harold.

  SHEILA.—But I have lost him! I have lost him!

  MRS. FOREST.—How can you say that, Sheila? I must say it seems ungrateful. Why, the written communications alone should satisfy you. Didn’t I, myself, see the pencil moving in your hand the other evening? You can’t deny that you had direct communication with him.

  SHEILA.—Oh, my dear, you know what the message was—something about being happy and our not mourning for him! If Harold could have got word through to me, do you think he would have said that—merely that?

  DR. FOREST.—But the words came involuntarily?

  SHEILA.—I was the sincere automaton, if that’s what you mean, sir. Something—something—(With a glance toward the DOCTOR.) perhaps you, unconsciously—moved my hand to write. But do you think there was anything in that message that meant anything to me?

  DR. FOREST. You hardly loved him more than his mother and I, my dear, and yet we are contented with the messages he sends us.

  As DR. FOREST speaks, he sits again at the table. SHEILA, with a weary shrug, turns back to the window U R C. GRAFTON, the butler, enters, bringing a large silver tray covered with letters—dozens of them. He comes down to the left of the table.

  GRAFTON.—Your mail, sir. DR. FOREST.—At this hour?

  MRS. FOREST.—It’s the first time you’ve been free since the delivery, John. (She crosses back to the divan and sits down again.) Sometimes I’m distressed at your lack of privacy. You can hardly call your soul your own.

  GRAFTON goes quietly out U R.

  DR.FOREST.—I don’t wish to call my soul my own, Eleanor. If there’s anything that has comforted me these last few months, it’s knowing that the world needs me. (He rises again, lifting the letters in his hand and dropping them down in a scattered heap on the table.) You know what these appeals are—all these letters, visits. They’re from fellow creatures who have known an unendurable sorrow. They come to me for reassurance, and, thank God, I can give it to them. I doubt if there is a person in the world today who can give so great a boon of healing as I can.

  MRS. FOREST.—But if these people wear you out utterly, John, you can’t help anyone. Let them read your books. They tell the story.

  DR. FOREST.—But people do read them, Eleanor. They’ve been best sellers for the last two years.

  MRS. FOREST.—I know, dear.

  DR. FOREST (moving from behind his desk down in front of the fireplace).—You know what it cost to build and endow the hospital for insane soldiers; and you know that it was all done with the royalties of these books.

  MRS. FOREST.—Yes. That was Harold’s service to his comrades. It was he who did it.

  DR. FOREST.—But he couldn’t have done it alone, Eleanor. Those who have gone require someone on this plane to cooperate with them. He needed us. He needed our love and faith. Yes, and our skill. We summoned him, made him articulate, and we have brought immeasurable comfort to the human race. We have demonstrated a science beyond science. We—

  SHEILA, who has moved quietly in front of the picture again, to the right of it, sighs as if with fatigued patience, and turns out the light on the picture. Both DR. FOREST and MRS. FOREST turn Sharply toward her and stand motionless for an instant. Then SHEILA looks at MRS. FOREST with an apologetic smile.

>   SHEILA.—Oh, Mrs. Forest, forgive me! I should have asked your permission. I shouldn’t have turned out the light. But sometimes he seems so tired, smiling and smiling for our sakes.

  DR. FOREST.—You are the one who is tired, Sheila. Go to your room and rest. These meetings are hard for you, I know.

  SHEILA.—Thank you. I think I’ll go to bed. May I say goodnight?

  DR. FOREST.—So early? I had hoped you would return after a while and help me look over the mail.

  SHEILA.—Wouldn’t it be just as well for you to wait till morning? You were up at six, and you’ve been so busy all day.

  DR. FOREST.—I’ve other things to think of than myself, Sheila. Quite other things. (He moves to the right of the desk.) This mail, look at it. From London, Calcutta, Lausanne, Christiania, New York—three more from New York. Even from Vancouver. See, Eleanor, one from Vancouver. All asking help, begging for the secret, trying to penetrate to that beautiful place where our slain young warriors have advanced. Turning to me, Eleanor, turning to me from across the world. I must not think of myself. Out of all the world of rulers, priests, philosophers, people are turning to me—

  MRS. FOREST (rises).—I know, John, I know. You cannot fail them, of course. But if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go to bed. I don’t know why it is that I get so very, very weary.

  SHEILA.—I’ll go with you.

  MRS. FOREST.—Oh, thank you, Sheila, but you needn’t bother—

  SHEILA.—No, no, I’ll go, please. Sometimes I’m as lonely as you are.

  DR. FOREST.—Lonely, Sheila? How can you be lonely? How can our boy’s mother be lonely? Didn’t he send word that he was thinking of us constantly? Didn’t he cause this portrait of himself to be painted—this living, breathing thing—to comfort us?

  SHEILA.—It doesn’t seem living and breathing to me. It seems like a shining mist. I can’t endure it.

  DR. FOREST.—What’s come over you, Sheila?