A Well-Remembered Voice
by
Out of the darkness comes the voice of a woman speaking to her dead son.
‘But that was against your wish, was it not? Was that against your wish? Would you prefer me not to ask that question?’
The room is so dark that we cannot see her. All we know is that she is one of four shapes gathered round a small table. Beyond the darkness is a great ingle-nook, in which is seated on a settle a man of fifty. Him we can discern fitfully by the light of the fire. It is not sufficiently bright to enable him to read, but an evening paper lies on his knee. He seems wistful and meek. He is paying no attention to the party round the table. When he hears their voices it is only as empty sounds.
The mother continues. ‘Perhaps I am putting the question in the wrong way. Are you not able to tell us any more?’
A man’s voice breaks in. ‘There was a distinct movement that time, but it is so irregular.’
‘I thought so, but please don’t talk. Do you want to tell us more? Is it that you can’t hear me distinctly? He seems to want to tell us more, but something prevents him.’
‘In any case, Mrs. Don, it is extraordinary. This is the first seance I have ever taken part in, but I must believe now.’
‘Of course, Major, these are the simplest manifestations. They are only the first step. But if we are to go on, the less we talk the better. Shall we go on? It is not agitating you too much, Laura?’
A girl answers, ‘There was a moment when I–but I wish I was braver. I think it is partly the darkness. I suppose we can’t have a little light?’
‘Certainly we can, dear. Darkness is quite unnecessary, but I think it helps one to concentrate.’
The Major lights a lamp, and though it casts shadows we see now that the room is an artist’s studio. The silent figure in the ingle-nook is the artist. Mrs. Don is his wife, the two men are Major Armitage and an older friend, Mr. Rogers. The girl is Laura Bell. These four are sitting round the table, their hands touching: they are endeavouring to commune with one who has ‘crossed the gulf.’
The Major and Mr. Rogers are but passing shadows in the play, and even nice Laura is only to flit across its few pages for a moment on her way to happier things. We scarcely notice them in the presence of Mrs. Don, the gracious, the beautiful, the sympathetic, whose magnetic force and charm are such that we wish to sit at her feet at once. She is intellectual, but with a disarming smile, religious, but so charitable, masterful, and yet loved of all. None is perfect, and there must be a flaw in her somewhere, but to find it would necessitate such a rummage among her many adornments as there is now no time for. Perhaps we may come upon it accidentally in the course of the play.
She is younger than Mr. Don, who, despite her efforts for many years to cover his deficiencies, is a man of no great account in a household where the bigger personality of his wife swallows him like an Aaron’s rod. Mr. Don’s deficiencies! She used to try very hard, or fairly hard, to conceal them from Dick; but Dick knew. His mother was his chum. All the lovely things which happened in that house in the days when Dick was alive were between him and her; those two shut the door softly on old Don, always anxious not to hurt his feelings, and then ran into each other’s arms.
In the better light Mr. Don is now able to read his paper if he chooses. If he has forgotten the party at the table, they have equally forgotten him.