In the month of November 1890 I started with a young friend for my first visit to India.
My companion was still at the age when social India was naturally more interesting to her than either the historical or mystical aspects of the country. And, for myself, I went there in those days rather to see the glorious buildings of a magnificent Past, than with any view of wresting occult secrets from the Fakirs and Yogis of the Present.
It was well perhaps that one's ambitions were so limited by the Possible, for I am very much inclined to think that Mystic India is and must remain a sealed book for the English.
We must always remember the natural prejudices of a conquered race towards the conqueror. In addition to this, the Hindoostanees consider (and who shall say without ample cause?) that Englishmen are hopelessly "borné" and sunk in materialism, incapable of exercising an imagination which they don't possess; with a top dressing of conventional orthodoxy, so far as their own special religion is concerned, but with nothing but ridicule or thinly veiled contempt for the religious channels through which other races may be taking their spiritual food. We have given them only too much reason for these conclusions.
As a consequence of this state of things, Englishmen and women are looked upon as "quite impossible" from the Indian point of view, and a devout and educated Hindoo would no more think of discussing his transcendental ideas with such people than we should think of discussing delicate questions of Art—in its various branches—with the first village yokel we happened to meet in the road. I was confirmed in these ideas by noticing the difference in the welcome accorded to a charming young Swedish lady, whom we met at Benares on her wedding tour. She had brought excellent native introductions from her own country, where certain Rajahs and Maharajahs had been entertained by her King, and thanks to these, and, as she said, "to the fact of my not being English," she had access to many interesting places, and took part in interesting functions, from which the rest of us were debarred.
I am hoping to pay a third visit to India some day, with the special object in view of occult investigation. It remains to be seen whether, by any fortunate accident, I may then be more successful in encountering anything more interesting than the ordinary clever conjurers, who sometimes pose as Fakirs, and may be found by the tourist on every hotel veranda in India.
Meanwhile I am limited by the title of my book to personal incidents, as to which I find one or two notes in my Indian diary.
Making the usual tour, but including Lahore—where my brother had lived at Government House for several years as Military Secretary to Sir Robert Egerton (who was inhisday), Lieutenant-Governor of the Punjab—we came in due course to Delhi.
Our first day there was devoted to tracing Mutiny relics of all kinds, and about fourp.m.in the afternoon we drove out to the famous Ridge to see the Mutiny Memorial. This, as most people nowadays know, is a red standstone tower, with staircase of rough stone inside, and small windows pierced through at varying intervals. It stands upon an extensive marble flooring, which is inscribed with the names of the various regiments—officers and men—who took part in the renowned siege, and died for their country in consequence.
As we drove towards the Memorial, the whole place seemed to be in a flutter of excitement. Hundreds of coolies were flocking round, and we both remarked how much more interested they appeared to be in these monuments of past events than the corresponding class of English labourers would have been. But on arrival we found there was no question of intelligent historical interest. The fact was that a poor coolie—who had just climbed up the Memorial Tower by the inner staircase—had fallen out of one of the windows described, and was lying on the marble floor below, at the far side from us, crushed and dying. We were told that an Englishman had, fortunately, been present, and had driven off at once for a doctor. So nothing could be done for the poor man until the latter arrived.
Meanwhile our native servant—Bobajee—had, of course, rushed off to see what was to be seen of the tragedy, and, rather to my horror, my girl friend seemed about to follow his example! It was terrible to think of the poor man lying there in his death agony; but he was already surrounded by natives, and no real help could be given without fear of doing more harm than good before the doctor was brought to the spot. Therefore merely to go and look on, without being able to succour, seemed to me an added horror to the tragedy, and I turned round rather sharply on my young friend, and expostulated with her. As a matter of fact, she didnotgo; but I am obliged to mention the incident as accounting for a certain momentary excitement and annoyance on my part, which proved to be factors in the story about to be related.
Allowing for difference of time between Delhi and London, a very old friend of mine, Lady Wincote (who was then living in London, where I was in the habit of visiting her constantly when in town), was lying in bed, resting after a disturbed night, at the very hour of our visit to the Mutiny Memorial.
It was about noon in England; she was fully awake, and had been reading. Looking at her watch she realised it was time to make a move if she meant to come down for luncheon. Suddenly the door opened, andIwalked into her bedroom, and right round the bed, until I stood between her and the window, which was to her left as she lay in bed.
I was dressed in ordinary outdoor attire, and seemed much excited and annoyed about something. I was talking continuously, as it seemed to her; but she could not make out any connected sentences, and "wondered what had upset me" so much. She spoke to me, asking what had happened; but I took no notice of her questions, standing with my face to the window and my back to her for a few moments. Then I turned round, and deliberately retraced my steps, past the ottoman, skirting round the bed, and was just disappearing through the door, when she made a final effort to attract my attention, asking a very practical question:
"Emmie! Do tell me before you go, what number you are staying at in Oxford Terrace" (the part of town where I always stayed at that time). Lady Wincote said: "You made no answer at all, but whisked out of the door in a great hurry, and then for the first time I rememberedthat you were in India. It had all seemed so natural, as you had often been in my bedroom, that I only thought at the moment that you must have returned unexpectedly to London from the country. My one anxiety was to know which number on the Terrace would find you, in case you had changed your address there."
Now all this was, fortunately, written out to me by my friend on the very day that it happened—i.e.8th January 1891—andcrossed my letter to her telling her of the incident. My letter was written a day or two later I think; but I was keeping a strict diary at the time, and under date of 8th January have the record of the event, corresponding with the date of Lady Wincote's letter to me.[3]
[3]Both my diary and Lady Wincote's letter were shown to Mr Myers on my return to England, also my letter which crossed the one from Lady Wincote to me. He was greatly interested in the account.
[3]Both my diary and Lady Wincote's letter were shown to Mr Myers on my return to England, also my letter which crossed the one from Lady Wincote to me. He was greatly interested in the account.
Probably in any case I should have written to tell this friend of the incident, on account of a conversation I had with Bobajee when he returned from his ghastly entertainment. I had looked inside the Memorial, and had seen that the stone steps were crumbling away and looked very unsafe, so when he came back and said: "Something bad inside there, Lady Sahib," I concluded naturally that he was referring to the state of the staircase, and attributing the poor coolie's fall to some such cause.
But he denied this strenuously: "No! no! Lady Sahib—some bad debil inside there. He threw coolie over!" Then he went on to tell us that on one special night in the year no native man, woman, or child in the whole city could be induced to pass the Mutiny Memorial at midnight. The few daring souls whohadpassed there, had found the tower all lighted up inside, and the Sepoys and the British soldiers had come back, and were fighting their battles over again! The man spoke in simple good faith, and assured me that all Delhi people knew this to be a fact, and gave the place a wide berth on that anniversary.
The idea of the "bad debil" throwing the poor coolie down from the top of the tower, followed by this curious legend, interested me as a bit of folk-lore, but my companion was drastic in her remarks. "Silly nonsense, Bobajee!" was her reception of the story; and this made me feel intensely sorry for the moment, that Lady Wincote, who would have been as much interested as myself, should not have been present. Did this moment of intense desire for her, project itself into the appearance she saw in her room? Who can say? Certainly it was a curious coincidence that she should see me in an annoyed and excited state just when I was feeling annoyed and excited—so many thousand miles away.
Delhi seems to have been specially favourable to psychic experiences, for I find another one recorded on the very day succeeding the last event.
My friend, having some slight ailment, I had driven out alone with our native servant, and we made a long tour, returning about sixp.m.past Ludlow Castle, of famous Mutiny memory, and still—in the year 1891—a Government bungalow.
The present Czar of Russia was travelling through India at the time as Czarewitch, with his cousin, Prince George of Greece, and they were expected to arrive in Delhi that same evening. The Royal party and suite were to be lodged at Ludlow Castle, and were expected within an hour.
Bobajee jumped off the box of my carriage, and urged me to "go look, see!"
"No, Bobajee! Drive on—can't go look see—they no let me in."
"Yes, yes, Lady Sahib," he said eagerly—"everything ready—all gone away—nobody in there yet."
With our English notions this seems inconceivable, but it proved to be absolutely true. I went in, expecting to be turned back ignominiously before I had crossed the hall, but there was positively no one there! The place was like a City of the Dead. Yet within an hour, a banquet arranged for about seventy people was to take place! I made the best of my opportunity, ranged through the numerous bedrooms—with hanging Japanese blinds shutting them off and each one inscribed with the card of the special Russian or Greek general who formed part of the suite. At length I strolled into the dining-room—a long, narrow room—arranged for the coming festivity (at least sixty to seventy covers were laid), the flowers arranged on the tablecloth in the pretty, artistic Indian fashion, all the beautiful glass and silver placed in readiness.
Nothing was wanting but the presence of the guests for whom all this preparation had been made.
The short Indian twilight was already upon us as I stood there for a moment, contrasting the dead and almost eerie silence, with the lights and laughter that would so quickly replace it.
A fireplace was close to me as I stood at the far end of the room, looking down the whole length of the table. Glancing up, I realised that the only picture in the room was hung over this fireplace. The picture in question had no artistic value—the painting was flat and poor; even the subject did not strike me for the first moment as anything very remarkable. It was the portrait of a man in the prime of life—about thirty-five, I should have supposed—with the long whiskers and rather prim pose of a portrait made by an evidently poor artist, probably thirty or forty years previous to my visit.
But as I looked again, a curious sensation came over me. In spite of the painter's failure to convey anything more like a living man than a dead pressed rose is like a living rose, there was something in the eyes of the portrait that held me, something that rose triumphant above the artist's limitations. At the same moment I was conscious of a Presence behind my back; ofsomebody who was looking at the picture with me; of somebody who was saying to me (not with the outer, but an inner voice): "That is a picture of me, but I am not there—I am here, close to you; behind your shoulder—I am looking at it with you."
The impression was so strong that it seemed almost as if a hand were pressing on my shoulder. I turned round involuntarily, but no one was there. Then I looked at the picture again, and always with the same weird sensation that the man whom the picture represented had been strong enough to make me feel his actual presence in the room, although I could see nothing. There was no name on the picture of either subject or artist, no possible clue to identity, and looked at as a picture alone, there was nothing in the flat, conventional presentment of the features to account for my experience. This made it the more remarkable. I could scarcely tear myself away from the almost overwhelming sense of the presence of some strong and strangely magnetic personality, but the fast fading twilight warned me not to risk an ignominious retreat. So I went hurriedly through the large and handsome drawing-room, which was filled with portraits, chiefly of deceased governors and generals, many of them admirably painted, and a striking contrast to the one poor and commonplace picture already seen.
The absolute incongruity between the impression received and the object which roused it, led me to make inquiries, in spite of my friend's jokes over my powers of imagination.
"Anyway, I am going to clear this up," I said with determination; and in a few days my perseverance was rewarded, and my impression amply justified, by finding that I had been looking at the portrait—feeble and poor as it was—ofBrigadier-General Nicholson.
None of my readers need to be told that if any dead man could impress himself upon the living, this would be the man capable of such a feat.
Even to this day there is a small religious sect in India called theNicholasain, who have handed down the memory of this "god rather than man," who had to dismount from his horse occasionally, to thrash his would-be worshippers, and put a stop to their inconvenient adoration!
Nicholson's brilliant achievements in the Mutiny; his absolute control over men of the most diverse character; the devotion with which he inspired his soldiers, and his own glorious death in the very moment of victory—all these are matters of history.
I feel glad and grateful to have known, even for a few passing moments, what that influence had been; and when I found out Brigadier-General Nicholson's grave at Delhi, after my Ludlow Castle experience, I left my flowers on the grave of an honoured acquaintance, rather than of a man known to me only through historical records.
One more incident, or rather coincidence, and I must close my Indian chapter.
This also is connected with the Mutiny and with Delhi, but the special coincidence, to which I refer, took place at Agra, when my friend and I were staying at the hotel there in the early spring of 1891.
One of my oldest and most valued friends is Lieutenant-Colonel Alfred S. Jones, V.C., formerly of the 9th Lancers, and one of our Mutiny heroes. As everything connected with that historical tragedy seems to have perennial interest for every Englishman—no matter what his creed or politics—I make no excuse for furnishing some details connected with my friend's career. His record from Hart's Army List is as follows:—
"Lieutenant-Colonel Jones was present at the battle of Budlekee Serai, and at Delhi throughout the siege operations, including the assault and capture of the city, having been D.A.Q.M.G. from 8th August to 23rd September 1857. Served with the 9th Lancers in Greathead's pursuing column, and was present in the actions of Bolimshuhur and Alighur and battle of Agra—where he was dangerously wounded, having received a musket-shot wound and twenty-two sabre cuts. He was mentioned in the despatches of Sir Hope Grant on three different occasions, and has received the Victoria Cross for taking a nine-pounder gun, with the assistance of some men from his squadron, in the action of Budlekee Serai (medal with clasp and Brevet of Major)."
Although, as a child, I had heard of the bravery and the terrible wounds of one who was to become later in life one of my greatest friends, the actual details of the Agra catastrophe were hazy in my memory. Two things, however, had remained firmly imbedded in my mind—first, that a brother officer had told me that he was standing close by Colonel Jones when, as a young officer, the latter attended the Levée to receive his Victoria Cross, and that the Queen was so much agitated by his appearance that she could hardly pin it on. Also, that this brother officer heard her whisper to her husband: "My God, Albert! look at that poor boy! He has been cut to pieces!"
The other childish memory is that the Taj had been turned into a hospital at the time of the Mutiny, and that my friend, amongst others, had been nursed there. This latter proved to have been a mistake on the part of my informants. It was the Moti Musjid (the Pearl Mosque) which was turned to this account, and in which my friend was nursed back to life, to the surprise of all who knew the extent of his disaster.
It is specially important for people blessed, or cursed, with psychic gifts "to give no occasion to the enemy" by exaggeration or inexact memory of details. So, with the wholesome dread of a well-read reviewer before my eyes, I determined to go to the fountain-head, and ask Colonel Jones himself to supply me with the true incidents which make the Agra episode a moving picture before our eyes. He has kindly consented to do this, and I give the narrative in his own words:—
After the fall of Delhi, a column, under General Greathead, was sent down to Lucknow, and as three squadrons of the 9th Lancers were told off to go, I resigned my staff appointment, and went with my troop.
After two fights—Bolimshuhur and Alighur—we were hurried off to Agra, sixty-six miles in thirty-six hours. But on arrival we found that the Agra people had recovered from their fright and Greathead was fool enough to believe their story that the enemy was twelve miles away, and therefore took up ground for our camp, just by the graveyard and parade-ground, which you will remember. There was a high crop of sugar-cane, concealing everything beyond the parade-ground, and after most of the officers of the whole force had gone off to Agra Fort to breakfast with friends, cannon-shot began to fall amongst us; and everyone had time to fall in, as the horses had not been unsaddled.
My squadron, consisting of French's and my troops, was told off as an escort to Blunt's Battery, F.A., which formed the left of the line, consisting of our other two squadrons, more F. Artillery, 8th and 75th Regiments, etc., all moving to the front through high crops.
Then we saw the enemy—700 or 800 yards off—and Blunt unlimbered his guns, and began to fire, when we soon saw a body of cavalry moving off across our front, to turn our left flank, and Blunt said we must go back to defend our camp. So he limbered up, and we all (i.e.our squadron and Blunt's guns) began to straggle back through the high crops. But Blunt said he must leave one troop with two of his guns, and French's troop was stopped for the purpose. Instead of staying with it, he felt so sure we should have a chance at the cavalry we had seen (Mutineers) that he came on with me, and together we formed up my troop on the parade-ground, close to Blunt's guns, which we saw already unlimbered.
A squadron of Irregular (mutinied) cavalry was coming in our direction over the parade-ground, with a blue squadron of (mutinied) regular cavalry in support, both trotting; so, of course, we went for the Red (head of the echellon they formed).
Then I saw French shot, and the hind quarters of his grey horse pass round the left flank of my little troop; then I gave the wordGallop, and the Red squadron, to my surprise,halted.
Observing its leader taking aim at me with his carbine, I inclined a little to my left, in order to stick him, never dreaming that I should be hit before I could do so, and I was almost within reach before he fired, and his bullet went through my bridle arm, so I had to take my reins on my sword hand and jam my horse into the ranks, just behind the squadron leader who had shot me.
Now to clear up your mystery about my being left to my fate (I had specially asked Colonel Jones how he happened to be left alone amongst the Sepoys, whose numbers were registered by his sabre cuts in so ghastly a fashion), I was not left to my fate; on the contrary, the man on the left of my troop, who alone could see, put his lance through the squadron leader, and stayed about—outside the ring—trying to get to me to the last, and got the V.C. on my report to that effect.
My troop, occupying, in double rank, about twenty yards, went straight on after the twenty yards or so front of the enemy's probable front of perhaps fifty yards. So there were plenty of Sowars left to mob round me and to keep off the man who tried to save me. Of course, my men were quite right in pursuing the broken force as they did, right off the field.
This account has the immense advantage of being taken verbatim from Colonel Jones' letter just received by me. It has thedisadvantagethat such a letter, from a brave man, would naturally possess—i.e.that of minimising his share in the episode to the point of making it difficult for the lay mind to realise where the heroism came in—which heroism is a vital point in my "coincidence." Fortunately, I have the best authority for saying that the "Blunt" mentioned in this record always maintained that Colonel Alfred Jones had "saved his guns." It appears that at the time of the unexpected attack from the enemy, Colonel Jones and two or three friends (who had not gone to the fort) were breakfasting under the shade of the cemetery wall when the alarm was given. My friend, wishing to rest his charger after the long forced march from Agra, had taken a spare troop horse, saddled with ahunting saddle.
When the round shot began to fall, there was no time to get his charger. There was nothing for it but to put on sword and pistol and ride straight in to the enemy's ranks. No wonder the poor people shut up in Agra were enthusiastic over this "charge of cavalry in their shirt sleeves," as they called it.
In 1891 I was staying in Agra, at the hotel, with my friend of the Delhi incident. A certain Major Pulford, who had come to Agra to race some ponies, divided us at thetable d'hôte. He and I had been neighbours for two or three days, when he asked me carelessly one evening whatIhad been doing that afternoon, as my friend confessed to having taken a "day off."
Now I had spent the afternoon at the Taj, and had made many inquiries about the tradition that this building had once been turned into a hospital. No one knew anything about it. One old Hindoo, evidently thinking I wished him to say "Yes," remembered hearing that thishadbeen the case "about eighty years ago." This last artistic touch of accuracy was fatal to hisbonâ fides, and I turned away in disgust.
So I told Major Pulford my story, and we laughed over the well-known fact that a Hindoo of that class always tries to find out what you wish him to say, andthen says it!
Major Pulford asked why I was so keen on the subject.
"Because a very old friend of mine was badly wounded at Agra during the Mutiny, and from a child I have had the impression that he was nursed in the Taj."
"No," he answered. "I am sure the Taj was never used as a hospital, but I think the Pearl Mosque may have been. This would account for the mistake, probably."
Now the point in this incident is the fact that Ihad not mentioned my friend's name to Major Pulford.
Had the name been a more distinctive one, I might have mentioned it, although realising that Major Pulford was too young a man to have known anything about the Mutiny at first hand.
We talked casually on the subject for a few minutes, and then he said: "Of course, I was a baby at the time, but I have read and heard any amount about it, naturally.Myboyish hero was a fellow named Jones of the 9th Lancers, who was so awfully plucky in their celebrated charge, when surprised by the enemy on the Agra parade-ground. I know nothing about the fellow except what I have read. I believe he is alive still, but they say he was almost cut to pieces then."
"That is the friend whom I thought had been nursed in the Taj," was my astonished answer.
Major Pulford's delight was unbounded to have come by so strange a coincidence even thus near to the hero of his youth. For myself, I recognised that I had sat next to the only man, probably then in India, who could have given me the accurate and precise details of the whole affair!
"I know every inch of the ground, and just where it all happened," he said eagerly. "Do let me drive you and your friend over there to-morrow in my buggy, and I will point out every detail."
He did so next day, leaving me with the most vivid impression of the scene of my friend's gallant fight for life, against such overwhelming odds.
That he should still be alive and active—nearly fifty years later—seems little short of a miracle!
Travelling in Sweden in the spring of 1892, I carried with me from England an introduction to the Swedish Consul at Gottenburg. One of the sisters of this gentleman was married to an Englishman—a Mr Romilly—and he and his wife chanced to come over for a visit during my stay.
Speaking of psychic matters one day, Mr Romilly told me the story of his first cousin (a well-known woman of title) and her Egyptian necklace. A present had been made to her (I think on her marriage) of a very beautiful Egyptian necklace with stones of the exquisite blue shade so well known by travellers in Egypt.
These special stones, alas! must evidently have been genuine, and rifled from some old tomb, for the owner of the necklace appeared one night by the lady's bedside, and warned her that she would have no peace so long as she persisted in wearing his property.
So the lady very wisely locked up the necklace in her dressing-case, and fondly trusted the Egyptian ghost would be satisfied.
Not a bit of it! In a short time he appeared again, and told her that she would be haunted by his unwelcome presence so long as the necklaceremained in her possession. She then drove off with it, and deposited it with her lawyer, who locked it up in a tin case, doubtless with a secret smile at his noble client's superstitions. But Nemesis lay in wait for him, and the last thing Mr Romilly had heard upon the subject was that the lawyer himself was made so exceedingly uncomfortable by the attentions of the Egyptian gentleman that he was obliged to have necklace and tin case buried together in his back garden! To have forced a lawyer into such extreme measures was certainly a "score" for the ghost!
A few months later, I met the heroine of the story at a friend's house at tea, and speaking of her relation, who had married a Swedish wife, and whom I had met in Gottenburg, I alluded discreetly to the story of the blue necklace.
My companion at once endorsed itin toto, and did not seem at all annoyed by the fact that her cousin had mentioned it to me. I remember that Mrs Romilly "laid the cards" for me, with astonishing success, and told me she had learnt the mystic lore from an old Finnish nurse, who had been brought over from Finland by her own Swedish grandfather when quite a young girl, and had lived in the family until her death. She assured me that the Finns were specially gifted in all kinds of gipsy lore.
From Stockholm we paid a visit to Russia, and in St Petersburg I had my first personal experience since leaving home.
We had engaged, as courier during our stay in the city, a German who had lived there for forty years, named Küntze, I think.
We were staying at the Hotel de France, and this man told me one day that a celebrated Frenchmodistehad rooms in our hotel, having come there to show her beautiful Parisian costumes, and to take orders as usual from the Russian Royal Family and Ladies of the Court. He also mentioned the Frenchwoman's recent misfortune in hearing—since her arrival in Russia—that her trusted manager in Paris had disappeared suddenly, carrying away with him 100,000 francs.
Two nights later I had gone to bed as usual about ten-thirtyp.m., and must have slept for nearly four hours, when I awoke feeling the heat very oppressive. It was almost the end of June at the time. Getting out of bed to open my window still farther, I gazed down upon the courtyard which it overlooked, noting the absolute stillness of the house and the hot, oppressive air outside.
Suddenly this stillness was rent by the most horrible and appalling shrieks! Peal after peal rang out. I have never heard anything so ghastly nor so blood-curdling either before or since. For a moment it seemed that onemustbe dreaming. What horrors, to justify such awful shrieks, could be taking place at this quiet hour and in this quiet, respectable hotel?
Nothing less than murder suggested itself to me, and I quickly crossed the room, and turned the key in the lock. My next thought was for my companion—the Miss Greenlow of American days. She was sleeping next door to me, with an intervening door between us.
I hammered loudly upon this, and finally opened it. I knew she always locked her outer door, but feared she might go into the passage, not realising the danger in the moment of waking, and might fall into the murderer's hands. So I called out: "Wake up—wake up, Miss Greenlow!—but don't open your door. Someone is being murdered out there."
I had heard every other door in the passage opening, and the scared inmates rushing to and fro, so there was no question of feeling bound to give the alarm.
Miss Greenlow, being an extremely lymphatic person, was still sleeping the sleep of the just. I gave her a good shake at last, finding knocks and calls of no avail; but she only turned over sleepily, murmuring: "Oh, it's all right! I don't suppose there is anything much the matter—do go to bed again!"
So I returned to my own room, and as the horrible screams had now ceased, I opened my door very gently, and looked down the dimly lighted passage. My room was a corner one, exactly at the head of the wide staircase; to the left-hand side, for anyone mounting the stairs. Exactly opposite my door, with a wide passage between, was the room which had been pointed out to me as belonging to the famous Frenchmodiste.
Miss Greenlow was evidently the only person in the hotel who had slept through the horrors of that night, for small groups were gathered together at various points along the corridor, and at every door some scared man or woman was looking out, anxious, like myself, to solve the dreadful mystery.
At that moment my eyes lighted on my special German waiter talking in a hushed whisper to a musjig—in the usual red coat. So I beckoned to him, and very reluctantly he came to my door.
Being asked in German what was the meaning of the shrieks we had heard, he said at once that a lady had been taken ill suddenly.
The man was a bad liar, and a child would have seen that he was repeating a made-up story. But nothing more could be got out of him, so I dismissed him impatiently, saying: "What is the good of telling me such nonsense? I shall find out for myself to-morrow."
Once more I shut and locked the door, and lay for an hour or two thinking over the ghastly disturbance, and wondering who could have been the hapless victim. It was now about fivea.m., and full dawn. As so often happens, even after the most sleepless night, I dozed off then, and slept for more than an hour, and during my sleep I dreamed—and this was my dream. It must first be noted that the wide staircase I have described as passing close to my room was thence continued upward to the next floor. In my dream or vision I saw distinctly a woman in a white nightgown, with dark hair streaming down her back, rushing up this second flight of stairs in the most distraught and reckless fashion. In one hand she held a knife, and was trying to stab herself with it, as a musjig—in crimson coat—rushed after her, and endeavoured to wrench it out of her hand. Two or three other people ran up the stairs behind her, but only this peasant seemed to have the courage or presence of mind to grapple with her. In a few moments, as it seemed to me, the vision, so startling and clear cut, faded away, and I sank into a dreamless sleep, I suppose, for it was past sixa.m.when I woke finally.
When the German waiter appeared with my breakfast I said rather curtly to him: "You need not have troubled to make up that foolish story last night; I know what happened—I have seen it."
He looked very incredulous, so I went on: "The lady was trying to kill herself, and rushed up to the next floor with a knife in her hand. I saw the musjig run after her and force it from her."
The man was absolutely speechless. He said not one syllable, either of corroboration or denial, but left the room as quickly as possible, looking scared, and certainly left the impression upon my mind that my vision represented what had actually taken place an hour or two previously.
To my great surprise, however, our respectable and dependable courier, Küntze, gave quite a different version of the affair.
He came as usual to my room to take his orders for the day—Miss Greenlow being present—and at once referred to the terrible tragedy.
"Ah, poor lady! you remember my telling you about her the other day, and how her manager had run away with all that money? Nowthisfrightful misfortune has happened to her, and no one knows if she will survive it. She is still alive, however, and is to be taken to the hospital at onep.m."
"But what has happened, Küntze?" I said impatiently, rather irritated, if the truth must be told, by his mysterious allusions and Miss Greenlow's assumption of profound indifference. Of course, no self-respecting person, having calmly slept through such a tragedy, could be otherwise than indifferent next morning! Küntze's story was far more artistic than that of the waiter, and was skilfully interwoven with shreds of truth, as I discovered later.
He said that "the poor lady" was in the habit of making herself a cup of tea in the middle of the night when wakeful; also that she wore wide, hanging muslin sleeves with her night attire. She had risen as usual from a sleepless bed to make tea with her little Etna. Unfortunately, she had set fire to a sleeve, which at once burned up, and in a few moments she was enveloped in flames, owing to the flimsy material she wore. Then the shrieks began which had so thrilled our nerves. A Russian gentleman, sleeping near her, was awakened by the noise, and knowing that she was a rich woman, and had brought many valuables with her, he concluded she was being murdered; so he rushed to the rescue with a revolver, found the burning woman, and he and the musjig at length succeeded in putting out the flames.
The story was well told, and perfectly credible. Miss Greenlow could not resist pointing out how entirely it annihilated my vision. No suicide!—no knife!—no rush up the staircase!—nothing, in fact, that might not have been, and, of course,must have beena mere freak of imagination during my troubled sleep. In the face of Küntze's quiet and detailed statement I could only agree with her, and so the matter rested for some months. The poor woman meanwhile remained in the hospital, and her son and daughter were telegraphed for from Paris. We found them at the hotel on our return there, three weeks later, from Moscow. There was then some slight hope of ultimate recovery, but within six or seven weeks from the "accident" the unfortunate woman died from shock and exhaustion.
From Russia we returned to Stockholm and Christiania, where Miss Greenlow took the steamer for Hull, and I went up into the Dovre Feld Mountains to join a Swedish friend, already mentioned in my chapter on India.
I told her my story of the poor Frenchmodisteand her sad and painful accident, also about my curiously vivid and yet inaccurate vision, and we discussed the latter in quite an S.P.R. spirit! We were then in a very remote part of the Dovre Feld, where foreign papers were practically inaccessible.
I had left my friend in Norway, and returned to England a week or two before receiving a very interesting letter from her.
In it she said: "I have just got hold of some French papers, and I see that poor woman you told me about, has just died in Petersburg, and the real story has now come out.
"It seems that itwassuicide after all, so your vision was quite true!
"She had received large sums in advance for commissions from some of the Russian nobility, and had either spent or speculated with them. That was why she had to invent the story of an embezzling manager, to cover her own shortcomings. But the truth was leaking out in spite of her endeavours, and she made up her mind to commit suicide rather than face the horrors of a Russian prison. The paper goes on to say that she chose a most terrible death, little realising what the torture would be. It seems that she waited till the middle of the night you described, and then covered her whole body with oil, and set fire to it! This accounts, of course, for the horrible shrieks you heard. In her awful agony she seized a knife—that she had either secreted or found in her room—rushed out into the passage in a blaze, and when the musjig tried to stop her, she ran from him, and attempted to stab herself as she made her way up the stairs. All this you seem to have seen accurately; also the fact that the musjig pursued her and succeeded in wrenching the knife from her hands before she had injured herself with it. The paper mentions that a Russian gentleman had gone to the rescue when he heard the shrieks, but this was before she had got hold of the knife, and it was the musjig alone who saved her, in the end, from immediate death."
During this Russian visit we had gone down to Moscow from Petersburg, and here again a curious adventure befell me.
It was, as I have said, in the height of the summer, and one was thankful to have a large, handsome room, with three windows looking over the square, and the famous Kremlin Palace in the distance. My room was divided into two unequal parts, separated from each other by a door which was, during the hot season, thrown wide open andfastened back securely. Between this door and the one opening into the outer corridor the washing apparatus stood, and also a wardrobe of white painted deal, with a very poor lock to it, as I discovered later.
On retiring to rest the first night, I locked the outer door, undressed in this ante-room, and finally hung up my gown in the wardrobe I have mentioned. Then, after looking out of the windows on the fast diminishing crowd below in the square, I went to bed, feeling quite cheerful, and looking forward to a long night's rest after a journey which had been hot and tiring.
As so often happens, one was probably over-tired, and sleep was not to be wooed by any of the usual methods. In vain I counted sheep getting over a hedge, added a hundred up backward and forward, tried deep breathing, and other little "parlour games." It was absolutely useless. Twelve o'clock struck, then the half hour, and I gathered from the stillness below that the good Moscow citizens had retired to their respective homes. This seemed an added insult! Then one o'clock struck, and after that I lay for a seeming eternity, before two strokes from the clock outside indicated the half hour. Scarcely had the reverberation ceased when I heard cautious sounds in the corridor, which gave me a good fright, and made me regret the silence I had found so irksome. The outer door of my room was quietly being opened, creaking on its hinges in the most ordinary and commonplace way, but evidently opening under a very wary hand. "Then I could not have locked it after all!" And yet I felt so convinced that I had done so! Certainly I hadintendedto do so on my first night in a strange hotel! The best I could hope was that some other new arrival had mistaken his room, and was returning late, and consequently trying to be as quiet as possible. This flashed through my mind, and brought a moment's comfort. I expected to see a man's head round the open door at the foot of my bed, and to hear a hurried apology and still more hurried retreat. I say aman'shead, for the footsteps, though so quiet and cautious, were without doubt a man's footsteps. But several moments passed in horrible suspense. The outer door had creaked on its hinges and opened without a shadow of doubt.Where was the man?
The door had not closed again, so far as I could hear. From my bed I could not command a view of the smaller portion of the room, where, presumably, he must be hidden. There was nothing but the wash-hand stand and the wardrobe there. What could he be doing orwaiting for? My comforting supposition of a mistake in the number of his room, made by an innocent guest, could not be stretched wide enough to account for the long pause. Perhaps it was some robber lurking about the passages! He had tried my door gently, and found it open. I had heard the door creak on its hinges in spite of all his care. Now he was doubtless waiting to make sure that this noise had not awakened me before beginning his operations!
This was the only reasonable supposition, and I lay in absolute terror for some minutes, fearing to stir or almost to breathe at such close quarters, and quite incapable of rising and putting an end to my terrible suspense. I longed to hear the next "quarter" strike, but nothing relieved the dead silence in my room and in the streets outside. At long last thequarter to twostruck, and something in the friendly tones of the massive clock relieved the tension and gave me courage—the courage of desperation—to strike a match and light my candle before starting on a tour of discovery. The middle door was fastened back, as I had found it when taking possession of the room. In any case, that was not the door which had been opened—the sound came from theouterdoor. Imustfind out if anyone were hiding in the little dressing-room; and in any case, I must lock the outer door, which I had felt so certain I had locked on coming up to my room. I passed through the openinner doorwith fear and trembling. To my relief, the small apartment was apparently empty. The wardrobe stood partly open, but nothing more terrible than my own gown was inside it. Then I made my way to the outer door, which gave on to the corridor, determined to make sure of locking it firmlythistime. After all, it must have been a wandering guest, who had discovered his mistake at once, and retreated noiselessly!
I have seldom been more absolutely dumfounded than when I turned the handle of that door, preparatory to locking it, and foundthat it was securely locked already, just as I had supposed! How could the hinges have creaked then, and whose cautious footsteps had I heard?
Once more my eyes fell upon the wardrobe, with its cheap varnish and lock. I had certainly not lockedthisovernight. Could it have creaked itself farther open? It did not for the moment strike me that the noise came from another quarter, and that the footsteps were still to be explained. I was only too thankful to find the barest apology of an explanation. So I locked the wardrobe as carefully as possible, noticing that the lock was not one of the first quality, and once more retired to bed, and put out my candle, greatly relieved.
Scarcely ten minutes had passed (as I afterwards ascertained) when the whole scene was enacted once more! The same cautious tread, the same sound of theouter doorcreaking slowly on its hinges—there was nothing in the least uncanny about itper se. It was just the normal noise that any late comer would make who was thoughtful enough not to disturb a sleeping house.
But my impatience got the better of my fears this time. I was not going to be decoyed out of bed a second time on a wild-goose chase. "It must have been that wardrobe door after all! As to the footsteps, I don't know and I don't care! The cheap lock must have given way, and I shall find the wardrobe door has swung open, I am sure."
With this comforting assurance I turned round, and in a few minutes fell into a deep sleep, after the varied excitements of the night.
Next morning I stepped gaily into the smaller division of the room to begin my toilet, and triumphantly turned round to convince myself of the truth of my theory about the wardrobe door. To my infinite astonishment and perplexitythe wardrobe was securely locked, just as I had left it in the middle of the night.
I have never had any explanation of this mystery; but I changed my fine big room for a much less desirable one that morning, and made some excuse about wishing for a quieter room at the back of the house.
The next evening, sitting in my new abode with my travelling companion, she showed far more interest in my adventure than in the Petersburg tragedy and subsequent vision of mine.
So much so that I invited her to take a pencil and see if she could get any sort of explanation of the mystery; for although not at allintuitive, she knew something of what is called automatic writing.
I give her narrative, not as being in the slightest degree evidential, but for its intrinsic interest, and because I am personally convinced that she had not sufficient imagination to have made it up on the spur of the moment.
Miss Greenlow's "message" was to the following effect:—
About fifty years previously, a Russian gentleman (an officer, Ithink, but am not certain of this) and his mistress had occupied this large front room. The man had spent all day at a rifle competition, combined with some sort of merry-making, and had returned home very late—at one-thirtya.m., in fact—very much the worse for drink. He had opened the door very carefully, trusting he should find the lady asleep; but, unfortunately, she was not only wide awake, but extremely annoyed by his late return and the state in which he had come back to her. A desperate quarrel had ensued, and getting frightened by his violence, she seized his rifle, giving him a blow on the head with the butt end of it, hoping to stun him, but with no idea of murder in her mind. Whether she gave a more severe blow, in her nervousness, than she had intended, or whether the rifle fell on some specially vital spot, was not explained in the writing. Anyway, the blow proved fatal—to her extreme regret and remorse.
Under these circumstances one would have supposed that it would be more reasonable for the lady to haunt the room, and not the gentleman; but I "tell the tale as 'twas told to us."
It is, however, remarkable that in most of these stories it is the victim who appears—determined to enact the scene of his or her death—and not the murderer.
I think we were also told, by-the-by, that I had slept in the room on the anniversary of the occurrence.
It was obviously impossible to get any corroboration of such a story. Two small points in it, however, were proved to be true.
The Moscow hotels, as a rule, were comparatively modern at the time of our visit, and therefore the "fifty years ago" seemed highly improbable. We learned, however, through a few discreet questions later, that this particular hotelhadbeen in existence so far back as fifty years, and also that rifle competitions had taken place on certain occasions in those far-off days.
For the rest I claim nothing. I have truthfully recounted my experience without a word of exaggeration, and have never been able to account for it normally.
The explanation given to us is, of course, just worth the paper it was written upon from anyevidentialpoint of view.
Taking my experiences chronologically, I must now carry my readers back to England, where the autumn of this year found me in London.
I had been asked to recommend a house for paying guests, well situated, in the West End of London, and newly started by a lady who had been left a widow with very slender provision. Several kind women had interested themselves in the case, and had wisely suggested thinking out a means of livelihood in the future rather than merely supplying present wants.
It would be difficult to imagine a personlesssuited for the sort of employment chosen; but that is "another story."
I never care to recommend anything or anybody of which or of whom I have no personal knowledge; at the same time, I was anxious to help my kindly acquaintance in her philanthropy, and as I had arranged to spend some weeks in London that autumn—to be near an invalid brother—it struck me that I might stay at the house so strongly recommended, instead of taking private rooms as usual.
So I journeyed to Sussex Gardens, found a charming house, newly furnished and decorated, and as clean as the proverbial "new pin," and, moreover, a very good-looking mistress of the house, still a youngish woman of five or six and thirty.
She spoke most warmly of the kindness she had received from the lady who had given me her address, showed me some pleasant rooms, and the arrangement was quickly completed.
I chose a small sitting-room in addition to my bedroom, although, as a matter of fact, this was scarcely necessary, as I was the first guest received. Only one deaf old lady appeared upon the scene during the six weeks I spent there.
I had not been forty-eight hours in the house before I discovered that my hostess was a convinced and very remarkable psychic. Naturally she was delighted to find someone to whom she could speak of her various experiences without being laughed at or put down as a lunatic. At the same time I am bound to confess that Mrs Peters, although extremely interesting, was also rather agitating, and certainly much too erratic to make an entirely satisfactoryChatelaine. She was given to reading "Aurora Leigh," instead of ordering dinner, and had to be sent for occasionally to sit at the head of the table, with a volume ofBrowningorTennysonfirmly clutched in her reluctant hand. Even when duly "found and delivered," curious things happened during the meals—especially at dinner in the evening, when she often put down knife and fork and directed my attention to the far end of the handsome dining-room, where she was wont to see the ghost of her late husband.
"Look, dear Miss Bates! Surely youmustsee him—dear Henry, I mean. There he stands, beard and all, just between the sofa and the wall. I can see him as clearly as I see you!"
I am bound to say I neverdidsee "dear Henry"; but the fine tabby cat certainly saw something in that corner, for it would rush most frantically to the sofa, jump on to one end, and sit staring at Henry (presumably), with its tail stuck out and its fur rising up, glaring into the corner with a look of combined fear and fascination.
My little sitting-room was invaded at all hours by my too interesting landlady, who would suddenly remember some thrilling experience, which she wished to share with me. At length I took to my bed for three days, not in the least ill, but simply for a much-needed rest in the midst of all these excitements.
A day or two after emerging from this haven of peace, I received a visit from a young lady, whose parents were well known to me in Yorkshire, and who had recently become engaged to a very rich man, many years her senior; in fact, considerably older than her own father, who had lately passed away. The daughters of this family were all devoted to their father, and most of the visit was occupied in giving me details of his last illness, and in my sympathising with her upon his loss. It was, in fact, far more a visit of condolence than of congratulation upon her future prospects of happiness. As to the latter, I found it difficult to be quite truthful and yet conventionally ecstatic.
To marry a man nearly old enough to be your grandfather struck me as risky, to say the least of it, even with all the emollients which riches and position undoubtedly add to domestic life.
The young woman in question did not at all resent my frankness on the subject, but assured me that her greatest consolation in thinking of her late father was the fact that she was about to make a marriage which he had always wished, and of which he had emphatically given his approval on his death-bed. "I told him I had decided upon it, just before he died, and he was so relieved and happy about it," she said simply as she turned to leave the room. Having mentioned that a younger sister was also in town, I sent a message to the latter, asking her to take early dinner with me on the following Sunday, which happened to be my only spare day just then.
On the evening of this visit from the coming bride, I had accepted an invitation to a large musical party in the house of the lady who had begged me to interest myself in Mrs Peters. It was within a stone's-throw of Sussex Gardens, and I came down to dinner at seven-thirtyp.m., intending to dress later, and go round there about ninep.m.
For an hour or so before dinner I had been conscious of a growing despondency, to which I could attribute no cause, and this increased so much during the meal that Mrs Peters noticed it at last, and asked me if I were feeling unwell.
"No—not unwell—but I am absolutely miserable, and cannot imagine why."
"Then you have not had bad news?" was the next remark. "I feared you must have had, seeing you so silent and not able to eat anything."
In answer to this I said that I had not even the excuse of hearing of other people's misfortunes, for a young lady had been calling upon me that afternoon, who was about to make what the world calls a very successful marriage. I did not, however, mention her name, as Mrs Peters knew none of my friends.
Dinner over, I felt still so unaccountably wretched that I determined to give up the evening party, and write my excuses. Mrs Peters did her best to combat this decision, fearing that her kind benefactress might be disappointed, and also urging that the evening's enjoyment would cheer me up. But finding me inexorable, she then said: "Well, if you have quite determined not to go, shall I come into your sitting-room and see if we can get any explanation of your curious feeling of depression?"
I closed with this suggestion, knowing Mrs Peters to be a really remarkable sensitive.
So we sat in the dark for a few minutes; and then I heard a softfrou-frouon Mrs Peters' silk gown, and knew she was tracing out words with her hand in a fashion of her own.
"It is a spirit that young lady brought with her," she announced at length. "The spirit has remained here withyou, and is worried about this marriage you spoke of. She wants you to try and break it off. She seems to have been nearly related to the lady, or perhaps a godmother; anyway, she takes great interest in her."
"Will she give a name?" I asked.
"Elizais all I get," Mrs Peters replied.
It then occurred to me that my young friend's namewasEliza, and that she had been so named after a great-aunt, to the best of my recollection; but as she was invariably called Elsa, by friends and relations alike, it was only by chance that I remembered hearing her teased about her far less romantic baptismal name.
I asked if no surname could be given, thinking at the moment that it would be Waverly—the family name; but my thought was evidently not transferred to Mrs Peters, who said she could not get the name accurately, but that it was certainlynotWaverly. I found later that the Great-Aunt Eliza had a name entirely different from that of her descendants.
Nothing further happened on this occasion, except that I sent a message to "Great-Aunt Eliza" to say that nothing would induce me to take the responsibility of trying to break off any marriage, either by the advice of people in this sphere or in any other sphere. In this case I should have had neither the authority nor the influence to make any such unwise attempt.
Sunday came round in due course, and brought the bride's younger sister, then a girl of twenty-four or twenty-five. We discussed the usual midday Sunday dinner of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, Mrs Peters sitting at the head of the table, I on her right hand, and Carrie Waverly next to me.
Suddenly realising that my remarks to the latter were receiving very scant attention, I looked up, and found the girl's black eyes fixed in a basilisk stare upon our unfortunate hostess, whose own eyes were cast down, but who appeared uneasy and troubled by the determined gaze of my guest. At length the poor woman threw down her knife and fork, rose hastily from the dining-table, and made her way eagerly to the sofa at the other end of the room, where she lay down at full length, murmuring: "I can't stand it any longer!"
Carrie Waverly was at length induced to come away to my sitting-room and leave the poor woman in peace, which she did, asserting her complete innocence, and assuring me she "only wanted to see if she could make Mrs Peters look up at her!"
I explained to her that "sensitives" may be as much upset by this sort of thing as another person would be by a blow on the back. She looked incredulous, and then said cheerfully: "Well, if it is as bad as that, don't you think you ought to go and see how she is?"
"Two for yourself and your own curiosity and one for her!" I thought; but I took the hint, and found Mrs Peters still prostrate on the sofa, but full of apologies for her sudden collapse:
"You must have thought me so very rude," etc., etc.
I reassured her on this point, and expressed regret that my visitor should have upset her so much by looking so fixedly at her.
"It was not her fault," said Mrs Peters eagerly. "It was the man standing over her.He had his hands upon her shoulders, and was trying so hard to influence her, and she was resisting it all the time, and the whole conflict of their wills was thrown uponme, and I could not stand it at last—that was why I left the table," she gasped out.
"Could you describe the man at all?"
"Quite clearly," she said. "I shall never forget his face—I saw him so distinctly." She then proceeded to describe in detail the very clear-cut features and bushy eyebrows of Carrie Waverly's father, giving also his colouring, which was very distinctive. I suggested trying to find out what he wanted to say to his daughter, but this distressed Mrs Peters so much that I was sorry to have made the suggestion.
"No! no! dear Miss Bates!—don't ask me to do that—dear Henry never likes my taking messages from strangers—I have promised him that I would never do it without his permission. It upsets me so much, and I feel so weak already."
So I came away, promising to look in later and see if I could do anything for her.
Carrie was naturally greatly interested by the accurate description given of her father, and was very impatient for me to pay Mrs Peters a second visit.
I went in presently, and found the latter standing up, and in a state of great excitement. She had, in fact, been on the point of coming to us when I entered.
"Dear Henry told me to take that message after all," were the words with which she greeted me. "There was some misunderstanding between the father and this daughter, and he wants her to know that it is all right now." (This seemed to me most improbable, as the devoted daughters and father were always on terms of the greatest harmony and mutual understanding.Yet it proved to be quite true.)
Mrs Peters continued: "He is very much upset about this marriage. He tells me he was so anxious for it when on this side, but now he sees all the difficulties and possible dangers. But he says it is too late to reconsider the step now; only he is so very anxious to secure the interests of his daughter before she marries. He wishes to know whether her settlement is signed.It is not one of which he would have approved.And he says there are two houses, and one ought to be settled upon her—youmustask about it, dear Miss Bates. He is most decided and so dreadfully upset about it all, because he says it was he who urged the marriage upon her."
I spent the following fifteen or twenty minutes as a sort of messenger-boy between Mrs Peters in the dining-room and Carrie Waverly in my sitting-room. Needless to say,Iknew nothing at all about the settlements or how many houses the prospective bridegroom might possess, and having no sort of curiosity about the financial affairs of my neighbours, it was not at all pleasant to be employed in this way.
Mrs Peters, on the contrary, seemed to know everything connected with the estate and the marriage settlement,except the fact that the latter had not yet been signed, although reluctantly "passed" by both the lady's trustees. Wherefore this special limitation in the father's knowledge it is impossible to say. He certainly showed no limitation in his knowledge of the bridegroom's character and disposition, and gave the most elaborate and detailed instructions as to how his daughter should behave towards her husband, and where she might, with advantage, cultivate tact and patience.
My advice to Miss Waverly was to say nothing on the subject to her sister, but she wisely, as it turned out, determined to take the responsibility of telling hereverything. She telegraphed to me next day, asking if she might come and see Mrs Peters and bring the bride with her.
This was done, and they arrived, with several photographs, large and small, of the father, and also of the bridegroom, for identification. Carrie, in fact, tried—a little unfairly perhaps—to make Mrs Peters identify the wrong person by forcing into notice a large photograph of thebridegroom(some years senior to the father), and saying carelessly: "There, Mrs Peters—that is the face you saw yesterday of my father, is it not?" But Mrs Peters would have none of it. She looked staggered for a moment, then caught sight of the second picture, and turned to it with relief: "Thisis the face I saw, whether it is your father or not," she answered, with decision.
The bride begged for a private interview with Mrs Peters, which lasted for a considerable time. Of course, I knew nothing of this interview, nor should I feel at liberty to speak of it if I did know. I may, however, be permitted to say that I have the bride's own assurance that the accurate knowledge then given her of her future husband's characteristics physical and mental, and the best way of dealing with them, "made all the difference in her married life."
During that interview Mrs Peters also told her the number of years she would be married; and the prophecy was accurately fulfilled, which is the more remarkable, because, as a rule, it seems impossible to predicate time, even when events can be foreseen.
I am happy to add that the marriage turned out a complete success, and that a marriage settlement was made more in accordance with the father's wishes, although neither trustees nor principal in the transaction, had any idea that the actual arrangements were in any way due to the strongly expressed wishes of a discarnate spirit.
If this book should ever fall into their hands, and they should trace the story in spite of the thick veil I have thrown over all the circumstances, I can only trust that, in gratitude for the results, they may become reconciled with the channel through which these were made possible.
People may say: "What a terrible idea that a father or a husband should trouble himself about such sordid details as money, houses, etc."
But this is an extremely foolish remark, although it may appear very spiritual on the surface. It is surely the most natural thing in the world that a near relation—if permitted—should endeavour to secure comfort and happiness for a dearly loved wife or daughter; especially when, as in the above case, he felt mainly responsible for a state of affairs which might have turned out so disastrously, save for his loving care and foresight, exercised as these were from the other side of the veil.
At anyrate it disposes once for all of the weary old "Cui Bono" argument, which is so futile, and yet so constantly and triumphantly quoted by stupid people, who seem to took upon it as a patent extinguisher for any psychic gifts or experiences.
It is mainly in order to meet this senseless observation that I have included this story in my reminiscences.
Most of us are debarred from answering the "Cui Bono" bray, by the fact that our most helpful experiences are generally of a too intimate and often sacred nature to be given to a scoffing world.
But this instance has the advantage of dealing entirely with material matters, and thus being on a level with the ordinary intelligence.
Nobody can say in this caseno good was done. It only remains to be deeply shocked by the undignified, "nay, almost blasphemous," intervention in mundane affairs of a spirit "who should certainly have had some more worthy occupation."
It is another case of the old man and the donkey. If discarnate spiritsdon'ttrouble about the personal affairs of those on earth, the "Cui Bono" argument is hurled at them. If theydo, they are called blasphemous and irreverent!
The mention of the Waverly family reminds me of an incident which took place when I was staying in their house in the country, a year or two earlier than the time of which I am writing. I have reserved it purposely as a sequel to this last story, which is in its proper chronological setting.
In the year 1889 I was spending a pleasant fortnight with the Waverlys in Yorkshire, at the very time when a dear old friend of mine (Mrs Tennant) was dying in London. I had seen her only a week or two before, but had no knowledge of her illness, as we were not in constant correspondence, although there was a deep and strong affection between us.
I did not even hear of her death, in fact, till a few weeks after it took place, having missed the announcement in the papers. When Mrs Tennant's sister, Mrs Lane, wrote me the details, I had left Yorkshire, and was staying with cousins in Worcestershire. Thinking over the dates mentioned in describing the illness, I realised with a shock of pained surprise that the final state of unconsciousness must have set in the very evening when I was enjoying myself in Yorkshire, at a large dinner-party given by my host and hostess.
It seemed terrible to think that my dear and much loved friend should have been lying unconscious upon her death-bed, and that no word or sign should have come to me.
Then suddenly I remembered a curious little incident connected with that dinner-party.
I had been admiring a pretty little slate-coloured kitten belonging to the house, which was calmly sitting upon the grand piano after dinner, when the ladies were alone in the drawing-room. After the gentlemen joined us, I was deep in conversation with my host (a remarkably interesting and intelligent man), when I noticed a smallblackkitten run past my dress. Probably I should have remarked upon it had we been less occupied in talking, for I am extremely fond of cats and animals in general. I did glance up, as a matter of fact, and satisfied myself that it was not the little slate-coloured kitty, which sat in still triumph on the piano. Besides, this kitten wasblack, not slate. I thought no more of it until the guests had left and Mrs Waverly and I were going upstairs to bed. She and I were very affinitive, but neither she nor her family had any special interest in psychology.
On this occasion, however, she said rather mysteriously: "I think something will happen to-night to you." A good many jokes had been made about the probably uncanny atmosphere of my room, and the various spooks who were doubtless sharing it with me, so I laughed, thinking this was only the usual family joke. But Mrs Waverly was quite in earnest. At first she would give no reason for her remark, "fearing I should tell her daughters," and that she would be laughed at in consequence.
Reassured on this point, she said to me quite seriously:
"Whilst you were talking to my husband this evening I saw a black kitten run straight across your dress—just opposite to me."
"Well, of course, I saw the kitten!" I answered, to her surprise; "but there is nothing very remarkable about a black kitten in the house."
"But we have no black kittenin the house, or anywhere on the premises. Where did it go to? You never saw it again? No; it was not an ordinary kitten, and I did not suppose till this moment that anyone had seen it but myself."
It was a fact that no one but Mrs Waverly and I had seen any kitten but the slate-coloured one already mentioned.
Thinking over this in the light of the sad news of my dear old friend's death, and noting the correspondence in time between her loss of consciousness and the appearance of the mysterious black kitten—seen only by Mrs Waverly and myself—it was impossible not to ask in the depths of my heart whether, perchance, the spirit of my faithful friend had been trying to send me some symbol of her approaching death.
It may be objected that black cats are generally connected with good luck. Well, I think my dear "London mother," as she called herself sometimes, would have explained this apparent contradiction very simply. She had lived through much sorrow, and was often oppressed by sore doubts of the Cosmic Love. I never knew any woman with such strong and passionate human sympathy, and to such fine spirits, the world, under present conditions, must always offer terrible problems. Her sympathies were sometimes too keen for that robust faith which canalwayssay: "God's in His heaven! All's right with the world!" Yet her last words were: "I am so tired, and God will understand; and I am so glad to go."
To finish my chapter on a merrier note, I will mention an amusing episode connected with the evening of the black kitten's appearance.