FROM OXFORD TO WIMBLEDON
From Paris to England is not a long cry, and my next reminiscence is connected with the University of Oxford.
I was spending a few days there with a friend in the spring of 1896, and went with her one afternoon to an Oxford tea-party, with its usual sprinkling of women, married and unmarried; a few dons captured as a question of friendship, and more than a few undergraduates.
Amongst the latter I chanced to hear the name of a very well-known bishop, whom I had first met and known rather intimately when I was a young girl, and he a young married curate. I had also known his wife (a few years my senior) very intimately in those far-off days, so my curiosity was aroused to know if the young man in this Oxford drawing-room should chance to be a son of this bishop, whom we will call the Bishop of Granchester. I found that my surmise was correct; the young man was introduced to me, and we were soon deep in an interesting conversation about his parents, especially his mother, who had died when he was barely three years old. He knew little or nothing about her. His father had married again, and his paternal grandmother (still alive in 1896) had never cared for his mother—from feelings of jealousy probably—so there was no one to speak to the boy about her, and he was naturally delighted to hear all my girlish recollections of her.
"Do come and have tea with me to-morrow afternoon, or any day that suits you," he said eagerly. "I have one or two old photographs taken of my mother when she was young, and I should like so much to know which of them you consider the best."
Of course, I agreed to go, Mr Blake-Mason promising to ask a "chum" to entertain my hostess whilst he and I discussed the photographs and the old days before he was born.
Returning home from his rooms that February evening, I was conscious once more of an unaccountable depression, and also a certain amount of nervous irritability, which other sensitives will understand, and which often precedes some psychic happening. Just after we had finished dinner, it struck me suddenly, and for the first time, that my discomfort might be connected with my afternoon visit. This young man's mother might be wishing to impress me in some way! I found that this was the fact, but felt unequal to going further into the matter that night.
I promised to listen to anything she might wish to say next morning, and having given this promise, all unpleasant and disturbing influences disappeared, and I had a good night's rest. Next morning, after breakfast, my hostess said very practically:
"Now do get this matter off your mind at once, or you will be worried about it all day. I am going to order dinner, and shall then be in the drawing-room, so you can have this room entirely to yourself."
I sat down, and a very beautiful message was given to me by the friend of my girlhood.
She was evidently very much perturbed and very anxious about something connected with her youngest son, whom I had met for the first time two days previously, and about whose affairs, I need scarcely say, I was in a state of profound ignorance. The little mother was anxious not to "give him away," nor betray confidences, and so her words were very guarded. There was evidently nothing in the least dishonourable or in any way unworthy of her son in question. I gathered, rather, that he might be contemplating some step which she, from her wider outlook, considered undesirable and inexpedient; possibly even disastrous in the future.
It was no business of mine, and I make it a point of honour not to "try to guess" more than I am told, and to forget what I am told as soon as possible, where the affairs of other people are involved.
This is, fortunately, easy for me as a rule, but in this case one sentence remains even now ringing in my ears, and if the son ever comes across this record I hope he will forgive my reproducing his mother's last beautiful words to me:
"Tell my darling boy that life is so solemn and true love so sacred a thing. Tell him to be very, very sure, lest he lose the substance in pursuing the shadow."
The first sentence is given verbatim. In the second my memory may be producing the sense without the exact wording, but I have no doubt at all that my words practically convey what the mother wished me to "tell her boy."
This message gave me a hard problem to solve: "What should I do with it?"
On the one hand, my having agreed to take the message, tacitly bound me to let him have it.
On the other hand, there were various questions to consider. In the first place, Mr Blake-Mason might probably, and very naturally, resent my writing to him on the subject, especially as I had no reason to suppose he had any knowledge of psychic matters.
Secondly, he might suppose (quite untruly) that I had heard some private affairs of his discussed, and had taken upon myself to convey a personal warning, under cover of his dead mother's wishes.
This was perhaps exaggerating a possibility, which, nevertheless, could not be ignored.
Thirdly, he might consider me a harmless lunatic, conveying a message which had no slightest foundation in truth.
Fourthly, it might, on the other hand, give him the impression that his mother must have some access to his most private affairs; in which case he might become intensely interested in psychic matters, to the exclusion of more mundane affairs—always a danger with young people—not to mention other possibilities of psychic disaster for inexperienced investigators.
I went over all these chances con, to put against the one pro of his mother's loving anxiety, and my sense of responsibility to her.
Finally, I decided that there was no choice left for me but to send the message, and trust the consequences to a Higher Wisdom.
I did this, adding a few words of explanation, and also of warning, in case he should recognise my absolute bonâ fides and his mother's personality, and become too much absorbed by these psychic possibilities. Unfortunately, I added, in his own interests, that it was not necessary to acknowledge the letter.
"It would doubtless reach him, and I had nothing more to do with the matter."
I left Oxford next day, and have never seen the young man since; nor have I ever heard from him. I concluded that he was annoyed, or that the message was quite wide of the mark. I never doubted his mother's presence with me, but I might have failed to reproduce her words to her son with sufficient accuracy for recognition.
Anyway, I put the matter out of my head as one of those trying episodes to which all sensitives are exposed at times, when they think more of conscience than personal convenience.
Three or four years passed before the corroboration of that message came to me, in a rather curious manner.
A cousin of mine, having been badly wounded in the West African War, was sent to a London hospital to have the bullet, which had puzzled all the local surgeons, located and extracted.
He was at the hospital for several weeks during the London season of 1899, I think. During these weeks I, in common with many other friends and relations, was in the habit of paying him occasional visits. I had gone to say good-bye to him on leaving town, when "by chance" (as we call it) he mentioned, for the first time, the name of his ward sister, adding how charming and kind and capable she had proved. "By the way, she is a daughter of the Bishop of Granchester," he added. "You know everybody, Cousin Emmie! perhaps you know her," he said, smiling.
"No; I don't know her, Bertie! but I knew her mother and father very well many years ago."
Nothing would satisfy him but that I should ask to see her when I left the hospital, and as he seemed really anxious on the point I promised to do so, though inwardly averse from disturbing a busy woman.
I asked the hall porter for her, but said I had no special business, and would not ask to see her unless she happened to be quite free. In a few moments he returned, and showed me into a pretty sitting-room on the ground floor, saying that the sister would be with me shortly. The door opened again to admit a bright, pleasant-looking young woman of seven or eight and twenty, who gave me a most cordial greeting when she heard my name, saying: "Oh yes, Frank told me all about meeting you at Oxford."
I did not feel very keen about talking of "Frank" just then; but we sat down, and had a long half hour's chat on much the same lines as my conversation with her brother three years before.
I had said good-bye, and she had accompanied me across the hall to the fine stone steps leading from the hospital—she had, in fact, turned towards her own apartments—when I felt I must ask her one more question, so I also turned, and hurried back to her.
"Did your brother Frank ever tell you of a letter he received from me in Oxford?" I asked.
"Oh yes," she answered, without a touch of embarrassment.
Then I continued: "I never heard from him about it. I told him he need not write at the time, but I have been afraid he was hurt or annoyed, and thought it an impertinence on my part perhaps."
"Did Frank never write?" she asked, with genuine astonishment. "I know he intended to do so. Certainly he was not annoyed in any way. Far from it. He was intensely interested, and I have the best of reasons for knowing that that message from our mother made a very great difference in his life."
I thanked her for these words, without asking anything further. As I have said, it was no affair of mine, from first to last; but the verification, after such a lapse of time, was doubly satisfactory to me.
Again I ask: How about the "Cui Bono" argument?
Another shake of the kaleidoscope, and I find myself at Wimbledon, staying with a friend—now, alas! passed away—who had then a pretty house not far from the Common, and with whom I often spent a few days when in London.
On this occasion she had asked some friends to meet me at tea, amongst them Mrs Alfred Wedgwood, to whom I had introduced her some years previously, and my friends "V. C. Desertis" and his wife.
A Miss Farquhar, whom I knew very slightly, was sharing a sofa with me, she sitting at one end and I at the other, leaving a vacant space between us. Mrs Wedgwood was talking to Mr Desertis at the moment, but suddenly looked across the room at our sofa, and began describing very graphically an old man of benevolent aspect sitting between Miss Farquhar and myself, leaning on a stick, and wearing a soft felt hat.
"He has long hair, almost down to his coat collar, and he looks such a dear, kind old man!" Mrs Wedgwood said; then turning round, she added: "Surely some of you must recognise him! he is so very clear and distinct in his whole personality."
Mrs Desertis whispered something to her husband, who asked at once if the old gentleman's hair was very white.
"Yes; quite white," said Mrs Wedgwood hopefully.
"And curly and long?"
"Yes; curly and quite long, reaching to his collar," continued Mrs Wedgwood, still more confidently.
But our hopes were dashed when Mr Desertis turned round drily to his wife: "Then it cannot possibly be my father, as you suggested. His hair was white, but quite short."
It was a cruel blow! But Mrs Wedgwood still affirmed that she had never seen anyone more distinctly, whether we recognised him or not.
I may here mention that I had been sleeping very badly in this house for some nights past, and regretted this the more, because I was shortly going to stay with a friend at Windsor for my first "Fourth of June," and wished to be specially bright and well for the coming festivities.
These bad nights were later proved to have some connection with the benevolent old gentleman just described!
Now I will continue the sequence of events.
Mrs Wedgwood's clairvoyant description had been forgotten by us all, as I supposed, long before the afternoon came to an end. It had passed unrecognised, and other interesting matters arose in conversation.
The following day Miss Farquhar wrote a line to my hostess, asking if she might come to tea towards the end of the week, as she had something very interesting to tell us. She came, of course, and thus unfolded her budget:
"None of you seemed very much impressed about that old gentleman Mrs Wedgwood described here the other day, but her words were so graphic that I felt sure she was really seeing him at the moment, so I determined to try and find out something about him.
"I went to an old lady I know, one of the oldest inhabitants, and asked her if she knew anything of your predecessors in this house. She told me an elderly couple had lived here, a husband and wife, that the husband had died, and that although the wife lived away from Wimbledon now, she could not bear to part with the house which her husband had been so fond of; so let it. In fact, my old friend seemed to think she must be your present landlady."
This was said to my hostess, and proved to be quite true. The house had been let through an agent, and as the present owner lived in a distant county, nothing was known of her personally by my friend.
Then Miss Farquhar continued: "Hearing that the old man was so devoted to the house rather suggested a reason for Mrs Wedgwood seeing him here, so I asked my old lady if she had known this gentleman, and if so, would she describe him. She did this, almost word for word as Mrs Wedgwood had seen him. Also, she added, that he was a good deal of an invalid, often sat indoors, with a hat on for fear of draughts, and carried a stick, upon which he constantly leant for support."
This was very satisfactory, and we applauded Miss Farquhar's detective instincts, and promised to let Mrs Wedgwood know about the matter.
The latter took it all very quietly, only remarking that she felt sure someone ought to be able to find out about the old man.
A sudden thought struck me that my disturbed nights and uncomfortable feelings, in a very cheerful and pretty bedroom, might possibly be connected with the same old man. Without saying a word about this, I asked Mrs Wedgwood to come up into my room before she returned to London, and then I told her that I could not sleep, and had not had a peaceful night since I arrived. Could she find out what was the cause?
Mrs Wedgwood looked round for a moment, and then said in the most casual way: "Not the smallest doubt of the cause. It is that old man, of course. He is earth-bound, I expect, and haunting the house. You had better take a message from him if you want to get rid of him. I would help you if I could, but I shall be late for my train if I don't start at once."
Next morning I took the poor old gentleman's message, which began with an apology and regrets for disturbing me, but went on pathetically:
"You must forgive me, I was so very anxious to send a message to my wife, and I saw that you were a sensitive and could take it from me—I did not realise that it might cause you so much discomfort. That lady called me earth-bound, but if I am, it is only through my deep love for my dear wife, and I am permitted to watch over her. I was drawn here by my old affection for this house, and also by your presence here, knowing you could help me."
He then gave the message, of which I can only remember that it was most touching in its expressions of deep affection and watchful care for his widow.
As we did not know this lady's present address, and could not procure it without raising inconvenient questions, my hostess and I settled that she should lock up the message, in the hope that some day we might be able to forward it.
A year later I had a most unpleasant experience of being made to feel seriously ill when I came down for a night from town, and as another clairvoyant assured me that this resulted from the message remaining undelivered and the poor old man's frantic endeavours to reach his wife's consciousness, I told my Wimbledon friend that something must be done. Either she must procure the lady's address "coûte que coûte," or I could not come down again to Wimbledon until this step had been taken.
Under pressure of this determination of mine the address was procured, and this led to a rather unpleasant experience.
I wrote a very courteous letter to the lady, enclosing the message, and explaining that I was quite debarred from visiting my Wimbledon friend until it was delivered, that I hoped, therefore, she would excuse my sending it, after more than a year's consideration of the question. I further intimated that although she might consider me a lunatic for my pains, I trusted there could be nothing to vex or hurt her in so touching an evidence of her husband's constant care and love, however little faith she might be disposed to place in the source from which the message was supposed to emanate.
The answer came as a shower bath on my unfortunate head.
The old lady (?) was furious. She had never heard of such wicked nonsense! "Her dear husband was quite the gentleman, both in clothes and appearance, and he was not old—not a day over sixty-eight—when he died," etc. etc.
It would have been amusing if it had not been rather pitiful to think of the poor "young" man of sixty-eight trying so hard to reach such a termagant!
Later, I heard that the military man, through whom the old lady's address had been given to my Wimbledon hostess, had asked the husband of the latter if I were a lunatic, by any chance!
And this is how some of us welcome our friends from the other side of the veil! The marvel to me is that Love can still be stronger than Death, in face of such ingratitude and stupidity!
I have already mentioned my extreme sensitiveness to the atmosphere (psychic) of rooms, especially rooms where one sleeps. I find another instance of this in my notes.
I was paying a first visit to a friend in the south of England, and a very bright, cheerful room had been allotted to me there.
From the first night I felt a strong influence of a man in the room. Kindly note that I do not say the influence of a strong man; on the contrary, the character appeared to me that of an essentially weak man—weak rather than wicked—sensual as well as sensuous—self-indulgent, and greatly wanting in grit and will power.
My hostess had two sons, one whom I knew, and the other, living abroad, whom I had never met. The influence I felt was certainly not that of the son I knew, who was both manly and strong-willed, a fine soldier, and "hard as nails," as men would say.
I feared it might be the other son, however, and took an early opportunity of asking to see a photograph of the latter. My mind was quite set at rest. It was certainly not this man's influence that I had felt so strongly in my room.
Asking my hostess, who had chiefly occupied the room, she said at once: "Both my sons have slept there at different times," adding, "I am sure you have some of your queer ideas about the room—what is the matter with it?"
I told her; "Now that I am quite convinced that neither of your sons is implicated, I will describe to you the character of a man whom I feel sure must have slept in that room and has left a strong psychic influence behind him."
I then mentioned the characteristics already given, and one or two more which have escaped my memory.
My sceptical friend looked a little surprised. She said nothing at the moment, but crossed the room to a cabinet, whence she took a photograph of a man which I had never seen, and placed it in my hands.
"I am bound to confess," she added, "that you have exactly described the character of my brother-in-law, who certainly has occupied the room more than once."
The sequel to this little incident is rather significant.
A year or two later, this lady and I, having both succumbed to influenza and bronchitis, were sent off to the same place abroad to recuperate.
Her attack had ended sooner than mine, so that I joined her there, and one of the first pieces of news she gave me was of the death of this brother-in-law, adding: "Poor fellow! He died from a very painful disease, and suffered terribly. He had grave faults, but, as you said, they came from weakness rather than wickedness. At anyrate, he was humble-minded, for he wrote a touching letter to me when I lost a very dear relation lately, wondering why such a valuable life should have been taken and such a 'useless log' as himself be left alive."
This poor man had only just passed over when I joined my friend, and I felt that he was in a very bewildered and sad state of mind. I could realise his presence so clearly, partly, no doubt, from having sensed his character so strongly, that the obvious thing seemed to be to try and help him on his new plane of life.
To the superficial mind it appears very absurd, and equally irreverent, to suppose that a faulty creature on this side the veil can help a faulty creature on the other side. Personally, I have never had any difficulty in realising the power of prayer for those who have passed beyond our mortal sight.
Surely we are one large family, whether here or there? The best way to make children love each other is to persuade them to help each other. Is it strange that the same rule should apply to the universe that applies to the tiny portion of it that we know?
Anyway, I am quite sure in this case that my prayers did help and comfort this poor man in his dark experience.
In a few weeks the position seemed to be altogether lightened. He thanked me for my sympathy and companionship, and I have never heard of him since.
The caviller will say at once: "Could not someone else have done the work equally well—either a near relation in the other sphere or a ministering angel?"
The answer is: "Certainly they could have done it equally well, probably far better."
But the point is that it happened to be the bit of work put into my hands, and at least I did my best. What more can any of us say?
Again I ask: How about the "Cui Bono" argument?
CHAPTER IX
HAUNTINGS BY THE LIVING AND THE DEAD
1896
In this same year (1896) I remember another curious incident.
I was staying in London during the season, and some girl friends were very anxious that I should meet a lady whom they knew intimately and wished me to know also. As so often happens under these circumstances, we were not in the least degree interested in each other; but that has nothing to do with my story.
The girls had asked various other friends, but this special lady was the raison d'être of the tea-party, and they begged me to come in good time, because Mrs Halifax had several other engagements, and could not pay them a long visit.
So I dressed hurriedly in order to keep the appointment, and went to the house feeling rather bored by the whole arrangement, little dreaming that it would be the occasion of such an interesting personal experience. The lady turned out to be exceedingly prosperous and extremely uninteresting, from my point of view. Probably she would have given her ideas of me in much the same way! I realised that she had brought a son and a daughter with her, but did not know that another young man (whose face I have never seen) was also a son of hers. I talked to the mother for the conventional quarter of an hour, and then turned with relief to the other son whom she had mentioned, and with whom I found several old friends in common.
Meanwhile the room was filling up with guests; amongst these late comers I noticed the entrance of a man whose face did not impress me at all favourably. He looked dissipated and conceited. I did not speak to this man, but my strong impression about him is a factor in the story.
When the lady, par excellence, of the entertainment rose to leave the room, followed by her son and daughter, I noticed that a second young man was also in her train; but I had not seen him previously, for the very good reason that he had been sitting behind my back all the afternoon.
I did not see his face even now. My attention had been diverted from the Halifax party as they rose to take leave, and I only noticed the back of the second young man as they left the room, and was told later that this was another son of Mrs Halifax, no other comment upon him being made.
In those days I was able to do more work on the psychic plane than at present, and often tried to help sad or wandering spirits by praying for them when made conscious of their presence near me.
When I woke in the night—after this tea-party—therefore, and felt a presence near me, it did not at first alarm me in any way.
When fully awake, however, I quickly realised that this was no poor, sad, bewildered spirit, but a very malignant and revengeful one. I did not recognise the sex at the moment. In fact, my consciousness was entirely engrossed by realising that this was a question of my prayers being needed by no spirit more urgently than by my own.
Something very malignant was in the room—something or someone far too actively and insistently wrathful and malignant to listen to any prayers or entreaties.
This conviction grew so strong upon me that I lighted my candle, and getting out of bed, prayed for protection against the evil thing that was present in my room.
I think I must have remained at least ten minutes on my knees, and I can remember distinctly the feeling of alarm and hopelessness that came over me when I realised how strong were the Powers of Darkness and how little my prayers seemed to avail me.
Shortly, however, faith returned, and with it the confidence of victory. I returned to my bed quite calm and strong, and fell asleep knowing that the malignant presence was no longer there to worry and torment me.
I have always found it as easy to communicate with incarnate spirits at a distance as with discarnate ones, so on awaking in the morning, and remembering my disagreeable experience, I asked a friend, "still in the body," what was the meaning of it.
I had made up my mind that if it were in any way connected with the visitors of the previous afternoon, it must be with the dissipated-looking young man, for whom I had conceived an instinctive aversion.
To my infinite surprise his name was not given, but that of the younger Halifax son. "It was Henry Halifax. It is a spirit which was haunting him and came to you afterwards."
Now, as I had not even seen this young man, as already explained, I could not bear to think of any false and fanciful accusation being made against him; so remonstrated with my friend.
"Do be careful in giving me the name. Are you quite sure you mean Henry Halifax? Are you not thinking of Mr Loseby?" (Mentioning the name that had been given me of the other gentleman.)
"No; I mean Henry Halifax."
"But I did not even see him," I urged.
"No; but you were sitting with your back to him all afternoon. Don't you know the back is more psychically sensitive than any other part of the body?"
Nothing was said about the malignant spirit beyond the fact that it was someone "haunting" Henry Halifax.
The matter, once explained, I put it out of my head, having no special curiosity as to the reason of the haunting, and supposing it might have been some male acquaintance of his.
That morning I went down to my Wimbledon friend for a night. I arrived in time for luncheon on Saturday morning, and after a pleasant walk on the Common in the afternoon my friend suggested our coming home by a certain florist's shop, as she wished to buy some plants for her drawing-room.
I had already met this florist's wife, a very "spooky" person, who had been introduced by us to Mr Myers and the Society for Psychical Research. She was a handsome, fresh-coloured, practical woman, with nothing of the weird and pallid "ghost seer" about her comely face. But she had had some wonderful experiences, and her children also; and these had been already imparted to Mr Frederic Myers.
When the business part of our interview was concluded Mrs Levret turned to me, and said: "Well, ma'am, I am glad to see you again in these parts. Have you had any curious experiences since I saw you last?"
Now Mrs Levret had so many curious experiences of her own, as to which she was wont to be very voluble, that I had never before known her express curiosity about those of anybody else.
This just flashed through my mind as I answered her:
"No; nothing particular, Mrs Levret. By-the-by, I had a rather disagreeable experience last night, but it has been explained." And in a few words I mentioned what has been already described at length.
From my words she must have gathered that I supposed the haunting spirit to be that of a man, and that I did not attach much importance to it any way.
As we left the shop my charming hostess, who was equally beloved by those in her own class and those out of it, turned round, and said pleasantly: "We must hurry home now, Mrs Levret, but do come up to-morrow and see Miss Bates. She does not leave me till the evening, and I know you will enjoy having a talk with her."
Mrs Levret promised to come, and appeared next morning, having first ascertained that the sceptical husband of my hostess would not be upon the premises. "He does laugh at me so, ma'am," she said apologetically. So she was brought straight up to my bedroom next day, and we had an interesting talk over her own strange adventures.
Suddenly she looked up, and said: "À propos des bottes."
"How about that young man, ma'am? What are you going to do about him?"
"What young man?" I said, honestly puzzled. "And what can I do about any young man?"
The Halifax incident had so completely faded from my mind that I could not for the moment imagine what she meant.
"The young man you told me about yesterday afternoon, ma'am," Mrs Levret answered stoutly.
"But I can't do anything about him. What should I do?"
Then she took up her parable in these words:
"Well, ma'am, I have been thinking a deal about that young man since yesterday. It seemed to take a sort of hold upon me. It seems given to me, ma'am, that it is a young woman who is haunting him—a young woman who is not in his own rank in life—someone whom he wronged."
I was amazed by these words, and still more by the keen interest Mrs Levret showed in the subject.
"But what can I do in the matter, even if it be as you say?" was my next question.
"Well, ma'am, they give me to understand that the young man must be made to confess. He will never have any peace until he does. It seems to me you might get him to confess."
Now there could be no question of confession on the outer plane, as the young man was a perfect stranger to me, and there was small chance of our ever meeting again.
But I was aware that Mrs Levret was not speaking of the outer plane, so I agreed to take pencil and paper, and see if I could bring the spirit of Henry Halifax to me, and having done so, whether I could induce him to tell me the truth.
He came, but for a long time would say neither Yes nor No. "What business is it of yours?" was the constant reply to my questions. And I am bound to say it appeared a very pertinent one, from the ordinary point of view.
Clearly it was no business of mine; but Mrs Levret was so much in earnest, and had impressed me so strongly with what "had been given to her," that I felt I must persevere, in the young fellow's own interests.
So I explained that I had no wish to pry into his private affairs from any mere unworthy curiosity, but that having myself felt the malignant presence that was said to be haunting him, and being told that only confession would remove it, I hoped he would consider the matter seriously before obstinately closing the door of opportunity now open to him. "Who could foretell when he might have another chance?"
A long pause succeeded these words. I felt that the angry, irritable mood was passing over, and when my hand was next influenced to write, the words that came were not the usual curt "None of your business," but an apology for his rude reception of my efforts to help him, and a full confession, which entirely bore out Mrs Levret's impressions.
He told me that it was only too true that he had betrayed a young woman in a different rank of life from his own. She had died in child-birth the preceding midsummer, and had died cursing him for his perfidy. Ever since (it was now late in June) he had been haunted by her presence, seeing nothing, but always conscious of a malignant spirit tempting him to his own destruction. The mental agony was so great that he told me he did not think he could endure it much longer, and had almost decided to put an end to his life (little realising, poor fellow, that bad as this life might be, the next phase would be far worse for him).
After trying to soothe and comfort him, without in any way minimising the weight of his sin or attempting to lessen his remorse for it, it struck me that it would be well to try and have a little talk with his poor young victim. So saying good-bye, and promising to remember him in future, I asked mentally for her spirit to come, and then tried to influence her in the direction of forgiveness. It was a hard struggle, and no wonder.
The poor young woman had trusted him, had been deceived, and finally launched into another sphere without any preparation for it. What wonder that she haunted the man who had wronged her so terribly, through pure selfishness, and that any love she had ever borne him had long since turned to deadly hate!
It needed both time and patience to rouse even mere passive feelings towards him. I spoke of his deep remorse and misery. At first she only answered that she was very glad to hear it, because it showed she had succeeded in making her presence felt.
By degrees, however, a more womanly view of the subject seemed to come to her. After all, he was the father of her child; the poor little baby that had mercifully followed its mother into the Great Unseen. She had loved him once, by her own showing. I made the most of this point, and very slowly, very grudgingly, she gave me the promise I asked for—i.e. that she would at least cease this revengeful haunting, even if she could not yet feel more kindly towards the one who had injured her so deeply.
Having extracted this promise I felt that no more could be done for the time being, and Mrs Levret, who had been sitting in unwonted silence during both interviews, then took her leave.
I have given this case and its treatment very much in extenso, not only because it may be helpful to others dealing with erring and revengeful spirits, but because on my return to London every important point in this true narrative was amply corroborated.
It took some time and a good deal of tact before the case was complete.
First, I learned that Henry Halifax was by no means a persona grata in the house where I first met him, and that my young friends there had only been allowed to ask him under some protest, and because the rest of his family were to be present.
Asked why this should be the case, their answers were naturally vague: they only knew he was not very welcome.
Of course, I did not pursue the matter with these young people. They told me, however, that he was very much changed of late, and seemed so often moody, unhappy, and discontented.
"I am sure we should be happy enough if we had such a luxurious home and all that money," said one of them naïvely.
Now I happened to know rather intimately at that time another friend of the Halifax family; a woman considerably older than the young girls mentioned, and as she had some little knowledge of psychic possibilities I determined to lay the whole story before her, trusting to her honour to keep it to herself, and not to allow any prejudice against Henry Halifax to arise in her mind should she know nothing of the circumstances.
She had known the family from her childhood, and I knew, therefore, would not be influenced by the word of an outsider under these circumstances. But I discovered that the confession of Henry Halifax, the spirit, was no illusion on my part, but the absolute truth.
Young, handsome, rich, with all the world before him (he was only twenty-four at the time), this lady had been greatly puzzled by his intense depression of the last few months, and told me that he was constantly speaking of suicide. It was supposed to be a purely physical condition by his parents and others. She, however, knew an intimate man friend of his. By one of those not uncommon mistakes, whereby each one supposes the other to be in the confidence of a mutual acquaintance, she had discovered that the real trouble was mental rather than physical, and that the death of the young woman of lower social position, in child-birth, "last midsummer" was an actual fact!
Needless to say how great was her astonishment to find that the whole story had been made known to me through such a curious train of circumstances—first, my experience of the malignant spirit; secondly, my happening to go to Wimbledon next day and mention the circumstances to the wife of the florist there; thirdly, her strong and, as it proved, quite accurate impressions upon the subject; and fourthly, my two interviews:—first, with the betrayer, and then with the betrayed on the psychic plane.
Some few months later I was asked by the lady just mentioned if I should object to meeting Henry Halifax at dinner next evening.
"Not at all," was my answer. In fact, I felt it might be part of some psychic plan that I should do so. Evidently this was not the case, for at the last moment a telegram came to his hostess to say he was unexpectedly prevented from returning to town.
So we have never met at all! But I trust the confession may have been as efficacious as Mrs Levret was told that it would be. Anyway, I can testify that the gentleman in question is now happily married, and, therefore, presumably no longer haunted by the revengeful spirit, who has long since, let us trust, found happiness and peace in a higher world than this.
Speaking of haunting by the so-called dead reminds me of haunting by the so-called living.
In this same year (1896) I was staying in Cambridge for the first time in my life.
Oxford I have known since girlhood, but this was my first visit to the Sister University; needless to say, however, that I have met many men who have graduated there. Not knowing the town of Cambridge myself, I had never made it a subject of discussion, and ten years ago I was not even aware that such a street as Trumpington Street existed, difficult as it may be for Cambridge people to credit this statement.
In any case, most emphatically, I did not know that a very old friend of mine, who became later in life a judge, had ever lived in this street.
Having been a sailor in youth, he had gone up to Cambridge comparatively late; this was shortly before my acquaintance with him began.
Not knowing Cambridge at all, the question of where he lived there had never entered into our conversations together. Probably I took it for granted that he was living in his college (Peterhouse). The strong feeling of friendship between us had become a warmer sentiment on his side, and this led later, and inevitably, to a thorough break in our pleasant relations with each other.
Long years passed, during which I neither saw nor heard of my friend.
I knew that he had married, and had had a somewhat successful career as a barrister in London, and that was all I knew about him.
After staying for a week or two with friends in the neighbourhood of Cambridge in 1896, I had taken rooms for a month in Cambridge, inviting one of these friends to stay with me as my guest.
We came upon these special rooms in a curious way. Having worked through a list of those suggested to us by a friend, none of which quite suited, I heard, by the merest chance, that possibly I might find what I wanted in Trumpington Street, at the house of a very respectable Cambridge tradesman. We went there, but only to find that the rooms vacant could not be ready for me at the time specified, as some old customers were coming to them for three or four days.
"But I want them for a month," I expostulated.
The landlady was firm; she could not disappoint these people after promising to take them in.
In spite of my disappointment, I admired her so much for this strict sense of honour that I determined to look at the rooms in case of requiring any at a future date.
We went upstairs. The rooms were exactly what I required, and very clean and well furnished, so it ended by my agreeing to take them for a week later, although at a considerable inconvenience.
It was in this casual way that I entered the house about the middle of May 1896. My friend was not able to join me until the morning after my arrival, so I spent the first evening alone, and retired to bed rather early. I slept well enough during the earlier part of the night, but awoke about two a.m., having had a tiresome, worrying dream about the very man I have mentioned, who had certainly not been in my thoughts for many months, or possibly years.
Even when fully awake, his influence was still in the room with me, and falling asleep again, there he was once more in my dream, twitting me with my want of appreciation of him in the past, and suggesting what a much more successful career I might have had through marrying him. This sort of thing went on for the rest of the night. Either I woke up with a disagreeable start, still feeling the man's influence in the room, or sank into a troubled sleep, to be once more at the mercy of his reproaches!
When morning came I was only too thankful to get up, and when my friend arrived on her bicycle about noon, and asked me how I had slept in the strange house, I was forced to confess that my night had been much troubled by dreams about an old friend, of whom she had never heard, by-the-by.
"Oh, well, we all dream about old friends sometimes," she said, "but I'm afraid in this case your dreams were not pleasant; you look tired out! Anyway, it is a mercy that it was not F——'s!"
And so with a joke the matter dropped.
But the following night the trouble was renewed. Even then I did not in any way connect it with the room in which I was sleeping, and I said nothing next day to my friend on the subject.
But the third night matters had gone beyond a joke. The influence was stronger than ever, the gibes and reproaches more accentuated, and, in addition to these, there was on my side the exasperation engendered by three sleepless nights.
Instead of feeling depressed—as on the two previous occasions—the "worm turned" at last!
I spoke out loud in my vexation, as though the man himself were there listening to me.
"Well," I said, "I have no unkindly feeling towards you of any kind. If you have nothing better to do than to come worrying me and keeping me awake in this way, it just shows how wise I was not to marry you! You have nothing to do with my life now. And you can go."
"Standing up" in this way to the ghost of the living had a most excellent effect, upon my mind at anyrate. I felt intensely relieved, and soon fell into a long and dreamless sleep.
This last experience first suggested the idea that this old friend must have some special connection with that house. In the morning I confessed to my friend that my second night had been as disturbed as the first, and the last the worst of all, adding: "That man is simply haunting the place. I am determined to try and find out if he ever lodged here."
This was by no means easy, as it turned out. His College career was already buried in the snows of some twenty-five years. Moreover, when I questioned the young daughter of our landlady as to how long her parents had lived in the house, she said at once: "Just seventeen years, ma'am. Father and mother came here the year I was born."
This did not help me much. I asked who had rented the house previously. Referring this question to her mother, she told me it had been taken from some people who had left Cambridge, and "Mother thought they were both dead now."
This was a second cul-de-sac for me!
But I was determined to go on with my investigations, simply grounded upon the strong conviction that such repeated experiences must have some foundation in fact.
The girl saw I looked disappointed. "Did you want to know about anyone who lived here long ago?" she ventured timidly.
"Yes; I wanted to find out whether an old friend of mine ever lodged here; he belonged to Peterhouse," was my answer.
"Ah, then, I am sure he would not have lodged here," said the girl confidently. "None of the Peterhouse gentlemen come here. It is always the Pembroke men who come to this house."
It seemed fated that I should hear no more about my living ghost.
A few days later, however, the luck turned.
I was told quite casually that Mr Pound, the well-known Cambridge chemist, had occupied our house years before, and I determined to verify this some day. As Mr Pound combined the post office with his drugs, one often went into the shop, but hitherto I had only seen his assistants.
Going in one day with my friend for some stamps, Mr Pound himself handed them to me.
Here was my chance! I must confess that I hesitated to ask such an apparently absurd question on such slender grounds. In any case, was it likely that he would remember the names of all the undergraduates in the University who might have lodged with him twenty or thirty years before? I whispered to my friend: "Shall I ask him?" but she did not hear, so even this small encouragement was denied me. I was actually turning to leave the shop, when resolution at length took the reins, and I found myself asking:
"Is it true, Mr Pound, that you lived many years ago at No. — Trumpington Street?"
"Quite true," was the ready answer. "I went there in the year fifty-five." (I quote this from memory, but it was in the fifties certainly.)
"I wanted to ask a question about a gentleman who may have lodged with you a good deal later than that—about seventy, I should think." And I mentioned the name of my friend.
Mr Pound's brow cleared at once, and he looked up with a beaming smile. "Mr Forbes," he said—"why, of course, I remember him well. He lodged with me over eighteen months." Then turning to his assistant, he told him to go into the parlour and bring out the large photograph album. There was my friend, sure enough, with his big dog—the very photograph I had of him, given me in the early days of our acquaintance.
Mr Pound was full of reminiscences. My friend had evidently been a prime favourite with him, and it was some minutes before I could squeeze in my crucial question. It seemed almost impossible to expect him to remember the exact rooms occupied by Mr Forbes, considering there were two or three "sets" of rooms in the house, in addition to several bedrooms which were let separately.
But even here Mr Pound's memory proved invaluable. "Which room he slept in? Why, of course, I remember distinctly. He had the large front sitting-room and the bedroom at the back of it; over our living-room in those days."
So I was living in Mr Forbes' sitting-room, and sleeping in the bedroom, he had occupied for more than eighteen months.
My Cambridgeshire friend was, fortunately, present as a witness that no word of mine had indicated this fact before Mr Pound corroborated my intuitive impression. She said afterwards, laughingly, that Mr Myers would certainly think I had got up a special ghost story for him the moment I set foot in Cambridge.
However this may be, both he and Professor Sidgwick were greatly interested in it, for, as they explained, there were fifty accounts of haunting by the dead to one such example of haunting by the living.
Of course, such a case presents innumerable difficulties; still the salient fact remains, that after a lapse of nearly thirty years I traced the rooms occupied by an old friend, in a city I had never before entered, and that this knowledge did not come to me by chance, but as the result of a series of investigations, started by me solely on account of the experiences that came to me in a house and in a room of which I had absolutely no previous knowledge. Those interested in these subjects will naturally ask: "Do you suppose that the spirit of Mr Forbes came to you at the moment of your remarks to him and his to you? If so, was he conscious of any such experience?"
I can answer this last question decidedly, and in the negative; for four years later, circumstances brought me once more within the orbit of Mr Forbes' life. He was then living in the north of England, and he and his wife and I have discussed the question more than once.
We can only suppose that the impression of his presence did in some way cling to the surroundings; that my sleeping there, even in complete ignorance of his tenancy, enabled me, as a "sensitive," to pick up this special influence from many others presumably present; and that the memories of the past galvanised the impression into some sort of temporary astral existence. The entity to whom I seemed to be speaking was doubtless not the Judge Forbes of later life, but some distorted image of his earlier days of disappointed and often reproachful affection.
When Mr Myers suggested that I should get Mr Pound to sign a paper mentioning that he had told me that Mr Forbes had occupied these special rooms twenty-seven years previously, the latter did so readily, only remarking that he had naturally concluded that I knew my friend had lodged with him.
"Pound will 'smell a rat' if I go," said Mr Myers.
So I went myself, and thus the story was made evidentially complete.